Chapter 11 #3
Correct, Wreylith said, even though Vorik had meant to send the words only to Agrevlari.
He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the powerful red dragon could intercept private telepathic communications.
Should she attempt to enact her puny magic on me in any way, Wreylith continued, or should she vex me in any way, I shall slay her.
Syla’s lips twitched, but she didn’t draw back or even open her eyes. Once again, her face was set with concentration.
Sensing the healing might take a while, Vorik sheathed his sword and walked to the base of the lighthouse.
Dawn wasn’t that far off, so he knelt to gather more berries.
Under the light of day, it would be easier to avoid the thorns.
Not that he minded a few scratches. For such delicious treats, he would endure everything from sword wounds to Agrevlari’s sarcasm.
Many minutes and many consumed berries later, a roar of pain made Vorik spring to his feet, drawing his sword again. Fearing Syla had inadvertently hurt—or vexed—Wreylith and roused her ire, he ran toward them in case he needed to protect her.
But Wreylith was turning away from Syla and flinging her forelimb toward the cliff overlooking the sea.
Something flew away, blood droplets arcing through the air as it descended over the edge.
The fang. Syla must have cut it out with her magic.
Or maybe she’d used another tool from her kit.
Did she also have antique tweezers to go with the venom extractor?
Syla lowered her arms and backed a few steps from the snarling dragon. Wary, she asked, “How does that feel?”
If the roar of pain had been any indication, the fang’s removal hadn’t been a delight. But surely the injury would bother Wreylith less going forward. She had to appreciate that.
That dreadful fang left its venom scorching my veins, and there is a hole in my foot. Wreylith turned toward Syla again. How do you think it feels?
“Painful, I’m certain,” she said.
Though he didn’t wave his sword threateningly, Vorik continued forward to stand at Syla’s side.
I should have slain the basilisks for presuming to attack a dragon, a dragon with far superior might and power than they.
Vorik, reminded that Wreylith had intercepted his comments before, refrained from saying to Agrevlari that she was as pompous as he was. Later, he might mention that.
“I did my best to remove the venom near the wound, and then use my magic to break down that which remained in your blood, altering it into an inert substance that your body can eventually excrete, but you are…” Syla hesitated as Wreylith’s head lowered, her glowing golden eyes boring into her, “large,” Syla finished.
I was not the runt of my clutch, Wreylith said.
“I assumed not,” Syla said blandly. “Should you chance upon mugdart root, you could make a paste that would soothe the wound.”
Dragons are powerful beings with sublime constitutions. We do not need soothing.
“I have an herbalism book along with maps of prime areas around the world. If you like, I could show you where medicinal plants that can ease pain can be found.”
I don’t need my pain eased. Wreylith bared her fangs.
“All right.” Syla looked a little disappointed that the dragon didn’t show interest in what was apparently a passion for her—who brought herbalism books along when escaping from an attack zone?
Wreylith lowered her lips to hide the fangs. You have removed the nettlesome tooth, and the wound will heal. I will not slay you today.
Syla hesitated again, probably wondering if that meant the dragon might slay her if they ran into each other again. “Thank you,” was all she said.
But you will not use that trinket to spy again.
“I did not intend to do so, and I apologize,” Syla said.
“Trinket?” Vorik thought of the venom extractor, but that wouldn’t be used for spying.
Syla drew something from a pocket in her dress, a red dragon figurine. It appeared fragile, like blown glass, but Vorik sensed magic in it and knew it was sturdier than it appeared. He’d seen such items before, though never linked to a wild dragon. How odd.
“This was my father’s, and he left it to me,” Syla said to Wreylith.
I am aware.
Syla blinked. “Did you… know my father?”
One before him.
“My… grandfather?”
Do you know nothing of your own history, human? Your ancestry? Wreylith lifted her unwounded forelimb and used a talon to scratch her long neck.
“Uhm, I know quite a bit, but not about people’s… collectibles.” She sent a wistful look in the direction of the city.
Collectible. Wreylith grunted. It almost sounded like a scoff.
“My father passed earlier than any of us expected. He didn’t mention anything about this item to me while he lived.” Syla leaned forward, maybe hoping the dragon would share more.
You will not use it to spy on dragons. Wreylith lowered all four feet to the ground and stared intently at Syla.
And you will not summon me with it. I am not, as we discussed, a pathetic hound.
Her jaws parted, her sharp fangs scarcely two feet from Syla, and Vorik tightened his grip on his sword.
Your healing magic has done nothing to bind me to you.
Again, Syla didn’t skitter back, though Vorik wouldn’t have thought any less of her if she did.
“I didn’t think it would,” she said.
If you vex me again, Wreylith stated, I will slay you.
With those final words, the red dragon sprang into the air. The wind of her wings battered at them as she flew off over the cliff and out to sea.
“Dragons aren’t known for being the most grateful of beings,” Vorik said, doubting Syla had interacted with them often.
“At least she didn’t kill me.” Syla grimaced. “Today.”
She had to be wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming to the red dragon’s awareness.
Vorik wished he could assure her that Wreylith wouldn’t hold a grudge, but the wild dragons weren’t predictable.
They weren’t like the familiar dragons who worked with humans.
Vorik wouldn’t say that Agrevlari didn’t have any mercurial moments, but he was easier to predict. He was—
Vorik looked around, realizing his dragon had moved away from them. He was near the lighthouse, lying in the lush green grass with his legs crooked into the air.
“What are you doing, Agrevlari?” Vorik asked.
Scratching an itch and enjoying how cool and soft this vegetation is. The dragon swished his hips and shoulders back and forth, tail moving from side to side.
“Is that dragon… rolling in the grass?” Syla stared, her mouth dangling open. In shock?
Maybe the gardeners weren’t familiar with the less serious side of dragons. Or that at least some dragons had them. Vorik had a feeling Wreylith didn’t roll in the grass. His brother’s dragon, Ozlemar, certainly did not.
“He has an itch,” Vorik said.
“Oh.”
“And he likes your grass. The stuff that grows out in the dry Desert Mountains, Scorched Islands, and on Juniper Flats is anything but lush. You can braid it to make switches to spank your children with.” Vorik patted his backside, well remembering lashings given to him and his brother by their stern mother.
Syla blinked, either at the imagery of him being spanked or at the notion that lush grass didn’t exist in many other places in the world.
Vorik opened his mouth to say more, but a distant screech came from the sky. He lifted his sword again as he scanned the predawn clouds, worried Wreylith had changed her mind about sparing Syla’s life.
But it wasn’t a red dragon that he spotted. The outlines of a gray and a green dragon, each carrying a rider, were visible out over the sea. They were flying straight toward the lighthouse.
In the growing light, Vorik could see the faces of the men, even from the distance, and he recognized those dragons as well. They and their riders were in the Sixteen Talons.
Beside him, Syla followed his gaze and spotted the threat. She tensed and swore, looking around.
Vorik opened his mouth, intending to say that he recognized the newcomers and that they were allies. But, when one lifted a gargoyle-bone sword, and pointed it at Syla, he realized that wasn’t true. She wasn’t an ally of the Sixteen Talons or any other stormer.
The other rider pointed his sword at Vorik and shouted a single word.
The wind and roar of the sea muffled the sound, but it didn’t matter. Vorik read it on the man’s lips and knew what it was.
“Traitor!”
As promised, his brother had sent men to help along the ruse, men who might, if Vorik wasn’t careful, kill Syla.