The creature roared in pain and fury and slashed at her violently with the cutting claws. Blood sprayed across the visor and got into her eyes, half blinding her. Kit yanked her sword free. She stumbled backward, and her feet slipped and she fell.
Her hand struck the ice, knocking loose her sword. The weapon slid out of her reach. She tried desperately to stand, but the pain was bad, very bad, and it was hard to breathe. Claws slashed down at her, and Kit rolled out of the way. She remembered the kapak’s sword and she fumbled at it, yanking it out of her belt. She waited until the hairy beast roared down on her and then, blindly, she drove the sword into its body, drove it through hair and flesh and bone. Blood flowed over her hands. A horrible bellow deafened her and a gigantic fist struck, driving her to the floor.
Kitiara found herself lying on her belly. She blinked her eyes, trying to clear the blood, and saw the flask, just out of reach. She crawled toward it, reaching for it with a shaking hand.
There was her mother. Rosamun lay on the floor, her hand on the flask. She gazed at Kitiara with her large doe eyes that never seemed to quite focus on the present, but stared out at some hazy horizon no one could see but her.
“Your father didn’t come home last night,” Rosamun said accusingly.
Kitiara cringed. Not again. The pain of her wounds was terrible, but it was nothing to the pain of the torture rack on which her parents had strapped her, pulling her between them whenever they fought.
“He was with that woman, wasn’t he?” Rosamun’s voice rose shrilly. “The one with the red hair I saw him flirting with at the market yesterday.”
“He was at the Trough, Mother, drinking with his friends,” Kit mumbled. She had to reach the flask. She crawled nearer, holding her sword, ready to strike.
“Don’t lie for him, girl,” Rosamun shouted, her voice rising to a shriek. “He hurts you as much as me with his philandering. Someday he’ll leave us both. Mark my words…”
Kitiara sank down on the floor. Her eyes closed in exhaustion. She saw her father with the red-haired bar wench. The woman had her back against the outhouse, her legs spread, her skirts hiked up. Gregor crowded close to her, nuzzling bare breasts. Kit heard the woman squeal and her father grunt and the squeals blended with her mother’s hysterical ravings.
Kit pushed herself painfully off the red ice. She staggered to her feet. Lifting her sword, she plunged it into her mother’s body, then drove into her father’s body. She kept stabbing and hacking at both of them until the roaring and the sobbing ceased and the thing quit twitching.
Kitiara collapsed.
She lay on the ice, staring at the blood-spattered ceiling. Her hand closed over the flask, and she tried to bring it to her mouth.
“I meant to come back, Tanis,” she told him. “The truth is… I forgot…”
Her hand fell, limp, to the icy floor.
13
Recovery. Fewmaster Toede surpasses expectations
Kitiara fought on. Clawed hands had hold of her, and she lashed out in fury, kicking and hitting, and screaming curses. “Hold her down!” a guttural voice ordered angrily. “I’m trying, sir!” panted another. “Belek, sit on her feet. Rult, pour more water down her throat!”
A heavy weight immobilized Kit’s lower limbs. Strong hands seized her wrists and prized open her jaws. Someone poured water into her mouth.
The water went down the wrong way, and Kitiara choked. Gasping for air brought her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes and saw monstrous faces leering at her. She couldn’t move and she tensed to fight, then the mists cleared and she realized the faces were covered in scales, not fur, and none of them were faces from her past.
They were kapak faces, and the lizard-men had never looked so wonderful to her as they did now.
“You can let go of me,” she mumbled.
The commander regarded her warily, then gave a nod of his head. The kapak who had been sitting on her legs got up, groaned and limped off—apparently she had kneed him in a sensitive spot. The two kapak soldiers who held her wrists backed off.
“What about the guardian?” Kit asked.
“Dead,” said the commander.
Kit nodded thankfully and closed her eyes to let the dizziness pass.
“What was it?” she demanded.
“Hard to tell,” said the kapak. “You hacked it to bits. Whatever it was, none of us had ever seen one before.”
“Some foul creation of the wizard’s,” said Kit, shuddering. “You’re sure it’s dead?”
“Very,” replied the commander.
Kitiara sighed and relaxed. She was not in pain, but she felt weak and trembly and her brain wasn’t working right. Her father had been there… and Tanis. But that wasn’t possible, and the dragon orb, talking to her…
Kit’s eyes flared open. “The dragon orb! I have to go save it—”
“No, you don’t,” said the commander. “Sleet’s guarding the orb. Takhisis’s orders. You should rest. You’ve earned it.”
“How long have I been out?” Kit wondered confusedly. “A week,” said the kapak.
“A week!” Kitiara repeated, staring at him disbelief. “The healing water closed your wounds, but you lost a lot of blood, then a fever set in. We thought you were dead a couple of times. Her Dark Majesty must think highly of you.”
“And you went to all this trouble to save me.” Kit shook her head and noticed even that small motion exhausted her. “Why didn’t you just let me die? You dracos don’t have much love for humans.”
“We don’t like humans,” the kapak agreed, “but we don’t like elves more.”
Kit smiled weakly. “Speaking of elves, I’m surprised Feal-Thas didn’t kill me.”
“He hasn’t been here with flowers,” said the kapak dryly. “In fact, he hasn’t been here at all. He’s holed up in that ice palace of his.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know his guardian’s dead.”
“Oh, he knows,” said the kapak. “The winternorn knows everything. They say he can read minds. He’s cunning, that one. He has as many twists and turns as a snake. If you want my opinion, he set you up to die. He wants you out of the way. One less rival.”
Kitiara thought this over. It made sense, as much as anything made sense around here.
“I’ll guess I’ll have to kill him,” she said. “Give me my sword—”
She tried to sit up. The kapak gave her a shove and Kit fell back on the bed with a groan.
“Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow…” she mumbled.
The commander chuckled. “I can see why you’re a Dragon Highlord. And speaking of dragons, a blue has been hanging about, worried sick about you. He threatened to tear down the castle if anything happened to you. I never saw a dragon in such a stew.”
“It must be Skie. Good old Skie.” Kitiara sighed deeply and contently. “Tell Skie I’m all right, will you? And thanks, Commander. For everything.”
She rolled over on her side, hugged the fur blankets around her, and went to sleep.
Two days and several caribou steaks later, Kitiara felt well enough to leave her bed. The first thing she did was to see for herself that the guardian was truly dead. She ventured cautiously into the narrow tunnel, sword in hand. The blood—her blood—was frozen in the ice, but no corpse. The kapak had told her there wasn’t much left of the monster, and now there was nothing at all.
Feal-Thas must have removed the remains. Either that or they’d disappeared on their own.
Kit left the chamber where she’d almost died and continued down the tunnel to the dragon’s lair, intending to discuss Ariakas’s plan for the dragon orb. This did not go well, for Sleet proved to be every bit as dull and obtuse as Skie had predicted. The white dragon blinked at Kit with heavy eyelids, scratched her ear with a clawed foot, and tilted her head to the side, as if viewing Kitiara from that angle somehow made her instructions clearer. At length Sleet yawned, lay her head down on the ice, and closed her eyes.