Dragon Wife (12 page)

Seeing his distress, the Keskan archers focused their weapons on him. More arrows pierced his chest and belly as he dropped. When he hit the ground, the enemy soldiers swarmed over him, hacking and stabbing.

Huroth plunged to Greylor’s defense, as Thord and Tallok also raced to his side. All three dragons circled his prostrate form, grabbing soldiers in their teeth and claws, lashing out with their spiked tails.

It was too late. Huroth could see that Greylor was failing. His wounds were too severe, blood pooling around his throat and stomach. He was no longer conscious, his breath slowing.

Huroth raised his head and roared, the sound reverberating over the battlefield. So far, he’d been forcing himself to fight, only half engaged in the effort. Now, rage took over, flowing like molten lava through his veins.

Lightning quick and deadly, he threw himself against the Keskan army, not bothering to fly to safety between assaults. The remaining dragons joined him, in one ferocious strike after another, vengeance crackling in their eyes.

An arrow bit into Huroth’s left shoulder, but he barely noticed. He breathed fire over the wound to cauterize it and stop the bleeding. Then he lunged forward, snapping soldiers between his powerful jaws.

Time lost all meaning, as did the scrapes and cuts stinging his scaly hide. There was nothing but the fight in front of him. He tore through the Keskan ranks with brutal efficiency, flanked on either side by equally furious dragons.

Despite their numbers, the enemy couldn’t withstand such an onslaught. Their forces shredded before the clan’s wrath. Officers shouted orders of retreat, as soldiers slipped and squelched across the muddy battlefield.

The dragons pursued the fleeing army, thinning their numbers until they reached the cover of wooded hills. There would be no regrouping for a second attack. The mighty Keskan host was in tatters.

The heat of anger drained from Huroth’s body, as he flew back toward the battlefield. His wings were leaden and his heart sore. Greylor had been his second in command, but more than that, he was a trusted friend. His death was a grave loss for the clan and pained Huroth deeply. It was a hard price to pay for victory.

Chapter Nine

Orwenna was put to work in one of the medic tents. A matronly woman, wearing a brown apron, took charge of her, demonstrating what to do with arrow wounds, sword cuts, and the like. Buckets of water, linen bandages, and other necessities were stacked on low tables. Next to these were wooden benches for the soldiers to sit on. The worst injuries were dealt with by physicians in neighboring tents.

As wounded men began arriving, brought in wagons or hanging onto comrades’ shoulders, Orwenna felt overwhelmed. She’d never seen so much blood in her life, and some of the soldiers were alarmingly young. They wore little armor, and their weapons were rudimentary.

She wondered if King Elric had forced recruitment from villages, as he marched south. That would explain the ill equipped infantry. It was a questionable practice, swelling the ranks of your army with farm boys. Inexperienced soldiers meant higher casualties. It was an ugly trade off.

Orwenna’s feeling of inadequacy was soon replaced by a desire to help these young men. Though she knew little of medicine, she could clean and bandage wounds well enough. In addition, she gave the soldiers her kindness. She smiled and spoke with them about their homes and families, offering what small comfort she could.

As the battle dragged on, a constant stream of men stumbled through the medic tent, needing care. Orwenna lost track of time. As soon as she finished with one soldier, another was waiting, face pale, hands clammy, eyes dilated with shock. There was no end to them.

She was busy cleaning a leg wound on a lanky red-haired lad, when a deafening roar carried from the battlefield. Everyone froze, struck by the terrible rage in the sound. There was a power and wildness to it, beyond anything human.

Orwenna sucked in her breath, certain it was Huroth who roared. The impulse to run from the tent and find him was strong, but she stopped herself. What good would she be to him, out there? He was a veteran warrior and knew how to take care of himself. Right now, she needed to care for this freckled farrier’s son. His thigh had been run through with a spear, and it was a mess.

The afternoon gradually wore into evening, as the numbers of wounded soldiers began to thin. They brought news that the battle was won. The dragons had chased the Keskan army south, and the killing was over.

“You should take a break, and find something to eat,” the brown-aproned nurse said. For the life of her, Orwenna couldn’t remember the woman’s name.

