Chapter 11 #2
She lifted that limb toward them, and Syla jumped when the dragon extended her talons, the moonlight gleaming off them.
With the deadly appendage so close, Vorik twitched too.
Wreylith was a formidable dragon, and he had no idea how to read her moods.
She was reputedly mercurial. At the least, if she was like most dragons, she would grow extra savage and deadly when she lost her temper.
Dragons had been known to fight with each other to the death simply because one woke up grumpy.
Despite being startled, Syla didn’t skitter back from the extended foot, the glinting talons. She walked forward to investigate the injury but shook her head.
“It’s a little dark for me to see the problem, I’m afraid.” She looked around as if a lantern might be waiting in the grass.
Vorik was disappointed that he couldn’t provide one for her.
Since his night vision was keen, he never bothered traveling with such items, but he would have to do her a lot more favors if he intended to gain her trust. Yes, he’d kept her from splatting on the ground, but, if she was like other women, she might appreciate it more if he could help her with the small things.
Wreylith’s maw parted, and Syla stiffened. Vorik stepped forward, his hand going to his sword in case he needed to protect the princess.
But a touch of magic flowed from the dragon, and only the smallest ball of fire rolled up her gullet and out of her maw. It drifted through the air until it floated to the side of Syla’s head, illuminating Wreylith’s foot as well as the lush green grass and a few boulders littered around the area.
Heat as well as light emanated from the sphere, and Syla eyed it with concern. Since numerous of her people had been slain by dragon fire, Vorik suspected she was thinking of that.
He shook his head bleakly, well aware that he and the riders had been behind that. He feared there was too much between them for him to win her trust in any capacity. Jhiton had asked too much.
If you ever raise a blade to a dragon, Wreylith told Vorik, having noticed his grip on his sword, it’ll be the last motion you ever make.
“I’ve raised my blade to fight many dragons.
” Vorik had always done so from astride Agrevlari’s back, but he knew better than to be meek in front of their kind, so he didn’t admit that.
Nor did he yank his hand away from the hilt, though he realized Wreylith had never intended to hurt the princess. “I yet live,” he added.
They must have been extremely runty dragons.
“Well, certainly. I would be a fool to challenge a powerful dragon.”
What a strange human you are. Healer. Wreylith focused on Syla again and flexed her talons.
What looked like a giant thorn was embedded in the flesh of her foot. Or maybe that was a fang that had come away after something had bitten her? She must have incinerated whatever creature had been so foolish as to bite a dragon.
“Yes, I see now.” Syla turned her full attention to it. “You said you tangled with a basilisk?”
Yes. While I battled another foe, I stepped upon the lair of a giant blue basilisk. Usually, their venomous fangs cannot pierce a dragon’s scales, but this one lucked upon a less armored spot. Wreylith glared at the maligned foot and bared her own fangs in displeasure.
And maybe in pain? From what Vorik knew of basilisk fangs, which were designed to come off and quickly grow back afterward, they could keep oozing their venom into the bloodstream of their target for hours or even days afterward.
And that venom was potent enough to kill even large creatures.
If not for a dragon’s inherent magic, Wreylith might have died from the wound.
“Let me… see what I can do.” Judging from the way Syla wiped her palms on her dress, she remained nervous.
Vorik didn’t blame her. “Have you healed anything besides humans before?”
“Yes.” She nodded and approached the injured foot but also whispered, “Cats, dogs, and horses. And a gerbil.”
“No chickens?” Vorik asked. “They’re closer to dragons than hounds and horses.”
Chickens! Agrevlari rose to all fours, so indignant that his tail straightened, smacking against the side of the lighthouse. Fortunately, it was constructed from solid stone and didn’t crumble.
“Anatomically speaking,” Vorik said, “you’re closer to a chicken than you are a dog.”
Dragons are like neither of those inferior animals. I shall make you walk back to Sixteen Talons headquarters, Vorik.
“Since there’s a lot of water between here and there, walking would be difficult.”
Most difficult.
Syla had removed her pack and rummaged in it. She appeared to be ignoring the conversation. Vorik thought she was younger than he—perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years of age to his thirty?—but wondered if she might be more mature. Probably. Many people were.
Our anatomy is closer to lizards, Wreylith stated, but since we were, like wyverns, yetis, yarveni, and takrons, designed by the storm god, and we didn’t evolve naturally on this world, we have no direct relatives on a phylogenetic tree.
