It was a recalling chime, designed to teleport anyone within a certain radius who bore the Mark of Detection back to the Warning Guild in Wroat. No doubt d’Medani was there even now, cursing his name.
“Gone,” he gasped, his laughter fading as he struggled to breathe. “To Breland.”
“Don’t try to talk,” Andri admonished as he knelt beside the dwarf. First the paladin loosened the chain about his neck, then he used Maellas’s silver dagger to cut the quarrel off the crossbow bolt protruding from his stomach. With great gentleness, he pulled the bolt out through the inquisitive’s back. Greddark nearly bit his tongue in half to keep from screaming, then promptly vomited blood all over them both as soon as the wooden shaft was free.
The darkness deepened around him, and he realized that he was losing consciousness. He felt Andri lay one hand on each wound, both entry and exit, and a seeping warmth crept outwards from the paladin’s fingers, running through Greddark’s body, up to his ruined shoulder and abraded neck, even through his bloody nose and mouth and out to the tip of his tongue. He was healed.
But then why did his veins still burn like he’d swallowed acid, and why was he so terribly thirsty all of the sudden?
Irulan was kneeling beside him now as well, apparently satisfied that d’Medani had indeed departed. A look of concern crossed her face, and she picked up the quarrel Andri had discarded, sniffing it experimentally. Her expression grew grave.
“Poison,” she said. “Concentrated, by the smell of it. I think it’s dwarfbane. And I’m guessing d’Medani took the antidote with her.”
Greddark couldn’t suppress a groan. If she was right, then he was already dead.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Sul, Eyre 8, 998 YK
Is it still in his system?” Irulan asked, watching as a sheen of sweat formed on the dwarf’s creased brow. “Maybe your healing took care of it?”
Andri reached his hand out to touch Greddark’s forehead. His skin was hot to the touch. “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “But I’ll try again.”
He invoked the Flame once more and felt warmth course through his fingers, but if he’d done anything more than delay the effects of the poison, Andri couldn’t see it. Greddark’s clothes were drenched in perspiration, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“I don’t think it’s working. We’d better get him back to the fire.”
“Wait,” Irulan said, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him from lifting the inquisitive in his arms. “Let me talk to him first.”
The dwarf’s eyes were glazing over, and she slapped him lightly on the cheek to bring him around.
“Greddark! Can you hear me?”
His eyes cleared for a moment, focusing on her. He gave the barest of nods, as though the movement pained him.
“You know what the antidote for dwarfbane is, right? What the plant looks like? I need you to describe it to me.”
Greddark opened his mouth, licking away a string of drool that had been forming.
“Purple … flower. Seven petals. Spiny leaves. Use … sap, stems.”
Irulan chewed on her lip. “Hmm … sounds like dweomer root, though the flowers are usually reddish. They’re most likely related, but whether it’s close enough, I don’t know.” She looked uncertainly at Andri. “I could probably find some, but it may take a while.”
He nodded. “Do it.”
Her grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment, then she stood. Andri handed her sword back to her.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She headed deeper into the forest at a trot, dodging bushes and low branches with a lithesome grace Andri couldn’t help but admire. He prayed she would find what she was looking for in time.
Greddark groaned again, and Andri turned back to the dwarf, hefting his not inconsiderable weight in both arms. He could see last remains of their dying campfire through the trees and he set his course for the dancing orange and yellow flames, taking care not to jostle Greddark too much.
A quick glance as he came out of the trees assured him that Maellas was still chained to the tree, where they had left him. The priest was watching him with interest. It was a shame the elf had to be gagged. Surely his healing abilities must far surpass Andri’s own. If only … but, no. Best not even to set a foot on that path.
Andri laid the dwarf down gently on his bedroll. Greddark was shivering now, though he was giving off more heat than the fire. Andri gathered up his own bedroll and Irulan’s to cover him, tried to pour some water between the dwarf’s chattering teeth, then stared into the darkness, watching for any sign of Irulan, and prayed.
O gracious Flame, I know not why I have been deemed an unworthy conduit of your healing power, but I beseech you to ignore my sins and grant respite to this servant of the Host. Though he walks a different road, still his heart is good, and he seeks to right great wrongs. Grant that if I cannot heal him, your daughter Irulan might be led to the antidote he needs. Give her the speed and cunning of the wolf as she searches, and bring her back to me-to us-safely.
He was just beginning the Seventh Miracle-the Victory over Lycanthropes-when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. His hand went to his sheath, only to discover it empty. Then he remembered-d’Medani had disarmed him and thrown his sword into the underbrush. He cast about for Maellas’s silver dagger, his hand closing around its hilt before he realized that it was only the elf struggling against his bonds. He started to relax, then saw that the elf had managed to loosen his gag by turning his head and rubbing the side of his face against the tree. The rough bark had snagged the fabric, and with one sharp twist of his neck, the gag was dislodged. Maellas spat it out, coughing.
“Andri,” he wheezed, “let me help you.”
The paladin hesitated. A part of his mind was screeching at him not to listen, but that nagging little voice seemed distant. Irrelevant. What was important was healing Greddark.
“Look at him!” Maellas said. “He’s starting to convulse! If we don’t do something now, he’s going to die.”
Andri looked at the dwarf. His shivering had turned to shaking, and his limbs were jerking, as though he danced to some bizarre music only he could hear. Spittle flecked his mouth and his close-cropped beard, and his face had turned an angry shade of red.
Maellas was right. They didn’t have time to wait for Irulan and her antidote, which might not even work. If they didn’t do something now, Greddark was going to die.
They? the voice in his head questioned shrilly, protesting, but the cleric’s insistent words drowned it out.
“Hurry, Andri! Release me. Let us lay hands on the dwarf and call on the Flame together. Surely with our combined efforts, the poison will be neutralized. We can save him. But only if you free me. Now.”
Andri found himself nodding. The warning voice faded and grew silent.
“Don’t bring the dagger. Just the keys to the manacles. Hurry! There’s not much time.”
Andri dropped the dagger. He didn’t need it. Just the keys. He retrieved them from his belt pouch and stood. He had to hurry. There wasn’t much time.
He skirted the fire and walked over to the tree where Maellas was bound. Something was wrong. Why had they chained the Bishop to the tree? He was their friend. He only wanted to help them. Help Greddark.
Frowning, Andri knelt down beside the elf, fumbling with the key. Bishop Maellas was his superior, and by all accounts a humble, pious man. What had he been thinking, clapping him in silver manacles?
Silver … why was that important? He paused, key half in the lock, trying to remember.