a suggestion?”
“If I fly over the slave refuge with one of you, we can warn them about the disease from a safe distance. I could deliver the warning myself, but the message would be more readily accepted if an infected human delivered it.”
“You mean, show them our skin,” Randall said.
Fellina’s head bobbed. “I can see the rash here and there, but I am not sure how visible it will be from a distance.”
“I’m probably not a good candidate for that.” Randall scratched his chest through his tunic. “It hasn’t progressed far enough to see. It itches quite a bit, though.”
Tibalt lifted his own tunic. Red welts covered his skin from his bony ribcage to his emaciated waist. “Hoowee! I look like a beekeeper after a mutiny!”
“That looks terrible!” Randall turned toward Fellina. “Does that mean he’s going to die soon?”
“There is no uniform progression for this disease,” Fellina said. “Sometimes skin lesions are the first symptom, and an attack on the internal organs comes later. Other times, such lesions are a sign of the end. It is impossible to know until death comes.”
“That means old Tibber gets to ride a dragon!” Tibalt clapped his hands. “I hope there’s a medal for dragon riding. I’ve always wanted a medal.”
Randall refocused on Fellina. “Are you able to carry two riders?”
Fellina looked down at her bleeding wound. “Between this injury and my previous one, too much of a load would be risky. And we must return quickly because of the Benefile threat, so it will be better if I carry only one.”
Randall nodded. “I understand.”
“I asked Xenith to join me if her search for Arxad proves futile. You see, it is possible that the disease was carried by the wind to the refuge, so we might have to transport sick children to the Northlands. I gave her directions, so she will likely fly over this spot eventually. If you see her, call for her to pick you up.”
“I don’t think I’ll bother her,” Randall said. “She’ll probably be in a hurry, too.”
“Very well.” Using a wing, Fellina pushed Tibalt toward her flank. “Climb up my tail and sit on my back at the base of my neck.”
After Tibalt did so, he wiggled in his seat. “How am I supposed to stay on?”
“I trust that sheer terror will keep you in place.” Fellina beat her wings and launched nearly straight upward. Tibalt wrapped his arms around Fellina’s neck and hung on tightly, letting out a yell that sounded both terrified and delighted. Soon dragon and rider had flown out of sight.
Randall kicked a stone, sending it hurtling into the brush. He strolled to the dead dragon. Its severed headlay atop its outstretched wing, and blood pooled next to its perforated belly. With closed eyelids and slack jaw, it seemed passive, far different from the aggressive beast that tried to kill him only moments ago. Maybe it had a family—parents or siblings that would mourn the loss.
Pressing his lips together, Randall shook his head. This dragon was one of the slavers. It tried to kill two men who hoped to rescue the oppressed. It was evil and deserved to die.
He shoved the dragon’s head with his boot, knocking it off its wing. Then, setting his jaw, he turned away. Guilt gnawed at his conscience, but he brushed it back. Dragons weren’t worth the trouble.
With a glance at the skies and the surrounding trees, he breathed in deeply, trying to get his bearings. The foul odor Tibalt had mentioned earlier still hung in the air, as if some hapless animal rotted nearby.
Leading with his sword, Randall followed the scent. As he plunged deeper into the forest, he stopped occasionally and used the point of his sword to etch directional marks into the bark of trees along the paths he chose. With the trees undressing so quickly, by the time he tried to return, they wouldn’t look the same, and it wouldn’t hurt to give Tibalt some direction, too, in case he returned soon.
The scent grew stronger and
“If I fly over the slave refuge with one of you, we can warn them about the disease from a safe distance. I could deliver the warning myself, but the message would be more readily accepted if an infected human delivered it.”
“You mean, show them our skin,” Randall said.
Fellina’s head bobbed. “I can see the rash here and there, but I am not sure how visible it will be from a distance.”
“I’m probably not a good candidate for that.” Randall scratched his chest through his tunic. “It hasn’t progressed far enough to see. It itches quite a bit, though.”
Tibalt lifted his own tunic. Red welts covered his skin from his bony ribcage to his emaciated waist. “Hoowee! I look like a beekeeper after a mutiny!”
“That looks terrible!” Randall turned toward Fellina. “Does that mean he’s going to die soon?”
“There is no uniform progression for this disease,” Fellina said. “Sometimes skin lesions are the first symptom, and an attack on the internal organs comes later. Other times, such lesions are a sign of the end. It is impossible to know until death comes.”
“That means old Tibber gets to ride a dragon!” Tibalt clapped his hands. “I hope there’s a medal for dragon riding. I’ve always wanted a medal.”
Randall refocused on Fellina. “Are you able to carry two riders?”
Fellina looked down at her bleeding wound. “Between this injury and my previous one, too much of a load would be risky. And we must return quickly because of the Benefile threat, so it will be better if I carry only one.”
Randall nodded. “I understand.”
“I asked Xenith to join me if her search for Arxad proves futile. You see, it is possible that the disease was carried by the wind to the refuge, so we might have to transport sick children to the Northlands. I gave her directions, so she will likely fly over this spot eventually. If you see her, call for her to pick you up.”
“I don’t think I’ll bother her,” Randall said. “She’ll probably be in a hurry, too.”
“Very well.” Using a wing, Fellina pushed Tibalt toward her flank. “Climb up my tail and sit on my back at the base of my neck.”
After Tibalt did so, he wiggled in his seat. “How am I supposed to stay on?”
“I trust that sheer terror will keep you in place.” Fellina beat her wings and launched nearly straight upward. Tibalt wrapped his arms around Fellina’s neck and hung on tightly, letting out a yell that sounded both terrified and delighted. Soon dragon and rider had flown out of sight.
Randall kicked a stone, sending it hurtling into the brush. He strolled to the dead dragon. Its severed headlay atop its outstretched wing, and blood pooled next to its perforated belly. With closed eyelids and slack jaw, it seemed passive, far different from the aggressive beast that tried to kill him only moments ago. Maybe it had a family—parents or siblings that would mourn the loss.
Pressing his lips together, Randall shook his head. This dragon was one of the slavers. It tried to kill two men who hoped to rescue the oppressed. It was evil and deserved to die.
He shoved the dragon’s head with his boot, knocking it off its wing. Then, setting his jaw, he turned away. Guilt gnawed at his conscience, but he brushed it back. Dragons weren’t worth the trouble.
With a glance at the skies and the surrounding trees, he breathed in deeply, trying to get his bearings. The foul odor Tibalt had mentioned earlier still hung in the air, as if some hapless animal rotted nearby.
Leading with his sword, Randall followed the scent. As he plunged deeper into the forest, he stopped occasionally and used the point of his sword to etch directional marks into the bark of trees along the paths he chose. With the trees undressing so quickly, by the time he tried to return, they wouldn’t look the same, and it wouldn’t hurt to give Tibalt some direction, too, in case he returned soon.
The scent grew stronger and
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