Feril didn’t reply. She was looking around the spirit’s rooms, trying to figure out why she had been brought here—what might be important to her goal.
“There is so much life and hope in you, my elf-fish, a determination and fire that I find envious.”
Feril froze in fear. Was Obelia going to betray her again? She whirled to look for his diaphanous form, finding it hovering above a pile of brittle-looking bones.
“I think I would have faded away to nothingness, elf-fish, had you not come along and given me a fresh sense of purpose.”
What do you want? She tensed, ready to push past him and out the door.
“To come with you.”
You know that’s not going to be possible, Obelia, she said sadly, watching his expression change and harden.
Suddenly, Feril felt the warmth leave her body.
13
He felt a pleasant rush, a fuzzy taste, reminding him of the spiced ale he used to order on visits to town—when he was human and running in the company of his old friend Maldred. The ale would slide down his throat and warm his belly, the feeling slowly spreading to his arms and legs. His tongue would seem thick, his judgment and vision would blur, and he would be blissfully oblivious to his problems for a while. He’d not had an ounce of ale since his transformation into a dragon, but when the last vestiges of the pain and poison fled and his strength began to return, he had a familiar feeling which brought memories of drinking and his old friend. He wondered what Maldred was up to. Was the ogre-mage in ogre lands, getting primed to become king one day after the passing of his father? Or was he walking around some human city, looking handsome and human, and scheming, as always, to garner riches?
Dhamon’s talons tingled. He still felt a bit dizzy. Then everything began to clear and he could feel his senses becoming acute again. He dropped all thoughts of Maldred, and focused on Feril and Ragh—and himself.
What had happened to him? He remembered an army of goblins that he was cutting through like a scythe through wheat. Then he remembered feeling overwhelmed by sleep. Goblins were piled all around him, smelling worse than usual because they were dead. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, along with the hint of sulfur, meaning Ragh was nearby. He remembered looking around for Ragh and being worried that the goblins might have killed the sivak while he and Feril were away, busying themselves deep down in the Lake of Death.
“Feeling better, my friend?” Ragh stepped out from the shadows of an old oak, careful to pick his way over goblin bodies as he walked toward Dhamon.
“Better?” Dhamon opened a bleary eye. “Aye, a little.”
The draconian read the puzzlement on Dhamon’s face and so brought him up to date—telling him all about the goblin spears tipped with poison.
“You’ll soon be back to your old self,” Ragh said upon finishing the story. “You’ve amazing recuperative powers. Of course, it was a good thing the elf was around to help.”
Dhamon relished the surge of strength in his limbs. He effortlessly dug his talons into the hard ground, raking furrows. He rolled his shoulders and opened his huge wings, feeling refreshed and powerful. Did he truly want to give up this dragon form? he wondered. He couldn’t call himself happy now, but would he feel any better as a man? Did he want to return to a body that was an insect in comparison to this greatness? Then he pushed such thoughts aside, telling himself the questions were irrelevant until he knew for certain if there was a cure to be had. His muscles bunched as he stretched his front legs out toward the old oak.
“The elf thought you’d be sleeping for a few hours at least.” Ragh looked up to catch the dragon’s gaze. “I tried to tell her to stay and wait, but she was impatient. I tried to tell her nothing keeps your kind down long.”
Your kind. Dhamon’s eyes narrowed as he stared at his. friend, for the first time registering Ragh’s numerous wounds.
“Oh, I’m all right—now,” Ragh said, anticipating Dhamon’s questions. “Same army that went after you…yeah, they got to me first, but they didn’t use that on me, thankfully. Must have been nasty stuff if it could knock down a dragon. Bet that stuff would be worth a good turn of coin in some dark places.”
“How long have I been…how long has Feril been gone?” Dhamon’s head swiveled around and his neck reached forward into the trees, eyes peering into the shadows and nostrils quivering at the stench coming from the goblin bodies. The sound of flies and other feasting insects supplied grim background noise.
Ragh ground the ball of his foot against the earth, a gesture that usually told Dhamon the sivak was either frustrated or disappointed. “A few hours. Said she had things to tend to. I told her to stay and wait, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
Something rustled the trees and Ragh watched a small flock of night birds scattering. He eyed Dhamon, who was looking off into the distance, toward the lake.
“You’ve no idea what’s down there, Ragh,” Dhamon said angrily, turning back to stare at the sivak, his tone making the ground shake. The insects’ drone quieted for a moment, and the few straggling night birds swiftly vanished.
“I wasn’t exactly in any position to stop her.” Ragh pointed to his deepest wounds. Much softer, “No one listens to me anyway.”
Then Ragh walked past Dhamon and headed toward the lake, doing his best to step over goblin bodies and nearly slipping in the gore. He idly glanced at the corpses, scanning for gold or silver neckchains or jewels. He knew it wasn’t likely pathetic creatures such as these would carry valuables, but the sivak couldn’t shake the habit of looking.
In a few steps Dhamon was past him, stopping at the shore of Nalis Aren and craning his neck out over the mist-draped water. He could dive in after her, would dive in after her, he decided—if she wasn’t back by the time the moon was directly overhead. Ragh soon came up behind him, plopping down in the sand.
Ragh stared at the water. Even more than Dhamon, the sivak had a pronounced fear of water—especially of deep water; he couldn’t swim worth a damn and knew he would sink like a rock in the Lake of Death. Still, trying to show Dhamon how much he too was worried about the elf, he stood and waded bravely into the shallows, until the water was up to his knees. Standing there, looking around, he caught Dhamon’s eye and nodded. The two of them stood there for a long time, looking out across the water for any inkling of Feril.
Dhamon just stood there, watching and waiting. After a while, Ragh washed the goblin gore off his feet and the dried blood away from the edges of his wounds. He was thirsty, but he didn’t drink the strange lake water. When he was finished, he came onto the sand and took up a position on the bank a few yards away from Dhamon’s right claw. He leaned back on his elbows, closed his eyes, and listened to the flutter of wings, a bird flying over the Lake of Death.
The blue was darker than Feril had remembered. The cold was oppressive. She was swimming up to the warm part of the lake as fast as possible, but Feril couldn’t stroke very well with her arms, as she was carrying the heavy satchels.
So tired, legs heavy. But it won’t be long, can’t be far. I can rest next to Dhamon.
She was making progress, she knew, only it was slow progress. The satchels were soaked with water, adding to their immense weight. Her magic gave her extraordinary strength, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to lift both of the satchels., especially after Obelia had taken away the nurturing warmth, but the Kagonesti was sorely tempted to drop one of the satchels.
She was making progress, she told herself, putting more distance between herself and the sunken city. She was ascending, yet the cold somehow intensified, and the water was beginning to turn an eerie midnight blue.