On Fire
Marlies was burning. Everything was fire. The cave, her arm, her head. Groggily, she sipped some water, then fell back to sleep. Her instincts screamed at her to cleanse and dress her arm, but she was tired, so tired.
The walls spinning, she drifted off again.
§
Hans enfolded Marlies in his arms. It was so warm and comforting. She melted against him. But he was burning, licked by dragon flame.
No, her whole world was burning, filled with flame and fire.
Her skin was about to burst apart.
§
Marlies was damp with sweat. Her arm was on fire, hot and puffy.
She still hadn’t cleaned her wound. How long had she slept?
It was still daytime … no, she’d woken a couple of times in pitch black, so it had been night at some stage. Perhaps it was the next day? Or the day after? Shards, she must be sick if she couldn’t tell what day it was. She sat on her bedding and pulled a vial of dragon’s breath out of her rucksack to light the cave.
The makeshift bandage on her arm was covered in yellow crusted pus. Gods, she could’ve been out for days. She peeled the filthy bandage off her arm, gasping as it stuck to her flesh. The wound was red and swollen, festering. It didn’t matter how tired and dizzy she was, if she didn’t treat it, she would never get to Death Valley—or back to her family.
Marlies grimaced. She’d come so far. She was on Zens’ doorstep, only a few hours away, and here she was, useless.
Her forehead was burning and her hands cold—sure signs that her fever was building again. She needed to make a feverweed tisane and brew some clean herb, but with only one candle and mug, she couldn’t brew two things at once. Marlies settled for chewing feverweed leaves, not as effective as tea, and warming crushed clean-herb in a cup over the candle. It was best hot, but Marlies didn’t have the luxury of time; she had to act before the next wave of fever hit her. It was a shame piaua wouldn’t work on infections. A shame she hadn’t cleaned and treated her wound when it had happened.
When the clean-herb was lukewarm, Marlies dipped a cloth in it and wiped out her wound, gritting her teeth to stop herself from crying out as she removed crusted pus and scabs. Her wound had swollen so much the hot red skin around it was tight and shiny. It hurt like molten metal. She let it bleed, hoping to purge the wound, then cleaned it some more.
Marlies threw the dirty bandage into a corner and washed her hands with the rest of the clean-herb. Shivering again, she bandaged her arm and got dressed again. She bit some hard flatbread, but it tasted like wood.
She wasn’t hungry anyway, so she burrowed back into her bedding and dozed off.
Slipping Away
Wind rushed into Lovina’s eyes, making them sting. The vast forest below turned into a blurry wasteland. The wind was causing her tears—only the wind. Tomaaz’s face swam before her and she batted it away. Memories hurt. She’d learned that much in Death Valley.
Waves of agony spread up her arms and legs and across her torso.
Something was wrong: these sensations were more than pins and needles; more than spasms. Lovina’s thighs and shoulders rippled with agony. Feverish, she drifted in and out of sleep, vivid nightmares clawing at her head.
She tried to pick up the waterskin, but her fingers were locked, bent like tharuk claws—and that was her good arm. The pain in her broken arm, spasming and hitting the side of the saddlebag, made her breath short and gaspy.
Tomaaz had put feverweed in her pocket—if only she could reach it. Her fingers scrabbled at the blankets, but couldn’t grip—useless. Like a littling giving up in an avalanche, she slumped, drifting into another round of torture. Images washed through her mind. Zens beating children. Hurting her brothers. And always, that awful tank of his, waiting for her.
A Wing Down
“Tharuk!” Handel banked, tipping to the side, but a volley of arrows was flying right at him. He ducked and swooped.
Pain ripped through Hans’ mind. “Where have you been hit?” he asked his dragon.
“My wingtip.”
“Can you fly?”
“Not far. I can make it to that hill. There’s a cave there where we can hole up.”
“Good.” But not good at all. While Handel was healing, anything could be happening to Marlies. Hans rubbed the back of his neck. There was nothing he could do.
When they reached the cave, Hans sent Tomaaz off to catch some game, while he rubbed salve on Handel’s wing and applied a healing poultice. “Well, Handel, it’s not too bad. Lucky the arrows weren’t poisoned and you let me know quickly.”
“I’m sorry, Hans, it will delay us a few days.” Handel butted him in the stomach with his head.
Hans scratched his eye ridge. “Not much we can do about that. Except rest and heal.”
Even as he comforted his dragon, Hans chafed to get moving. Every moment they delayed could cost Marlies her life.
§
Behind Tomaaz, Handel was resting on the grass, after a meal, gathering his strength for the last leg of the journey. Although his wing injury had delayed them three days, it had healed well, but they didn’t want to take any chances when they were closer to Death Valley.
Pa placed his hand on Tomaaz’s shoulder. “You’re not enjoying this at all, are you, Son?”
Breaking a piece of flatbread in half, Tomaaz avoided Pa’s intense gaze. “Racing to Death Valley to save my mother? No.” He took a bite.
“Not that. Flying.”
Pa had noticed? He chewed deliberately, giving him time to think. In the distance, the peaks of the Terramites
