Undiscovered Territory
CHAPTER TWENTY: Mended Rifts
When some creature was considered to be a deity, the fact that it could be harmed was forgotten by a great many people. Weren't deities, after all, supposed to be invincible, at least to the actions of normal mortal beings? It was a concept that was common, instinctive even, to the people that followed it.
But what was often overlooked was that dragons were mortal beings as well. Their abilities greatly dwarfed that of most others, that was very true. And yes, their lifespans would make even the longest lived Namek seem like a mere infant in comparison. Despite the level of honour that the Nameks now bestowed upon the creatures known as dragons, things had not always been in such a way. Long ago, according to a history that was either lost or held secret by the elders, Namekian sorcerers had attached the spirit of a dragon to a set of seven balls, binding it so that their will could come about.
So much for invincibility.
Thus trapped, the dragon's powers became more limited; it became more vulnerable to creatures that it could have crushed with ease had it been free. The dragon could be harmed now, by these lesser beings. Killed even, should a mortal have been powerful enough.
This dragon, however, was not dead. The strike that had sent it to the ground was not strong enough to wrench its life away, at least not for now. At this moment it was wounded, bleeding, though nothing more than that. Any more than that would not be needed, were things to continue as they were. If the dragon went back to its slumber, the wound would heal in its own time, would be an inconvenience rather than a threat to life. But its chains, those balls, held it here until it expended its power for the wishes of others.
However much the dragon wished for it to be otherwise, he could do nothing to help himself. And he was not so foolish as to think that any lesser mortal would even come to his aid – those selfish creatures – much less actually be capable of helping him at all . . .
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Even Basalt was stunned at his own actions.
He had intended for that blast to wipe out those three irritating Nameks who were giving him such a difficult time in this battle. Instead of that, he had missed all of them and his attack had instead caught the body of the great beast that had sprung up in violent bursts from the Dragonballs.
The beast's roar of pain had drowned out any other sound that there might possibly have been – for miles, even, as far as he knew. Quite honestly, he would not have been surprised in the least if that were indeed the case.
He could almost feel the ground shake as the beast's falling body came into contact with it, despite the fact that he was in the air. The tremors were just that powerful, rocking both earth and sky alike. They took what seemed like ages to dilute into nothingness, though he still heard a faint rumbling in his ears.
And after another age, that dwindled to nothing as well. Silence took hold over the area, almost frightening in contrast to the noise that it replaced. Not even the barest breeze sprung up, as if even the air itself could only mourn without sound. The black sky around him felt heavier now, like a giant funeral shroud only waiting for the life to finish bleeding out of the body before it swooped down to cover it.
Not that things had been going well for him anyway, but this hurt his chances even more of wishing for the power to obliterate that glass ceiling that he'd been victim to for his entire life. He had no recourse now, and if what the first Namek had said was indeed true, and that the ship had been destroyed – and all things considered, he did not doubt this one bit – then he was trapped here. Trapped here with nothing but hostile locals and absent of the ability, of the power, to subdue them all.
In short, he had nothing left.
Some strange feeling inside of him, one that he was sure he had never experienced before, began to eat away at him. To be stuck on this world, to be at the absolute mercy of its locals . . . It was something that he refused to accept, regardless of whether or not he could do anything about it.
Curse those superiors of his, for surely they had cursed him. He had been sent to this place when his rotation was supposed to be over, when he would have a few months of leave to remain on a single planet. And there, somehow, he would have found a way to advance. But they did not want him to advance; it would have been an affront to all of their old-power races. They had sent him here to die.
So be it, then. He had no control over their actions, but he did have control over his own. Perhaps he truly would die on this unknown, technologically forsaken rock. But he would not go down without a fight and he would not be the only one here put to death.
Furtively, he glanced around at the three Nameks. All of them were still staring in shock at the fallen beast, and had likely forgotten that he was even there. So much the better.
Without another thought or any warning, Basalt launched himself at the closest one.