“Don’t you need a rest too?” she asked. “You’ve been at this longer than me.”

“I’ll go, after you get back,” the woman answered. “Now shoo!”

Orwenna didn’t need further prodding. She was tired, and her stomach felt uncomfortably hollow. In a corner of the tent, she found the satchel of food they’d brought from Whiterock, along with the remaining full canteen.

It was stuffy and close in the tent, so she took her supper outside, thinking the fresh air would do her good. She hadn’t figured on the impact of the battlefield. Upwind of it, she could still smell the carnage. The sight, even from a distance, was appalling, crumpled bloody corpses littering the long slope and flats. There must have been hundreds dead.

She turned away, not wanting to see any more. Her appetite was gone, and her body shook. What kind of madness drove men to kill each other like this? Keska was a large and prosperous kingdom, with no shortage of land or resources. Why invade Rhelaun, wreaking this senseless destruction?

Knowing she needed food to maintain her strength, Orwenna trudged farther up the hill to a copse of birch trees. She sat down within the cluster of pale trunks, keeping her back to the battlefield. New spring foliage rustled and fluttered in the breeze overhead, soothing her.

She plucked some blades of grass, crushing them between her fingers and breathing deeply of the fresh, clean scent. Despite the horrors that men brought to one another, the seasons kept turning, and the trees kept growing. It was reassuring to remember that.

After a few more minutes, she was able to force down some bread and cheese followed by a long drink of water. It was the best she could manage. Meat wasn’t an option, not after all the raw flesh she’d seen that afternoon.

Restored by her meal, Orwenna rose and walked downhill to the gathered tents. The weather in the west was clearing, brilliant evening light piercing the pewter clouds. Rays of gold stretched across the sky, illuminating dragons flying back from their pursuit of the Keskan army.

Orwenna stopped, awestruck by the sight. To her great relief, Huroth flew in the lead, apparently unharmed. Behind him were four others; one gold, one brown, one emerald, and one frosty blue. Each was unique in the shape of their spikes and ridges, but they all had long snouts, membranous wings, and serpentine tails.

As she watched, they circled lower, landing near what seemed to be a grassy mound. Orwenna squinted and looked closer. It wasn’t ground at all, but a large green dragon, lying motionless on its side. Something told her it was dead.

The five dragons came together, forming a loose circle around their fallen comrade. Solemnly, each in turn raised their head to the sky and let loose a sorrowful song. It was part roaring, part keening, and filled with such grief, it made Orwenna gasp. She’d never heard anything like it.

Each dragon’s voice blended with the others, primal, terrible, and beautiful, till they created a vast wave of sound. It vibrated through the air and into her bones. Tears ran down her cheeks, unbidden. It felt as if they mourned for all the fallen soldiers, scattered across the battlefield.

Now Huroth lowered his head, breathing flames over the dead dragon’s body. The gold and blue dragons joined him, while the other two continued their dirge. This went on for several minutes, until they traded. Two dragons sustained the fire, while three raised their voices in lament.

Orwenna would have liked to stay, observing the cremation to its end, but she remembered the nurse who waited for her return. It would be thoughtless to keep the woman any longer. She needed a break.

“It’s your turn,” she called to the nurse, as she slipped through the tent flap. The woman sighed gratefully, wiping hands on her darkly stained apron.

“Just in the nick of time,” the nurse said. “I feel like I could drop.”

“Here’s food and water.” Orwenna offered her the satchel and canteen. Who knew if there’d be anything decent around camp.

“Oh. Thank you.” The nurse took them and left.

Stragglers were still making their way in from the battlefield, so there was plenty to do. Orwenna moved from one task to the next, accompanied by the haunting sound of the dragons’ funeral.

Their singing was cleansing, even in its sadness. She found her head was clearer and her spirit stronger than it had been before they started. When they finally ceased, she felt thankful to have shared in their rite, even if it was only from a distance.

The tent emptied at last. Orwenna was just tidying up the tables, when Huroth stooped through the door flap. He looked battered and weary. Blood had dried on his leather armor, from several smaller injuries, and a broken-off arrow shaft stuck from his left shoulder.

Orwenna rushed to him, fresh tears stinging her eyes.

