The First Dragoneer (5 page)

“
All right,” March couldn’t help but
laugh. “But you’re such a giboon. I ought to just leave you here,
take all this stuff and go buy myself a castle.”

Bren tried to laugh, but the anticipation of
the pain to come kept him from it. March put one hand on Bren’s
knee and the other on Bren’s hip. Then he nodded that he was ready.
Bren took a big swig from the skin. Then, before he lost his
resolve, he poured a generous amount of the liquid down his thigh
just as he swallowed.

To March’s surprise Bren just looked at him
stupidly. It seemed as though he wasn’t feeling any pain at all.
Then, Bren’s face slowly flushed pink. It quickly graduated to a
bright reddish color. Soon it looked as if Bren’s head would burst.
Then the scream came.

It was long and loud, and it was followed by
several quick sharp huffs that sent spittle flying from Bren’s
mouth in every direction. He looked pleadingly at March and started
to scream again, but mercifully his eyes rolled back into his head
as his body succumbed to the pain.

March wasted no time. He first padded the
wound with a folded piece of the cloak. He bound it once more with
strips so that it wouldn’t pull open on its own. Then he bound it
again with a second layer of strips. After putting the sword back
in the scabbard, he laid it along Bren’s wounded leg. He made sure
that the ball of the hilt was jutting just past the bottom of
Bren’s boot heel. He was glad to see that the tip of the sheathed
blade was above Bren’s hip, nearly at his armpit. He strapped the
sword to Bren’s leg with more strips of the cloak and some lengths
of rope. He tied a fancy knot around Bren’s foot and the hilt, so
that the sword couldn’t come sliding out of its scabbard. Finally,
he slipped the thick leather sword belt under his friend’s waist
then buckled it tightly around Bren and the sword’s blade. He hoped
that most of Bren’s weight would be on the tempered steel and not
on his leg.

March took a moment to rest after his labors.
He wanted desperately to be back over the ridge and in their camp
before dark. He rounded up everything he could find, including the
coins from the floor of the cavern. He put them all into the
backpack. He strapped Bren’s bow and quiver around his shoulders,
and took the time to remove three of the arrows from the body of
the beast. Then he decided to take some proof of the kill. With his
skinning knife, he cut the fore claw off of the creature, and after
wrapping it in what was left of the cloak, he forced it into the
pack. He shouldered the load, and after a quick look around to make
sure that he had gotten everything, he went to wake Brendly.

It was a slow tedious climb. The sword splint
was awkward, but it worked. Bren was more or less just stumbling
from tree to tree. He clung to the lower branches and used his
muscled arms to keep himself from falling all the way down.

March was carrying the packs and finding that
keeping the bow ready was a chore all by itself. His ruined palms
wouldn’t close around the grip correctly and even the slightest
squeeze of his hands caused extreme pain. To make things worse, he
could feel the icy burn of his skull where his scalp wasn’t
covering the bone anymore. He would have just fallen down and cried
if it weren’t for the heart wrenching determination Bren was
showing by just keeping himself upright.

Ever so slowly they continued the journey
upward, fighting their pain as they climbed. They stopped to drink
from the wine skin and to eat some dried beef but found that it was
a mistake. The short reprieve allowed their bodies to relax but
caused their wounds to stiffen. Bren felt far worse than he had
when they had started from the cave. March didn’t feel much better.
The strong content of the skin, that the skeleton had so generously
preserved for them, did very little to ease their suffering, but
Bren found himself wanting more of it. March let him finish what
was left before they started back up the mountain.

They climbed some more and eventually the
ridge came into view. Bren used the sight of it to strengthen his
resolve. He used all that he had left in himself to get there.