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He was not quite sure just when the ground stopped shaking, for his body continued to do so without any outside help. Though his eyes had been closed since that brilliant flash of white light, he had still seen what its effects were. It was difficult to miss the sight of a creature the size of Porunga falling to the ground, eyes open or otherwise.
Nonetheless, Dende finally took his hands away from his ears and nervously raised his head. He gasped and shuffled backward at what he saw. Most would have broken into a full-out run at this point, but Dende's typical reaction to being frightened was to freeze, and that was just what he did now.
For he was looking straight into the enormous red eyes of Porunga himself. Each one of them was at least three times as large as he was tall, and held no pupils within their depths. To look into them was to look into a bright, unending sea of pure red, intense enough to fully drown an onlooker.
It was difficult to notice other features upon him, for the eyes commanded such an incredible presence, but Dende eventually made them out. The flat yellow of the dragon's front, the scales that coated his body in a brilliant armour of green, the fin like extensions attached to the backs of his muscular arms . . . It was an awe-inspiring view at any distance, any angle, but especially so when upon the same level and less than two metres away. The world around him seemed to disappear, and anything that occurred did so within and around the dragon.
How Dende regained his composure, he did not know, but it came to him what he could only surmise was a few minutes later. As amazing as the sight before him was, it was only here because of a vile action; it marred any true beauty that might have been present.
There was a wound. Somewhere on this immense body there was a wound that was causing it a pain most terrible. On instinct, Dende hurried along its expanse, barely noticing the wobble that still ailed his left leg. It was the first thing that had come to his mind once he had gained control of it. He had a duty to perform here, one that he had been born to, for even Saichourou had been unable to draw out a person's power if the person never had it in the first place. The gift was powerful within him, and though he had long since grown comfortable with it, he had feared it upon its awakening. Perhaps he could do something to help.
And if he couldn't . . . Well then what kind of a healer was he, anyway?
Traversing the body took time, as Dende had known it would. Above him, not far away, the battle continued, its hiatus brief and clearly finished. Despite a wounded dragon sprawled over the ground, life and the world went on.
Dende stopped short upon finding the injury, and an ill, tingling sensation swept through his stomach. He covered his mouth with his hands, and as much as even he wanted to close his eyes at this sight – it was not, after all, as if he had never seen serious injuries before – they would not respond to the silent order that he gave them. Rather, they contradicted it entirely, and opened even wider.
A chunk was torn out of Porunga's side, almost half the breadth of his narrowing torso. Smoke still rose from the blackened edges, discernable not by sight but by smell; that of burnt flesh wafted into his nose. While the wound had been partially cauterized around these edges, the more central parts of the injury were as fresh as lake water. Blood, as red as the eyes long since passed by leaked through here, staining and discolouring the ground into a sickly hue.
And Dende imagined that this hue probably matched the one that his skin had taken on at this dreadful scene. His stomach lurched, and his throat was working, but somehow he avoided succumbing to the urge for a dry heave. No time for such things, now. He was a healer and had a job to do.
With a final quivering breath, Dende took his hands away from his mouth and stepped closer to Porunga's side. He was tentative at first, but he placed one hand and then the other just inside the edges of the wound. To his surprise, the dragon shuddered under his light touch and he stood still a second, waiting for it to subside.
There were eyes on him suddenly; he could sense that much without looking. But some part of him could not resist a peek, and he slowly turned his head to one side. For the second time in a few moments, he was staring straight into the eyes of Porunga. With only that flat redness, it was difficult to read any expression within them at all. In fact, Dende had only ever known his mood from speech patterns and tone of voice and he doubted that he would have either of those to work with right now.
What are you doing, young one?
Dende started at the voice in his head. It was unmistakably that of Porunga, but the booming echoes were greatly lessened if not completely absent. While it was not really a surprising thing that a dragon was capable of telepathy, he would have never expected one to speak to him in such a manner. He wasn't quite certain whether he should be honoured or afraid. Regardless of that, the tone only served to increase his already great discomfort.