Lizards. Agrevlari huffed, but when his tail smacked the lighthouse again, it was with less force.
“Ah, here we go.” Syla pulled out a small cylindrical tube. “I almost didn’t grab it. It’ll be useful, of course, if I visit, ah…” She glanced at Vorik. “Other islands with venomous snakes. But perhaps it can be useful here.”
She had travel in mind, did she? To acquire a shielder from another island? As the general had suggested?
“There are venomous snakes on the gardener islands?” was all Vorik asked. “I didn’t think there was anything dangerous here in paradise.”
“They live among the rocks in some places.”
“Death strikers? Basilisks? Murder asps?”
“Rattlesnakes, mostly.”
“Oh.” Vorik laughed and waved a hand. Such snakes hardly counted as dangerous.
Syla bristled at his dismissal. “As a healer who’s treated rattlesnake bite wounds when I’ve traveled to other islands, I assure you, they can kill.”
Realizing he’d offended her, Vorik bowed an apology. “Yes, of course.”
What is that? Wreylith asked as Syla popped the lid of the cylinder and withdrew an instrument.
“An antique vacuum venom extractor. I have three in my collection.” Syla hesitated, then softly corrected, “I had three.”
She blinked away tears, then shook her head. After all the people she’d lost, a collection of physical items couldn’t be as devastating, but the reminder had to rub sand in the broken blister on one’s sword hand.
Vorik bowed another apology, but she’d turned back to the dragon. Closing her eyes, she lifted the tool and her hand to Wreylith’s exposed foot.
Vorik sensed her drawing upon power, and the birthmark on the back of her hand glowed slightly, but he couldn’t tell how she was applying it. Could she remove the magically tenacious basilisk fang? If Wreylith hadn’t been able to take it out, doing so couldn’t be easy.
As he watched the glow of her moon-mark, his fingers strayed to the back of his hand, to the spot where a dragon-shaped tattoo lay hidden under his black glove.
His mark didn’t glow when he drew upon his power, but it was the sign of his link to Agrevlari and the dragon power that had infused Vorik since they’d bonded.
Only some riders, those who’d been invited by a dragon to go through the bonding ceremony, had such tattoos, but all of those who flew in the Sixteen Talons wore the fingerless black gloves.
It had started as tradition and then become a part of the uniform, a way to keep those with tattoos from being singled out by enemies.
It also ensured that enemies never knew for certain if the rider they faced had enhanced abilities, often not until it was too late.
Are you not concerned about allowing one with healing magic to tend to your wound, Mighty Wreylith? Agrevlari asked.
Certainly not, the red dragon replied.
You’re aware of the gods-gift that the line of those humans marked by the moon have, aren’t you?
Gods-gift. What a term for such puny magic.
As the dragons conversed telepathically, including Vorik and presumably Syla, Vorik watched her, wondering if it concerned her to be at the center of their discussion.
She’d closed her eyes behind her glass lenses, and her face was set with concentration.
If she could ignore them while focusing on healing, that was impressive.
It had to be hard to concentrate with a dragon scant feet away, breathing hot air around one’s head.
The magic, Agrevlari continued, that is used for healing is known to be particularly powerful. It can bind a being to the healer for many days or even weeks until the effects wear off.
Not a dragon, Wreylith said. Another puny and insignificant human, perhaps.
I’ve seen it work on hounds too. Even more so. For life, they give their loyalty to the healer.
Hounds! Wreylith issued a snort that stirred Syla’s hair and made her open her eyes. Hounds give their lifelong loyalty for a cube of meat. As we’ve recently discussed, dragons are not kin to weakling and pathetic hounds. Nor chickens!
“Do you wish me to continue?” Syla’s palm was on the embedded fang, but she’d paused funneling magic into the injury. The dragons were probably distracting her. “It is easier to focus without patients nattering.”
Wreylith flexed her sharp talons. Syla watched them but didn’t skitter back. Many people would have.
Nattering! A wisp of smoke wafted from her left nostril.
“Nattering,” Syla said firmly. “Shall I continue?”
A rumble—a growl?—emanated from the red dragon’s chest, but she kept her foot raised. Do so.
Vorik smiled as Syla closed her eyes again. Maybe it wasn’t wise, but he was starting to like her.
I don’t think there’s any chance of a dragon feeling bound to a human, gods-gifted magic or not, Vorik told Agrevlari. Especially one as powerful as Wreylith.