March wasn’t far behind, but blood loss had
him feeling dizzy. He was sure that the sticky wetness that he was
feeling running down his back was as much blood as it was sweat. A
glance at the sun told him that they probably wouldn’t make it back
to the camp by nightfall, but since they would be within the
kingdom’s boundaries, and traveling downhill, he felt that their
chances were good of getting there alive. That is, if he could keep
from passing out. He was sure that Bren was having a harder time of
it. It amazed him that Bren hadn’t done much more than grunt and
wince on the way up. Bren had to be in incredible pain. March’s
wounds were superficial in comparison.

“
Well that was the hard part!” March
managed to say between breaths as he gained Bren’s side at the top
of the ridge.

Bren was holding desperately onto a branch to
steady himself and he was gasping for air. He managed a grim
smile.

March plopped down heavily onto a rock and
began rummaging through his pack until he found his water skin.
After taking a long drink, he handed it to Bren’s trembling hand.
Bren finished it off then he playfully tossed it at March before he
started down the mountainside.

“
We're not stopping here,” Bren called
out over his shoulder. “And you’d better hurry up and lead, because
if it’s up to me, we are going straight down into the
valley.”

March reluctantly got to his feet and started
after his friend. He was completely amazed at the way Bren was
handling the pain.

It was dark when March finally found the
camp. He wouldn’t have found it, if not for the many tracking and
hunting lessons he’d learned from his father and two older brothers
over the years.

The stars weren’t very bright this night, but
the moon would be up soon. He’d use its light to check Bren’s
wounds.

Bren was in a bad way. Several times, on the
last portion of the trek, he had stumbled into trees and shrubs.
Once, when his tired arms wouldn’t hold him up any longer, he had
fallen into a stiff-legged heap on the forest floor. He was
stretched out now, under the shelter March had made for them the
previous night. March made him drink the remainder of their water,
and then helped him eat some dried beef before letting him pass
out.

As soon as he got a fire started, March was
going to range out in the darkness and find the pool of clean water
where they had seen the stag. He had to be sure that the fire
wouldn’t burn out while he was gone. If it did, every hungry
creature in the forest would be after Bren like ants on a piece of
sweet candy. All they would have to do to find him was follow the
blood trail they had left throughout the day. The fire would also
help March find his way back from the pool. The fire roared to
life, and while stoking it to the size he needed it to be, March
felt its warmth sink into his aching bones. He fought, but to no
avail. Before he could leave, he too fell into a deep, much needed
sleep.

March woke to the sound of Bren’s agonizing
moans. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the sun was breaking the
night, giving him just enough rosy light to see by. The morning sky
was glorious and filled with color, where it could be seen peeking
above the mountain tops. March couldn’t enjoy it though, because he
knew they desperately needed water.

The air was thick with a sense of urgency.
Bren was fever stricken. His tired body was now fighting infection.
What Bren really needed was the care of an herb master. March was
tempted to make a litter and drag his friend down the mountainside.
He wondered if the time he spent going and getting some water would
allow the infection to get into Bren’s blood. He’d seen that happen
once when a copper miner who had been cut on the arm had stayed in
the mine too long. The Herb Master had had to cut the arm off, but
the miner eventually died anyway. All of Prominence Village had
been forced to endure his screaming torment until he finally
died.

The gravity of their situation weighed heavy
on March. If he made the wrong decision it could cost Bren his leg,
or worse. He was so concerned with Bren that he completely ignored
the pain of his own wounds. He made the decision to make the litter
and drag Bren to the stag’s pool with him. There he could wash the
wounds, and boil water to clean the bandages.

Methodically he went about making a litter
out of the oil cloth they had used for their shelter and some limbs
he cut from nearby trees. He had made several litters in his life.
It was the easiest way to get a big buck down the mountain. He and
Bren had used them a few times when they were younger, before they
were strong enough to spit a carcass and shoulder it down.

The sun was above the peaks by the time he
was done making the travois-like device. He was weak and
dehydrated, but he packed all their gear onto it with Bren and then
gripped the two poles. His split hands were still bleeding and raw,
but he started off anyway. Inside March there was nothing left
except sheer determination and love for his friend.