You're wounded, he replied mentally. He had little talent for telepathy, but could use it if the one with whom he was communicating began the connection. I want to help you.
He was sure that he picked up a note of smug disbelief on Porunga's part, but other than that, the dragon gave him no reply. Why would he give such a reaction? Was it because he doubted Dende's ability or his intentions? It was a vexing question, and one that Dende desperately wanted an answer for, but he could not bring himself to ask one. It just sounded too rude, too forward. And, he was willing to admit, he was afraid of what the answer might be.
For his own part, Dende doubted his ability. The first injuries that he had ever treated had been dire ones, to be sure – but for obvious reasons none of them had ever been this large. It would be easy to think that he would grow tired here very quickly, exhaust both his powers and himself, only to have it come to very little good.
But despite his lack of confidence, he was not one prone to giving up. With his quiet and respectful demeanour, it was easy for him to be perceived as weak-willed, effortlessly persuaded against any action. It really was quite the perfect cover for a person that was ultimately fairly stubborn. Whether he could be effective or not was beside the point; he had the chance, and that was all that anything mattered.
He would have told Porunga to relax, but that seemed like such a profoundly odd thing to say to a dragon that he thought better of it, and finally closed his eyes against the wound that had affronted them so. Not that this action necessarily helped much in that department; he could still feel the soft insides under his hands.
Willing himself to ignore that sensation, he took another deep breath, and called upon his healing aura.
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The pain had dulled somewhat, though it was very much still with him. Despite the fact that it was intense, Muuri actually felt better. That was the funny thing about pain; after one had experienced horrible levels of it, a normally bad level felt good.
He was cradled against the walls now, two villagers hovering over him and looking on in concern. Weakly, he tried to smile in reassurance, but only managed to make his lips twitch the slightest bit. It would have been nice to have been capable of giving them a little comfort, but his body was still not up to such a thing.
Muuri almost chuckled wryly. Here he had gone establishing a stronger link with himself and Porunga, and all that happened was that he got to share the dragon's pain. It wasn't funny in the traditional sense, but he had to admit that it was quite ironic.
Now he had to hope that it would not turn out to be fatal.
Oh, to be sure he was in no danger of dying himself. The shock of feeling Porunga's death would take a toll on his body, but they were still entirely separate beings. Despite the closer link that he had established, he could only share pain with the dragon, but not a demise. That was simply the way things worked, so that the Dragonballs would not have to die along with the dragon, so long as a replacement one was bound within a specific timeframe.
Not that Muuri wished for Porunga's death, or anything.
And it seemed that Porunga was not going to die, either. The fact that the pain in his own body had receded was ample evidence of that. Whatever wound the dragon had suffered, it was already set to healing. Muuri had no clue as to the recuperative powers of such a beast, but it did not strike him that they were so powerful as that. Something must have been helping the dragon along.
At this, Muuri did manage to smile. Only one scenario entered his mind, and he knew instinctively that it was the correct one.
"Dende . . ."
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Sweat beaded on his forehead in such streams that it felt like his insides were turning to liquid and leaking out through his face. His head felt light and dizzy, and though most of his sensation was gone, he had the distinct impression that he was swaying on his knees. In fact, the only parts of him that he knew were steady were his hands. They didn't waver or quiver like the rest of his body; they held firm, almost as if they were not attached to him.
And he almost would have believed this, too, were it not for the power coursing through him, drawn from his very centre. It felt warm as always, a gentle sensation that he actually wished was a bit more harsh; in his weakened state, the gentleness threatened to lull him to sleep, and he was nowhere near finishing his task. The patient beneath those steady hands of his was still very much in a critical state.
While layers of insides had knitted together, and the leaking blood had slowed its pooling upon the ground, the task was still far from complete. Healing a wound of this size . . . He had doubts again of his ability to do it worming through his mind, telling him to just give into his weariness, that he had tried his utmost and deserved a rest.