“I’m all right,” he assured her. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” Her voice was choked with emotion. “This whole thing has been awful.”

“War generally is.”

She studied Huroth, noting the grim desolation in his face. She’d never seen him in this kind of pain or seeming this alone.

“Will you let me take care of that?” she asked gently, indicating the arrow.

He nodded. “It needs to come out.”

She saw his wounds were all burnt, and she guessed that he’d cauterized them with his dragon’s breath.

“When the arrow is removed,” she said, “it’ll bleed more. I’ll need to wash it well. We should get your armor out of the way first.”

Huroth nodded, beginning to undo the fastenings on his leather doublet. He managed to get his right arm out, but his stiff movements revealed how troublesome the shoulder was.

“Here, I can help,” Orwenna offered. “But it might be easier if you sat down.”

He was so tall, even sitting on the wooden bench his head was not much lower than hers. She gingerly lifted his doublet up and over the broken arrow shaft then pulled it off his left arm. This process was repeated with his charred and bloodstained shirt.

It was the first time Orwenna had seen Huroth bare-chested. Despite her concern for his injuries, she couldn’t help appreciating how good he looked. His arms and torso were thickly muscled, leading her to picture what the rest of him might be like. He was, without doubt, the most spectacular male she’d ever encountered.

“Are you ready for me to take the arrow out?” he asked, snapping her mind back to the business at hand.

“Just a moment.” She fetched bandages, a clean bucket of water, and a comfrey-yarrow poultice.

“All right,” she said. “I’m ready.”

He reached up, gripping the broken arrow shaft in his hand. Orwenna’s stomach lurched, as she imagined how badly this would hurt him. With a grimace, he yanked the arrow from his shoulder. Thankfully it wasn’t barbed and came out clean. Immediately, fresh blood began to seep.

Orwenna bathed the wound and applied the poultice, covering it with a bandage. She held it all firmly against his shoulder, using pressure to stop the bleeding. Huroth leaned into her hand, as if drawing solace from her. It was a simple but poignant movement. As proud and indomitable as Huroth was, there were times when he needed a loving touch.

Orwenna raised her other hand, brushing her fingers tenderly over his forehead, down his cheek to his jaw. He looked up, his fierce silver-blue eyes fixed on her face. It was impossible to resist. She bent forward, bringing her lips to his.

They kissed softly at first, savoring the texture and taste of each other. It was a revelation, filling her with silky heat. Huroth slid his arms around her, pulling her tightly to him. She delighted in the masculine strength of his body, hard against her.

Their kisses grew more intense, as Huroth’s hands explored, lingering over her curves, waking a tingling that rippled across her skin. She buried her fingers in the thick mane of his hair, thrilling to the low moan of pleasure that escaped his lips.

Vibrant energy coursed through Orwenna. It pulsed from her center, pouring out through her hands, enveloping them both in shimmering light. She felt as if she was made of sunshine and honey, bright, beautiful, and dripping sweetness.

“I’m back,” the nurse called, ducking through the tent flap. “Oh! I see you’re busy.” She hurried to the far end of the tent, where she occupied herself sorting poultices.

Huroth released Orwenna from his embrace, and she stepped away, losing her grip on his bandage. It slipped from his shoulder, uncovering a wound that was no longer new. The skin had closed over and looked to have been healing for weeks.

“Gods!” Orwenna exclaimed, staring. “How did that happen?”

Huroth studied the wound then looked up at her.

“You healed me,” he said. There was wonder in his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Dragons recover quickly,” he said, “but nothing like this. Look at my cuts and scrapes.” They were almost completely gone, only faint scar tissue remaining.

“But how did I…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered the charge of energy that built within her, pouring out of her hands and into him. It was different from other magic she’d learned. There were no rituals or words to anchor the power, but it was part of the life force, just the same. Perhaps she’d always had the ability, lying dormant in her, waiting for something to trigger it.

“You are a miracle,” Huroth said, reverence in his voice. He rose from the bench and reached for her hand. “I had no idea your magic ran so deep.”

“Neither did I.” Orwenna cast an uneasy glance toward the nurse. It was impossible to know how much she’d overheard. What Huroth saw as miraculous, she would likely call witchcraft.