It was midday and the sun was high and hot
when they finally arrived at the pool. March spent a few moments
picking the splinters and dried bark out of the gashes in his palms
while cleansing them in the cool water. Then he focused all of his
attention on Bren.

By nightfall, he was a little more confident
in Bren’s chances. He had thoroughly cleansed away the dirt and
grime from his friend’s wound. He had forced it to bleed and then
opened the cut wide enough to cut away all the yellowing pussy
sections that had formed there. He even stitched it in several
places but he wasn’t sure if he had done it right. They still had a
long hard journey ahead of them. March could only hope that he had
done enough.

The wound was staying closed, but Bren still
had fever. March hoped that his condition would change if they
rested through the night. He had made a broth by placing the last
of their dried beef in the pot and boiling in some gable roots he
found. Bren woke just long enough to drink a good portion of it. He
was pale and weak from loss of blood and couldn’t manage the
strength to speak. He did manage to drink most of the aromatic
liquid down. Then he was off again, back into a fitful slumber.

March figured that if he rested for a while
he could get them down into the valley by the following afternoon.
There he would break apart the litter and burn it before the sun
went down. If a farmer or shepherd didn’t respond, he would run
like the wind and return with a cart or a wagon. He was determined
to have Bren in Prominence proper by dawn. It was a sound plan and
it relieved him to have at least that much.

While Bren tossed and turned, March fingered
the medallion he had found. He wasn’t certain, but at one point he
thought that it might have been causing his palms to tingle. It
wasn’t long before he too fell into slumber. He slept heavily and
had vivid dreams that eluded him when the sound of a curious
scavenger woke him in the predawn light. When he reached over to
shake Bren awake his heart slid up into his throat. Bren had died
in the night. His body was cool and stiff.

“
By the Gods, NOOOOO!” he shouted at
the still darkened sky. A cluster of startled birds exploded from a
nearby tree and sent his heavy heart to hammering.

“
There’s a way to save him,” a small
steady voice said from behind him. “All you have to do is pledge
your soul to the Confliction.”

March whirled around and saw the impossible.
The white stag was standing there looking at him, its dark eyes
plainly visible against its luminescent white fur. It wasn’t the
stag who had spoken though. Sitting on the stag’s back was one of
the fabled elvish. The fair skinned, silvery haired, creature
seemed to be slightly unsettled by the fact that March was twice
his size, but he met March’s gaze with his wild amber eyes.

March’s emotion surged. “You’ll save my
friend if you can, or I will-- I’ll--”

“
You’ll do naught other than pledge
your soul to the fighting of the Confliction,” the little man said
flatly. He was wearing a sort of cloth that looked to be made out
of tiny rings of the same strange metal as the medallion. And, what
March had first mistaken as fear had suddenly turned into snarling
defiance. “You’ll swear to fight against the Confliction, or I’ll
take that medallion. Then you can drag your friend’s corpse home to
his mother.”

March was so stunned and confused, and
welling with grief, that he couldn’t form a cohesive thought. For a
long time, he was silent. Finally, he asked the elf the only
question that would come. “You can save him?”

“
You can save him,” the elf replied,
“but only if you hurry.”

“
How?”

“
Use the medallion to call your dragon.
When it comes, it will know your heart and use its magic to restore
the life of your companion.”

“
There are no dragons around here,”
March looked around. “If there was, why would a dragon do such a
thing?”

“
There are no elvish in this valley
either I’d guess,” the elf shrugged. “Either way, you should get to
calling your wyrm before it’s too late for him.” The elf nodded at
Bren’s corpse.

“
What’s this Confliction you speak?”
March asked as he crawled to his feet and pulled the medallion out
of his shirt.

He was feverish, and the world was swimming
in and out of focus, but somehow he knew that this was no fever
dream. He was about to pledge his life to something he didn’t
understand so that his friend would be saved.