After all, where had believing in himself gotten? Porunga would not be in such a horrible state if he'd just made a few more intelligent moves in the recent past. He had concocted a foolish plan, and it had failed spectacularly. Now he faced the very real prospect that he could not atone for the damage that he caused.
Wearied, Dende let his healing aura drop and collapsed against the partially healed wound. He was careful to keep himself to the outside, so that he did not cover himself in blood and innards. Besides, it would aggravate the injury even more.
Breath came heavily out of his body, almost as though he had expelled his very self from his lungs. He was too tired to do anything more, now. Too tired, and too low on power. When he was needed the most, he could not perform the task. He was still too much a child, weak and dependent upon others. It would be years before he had any real strength, assuming that he got to live that long.
After all, even his hazy senses could detect the sounds of a battle still being waged above him.
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Where had this alien gotten his reserves from?
Whelk had to ponder this, even as he continued to fight. He ducked under a punch, then flew backward a little to evade the kick that followed it. And though he tried an attack of his own when the alien turned to make a strike at Limpet, there was still no success to be had.
It just didn't make any sense. Oh, this alien was powerful, yes – a ki perhaps a little higher than his own – but there was no way that the battle against it should have been as difficult as all this. Not with two other warriors aiding in the offensive. Some challenge was still to be expected, that was true, though not so much trouble as they were having.
And the alien's fighting style had changed. It had been largely controlled before, save for a few instances – such as the blast that had inflicted the terrible wound upon Porunga. Now, though . . . Now it was faster, wilder, as if the alien had reached into some previously untapped feral energy. The brutality of the strikes had increased many fold, and he did not quite know how to deal with it.
A surprise blow caught him at his collarbones, heinously powerful. So much so, in fact, that Whelk could no longer hold his position in the air. He went down in a straight line at least, and not in a spiral as had happened the last few times. And he was able to see both Limpet and Chiton fall soon after him.
Whelk grunted in more than pain as his body hit the ground; frustration had a hand in it as well. Three warriors, bested by just one . . . It was not an impossible thing, and it had worked in his people's favour earlier this day. But just because it was possible did not mean that it wasn't an embarrassment. They had to end this battle quickly, or it seemed that the alien would do that for them.
All that remained now was to figure out exactly how to do it.
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How interesting.
He was still in very much pain indeed, yet somehow it had lessened. There were many reasons for pain seeming to do that – one of them being excessive loss of blood, which he had no doubt suffered. But he knew that the sensations were not coming from that; he felt nothing of the light- headedness or dizziness associated with it.
No, this sensation came because the wound had been closing, had been healing. And while he would have liked to think that this was because of his own natural abilities, Porunga was not a fool. There was only one explanation, and it was the tiny, all but unnoticeable presence at his side.
He couldn't really see the Namek child now – he was such a small thing, easily missed – but Porunga could still feel his light touch near the wound that had torn open his side. Gone however, was the gentle, travelling warmth that had accompanied the boy. There was no flow of power.
But when that flow of power had been present . . .
A normal mortal blessed with that kind of gift was exceedingly rare. Porunga had seen Namek healers at work before, had sensed their powers. They were nothing really all that special, sometimes not being able to cure their peers ails all of the way. It was nothing that could have done a job upon a greater mortal, such as himself.
But this one, this most insignificant looking of children had managed the partial mending of a wound to one of his kind. It wasn't a drastic amount of healing by any means; Porunga would still die if he was not returned to his place of rest, considering the state in which he remained. It was, though, more than he could have imagined possible.
And if the boy had managed this much, then just maybe he could do a little more. For all of his amazing ability, Porunga held no illusions that he could fully heal the wound. Still, he may be able to ensure his survival. All he needed right now was a little bit of prodding.
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Battles, on the rare times that they came, had usually been sort of fun, with the occasional unfortunate exception. And this battle was one of those exceptions.
Battered and hunched over, Limpet imagined that he looked no better than the other two members of his triad. Were it not for the gravity of the situation, he might have laughed. All of them were warriors of widely varying power and skill – Whelk was the strongest, that strength usually enough to get him through his fights with relative ease; Chiton was the fastest and most calculating, in efforts to make up for his lack of power; and Limpet himself was not particularly good at anything, but was served well with his balanced abilities. All of this variation, and in the end they were reduced to the very same state.
He wondered for a second whether Chiton would appreciate the irony of this. Of course, he already knew that Whelk would not. Whelk never appreciated things like that.
Limpet glanced over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of their opponent. And catch one, he did; the alien was quite a few yards from them, also upon the ground. It was very apparent even at this distance that it was trying to catch its breath, in no better state than he and his comrades.
That was an encouraging sign, but who knew who would be able to recover first?
Whelk made it to his feet next, standing a little straighter than Limpet managed to do, and cast a baleful eye over to their opponent. And Chiton followed soon afterward, almost a replica in relative miniature. Yet another thing that melded them all closer than they had ever been before.
"I don't suppose that anyone has any ideas," Whelk said darkly, voice coming through his throat raw and scratchy.
It would have been time for something of a tart reply, be it from Limpet's own mouth or from Chiton's. That was their common thread, though Limpet's comments carried no undertone of bitterness and disgust; he went for the light hearted approach. But no one made a reply, not right away. There was a little time to spare and Limpet elected to take this time and do something that he normally did not do. A bit of heavy thinking.
There was a reason that Nameks typically fought in triads. Perhaps some other species might think of it as a dishonourable action, a cheat compared to a one on one battle. His people, however, failed to see things that way. Fighting in a triad fostered unity, a great sense of teamwork and timing, adjusting to the strengths and weaknesses of each of the partners. In many ways, it was an ideal manner in which to do battle.
But reality didn't always measure up to that high standard. Certainly here, though he and Whelk and Chiton had been fighting together, there was that solitary sensation. They were participating in the same battle at the same time, but they were still complete individuals, separate in technique. They were three warriors, rather than one whole, and perhaps that was just the problem.
"Perhaps it would be a time for a small change of tactics," Limpet said finally. Both of the others turned to look at him, frowning as though they could not conceive of him suggesting something relevant. "And I do have just the thing."
Whelk sighed, visibly relinquishing some part of himself, perhaps annoyance. "And that thing would be what?"
Limpet ignored the content of the tone and the stares; such things had never been any concern of his. "We're too separate. You know as well as I do why we fight in triads. I don't think that we've been doing it."
Consideration came upon Chiton's face; the frown he had adopted took on a less condescending edge. This was not really a surprising thing. Chiton always seemed to be analyzing people's speech. What was surprising was that he deigned to speak himself. "I believe that he may actually have a point. We've been paying too much attention to the moves of the enemy – including that fraction of which should be cast upon allies."
Limpet almost beamed at this, and the understanding that came over Whelk's face as well. Though most people tended not to listen to him, he knew that he had gotten through here. Logic was logic, after all no matter from whose mouth it came.
"Then we know what to change."
This was all that Whelk said, before gliding over to the ground, toward their opponent. Limpet read his posture, his pace, knowing that beside him Chiton was doing the same thing. And with this reading, Limpet could see the intent behind the manoeuvre; he made a move of his own to match it.
They had been separate yes, put so by some mutual annoyance and dislike. The way that things had been earlier . . . Well, they hadn't worked together properly because deep down they hadn't wanted to, could not fully put aside those differences. But Limpet could sense it; now they were a whole, a single entity built for battle. One warrior, as it were, split into three separate bodies yet still bonded with one another where it counted.
It was the Namekian way to fight.
CHAPTER TWENTY: Mended Rifts
When some creature was considered to be a deity, the fact that it could be harmed was forgotten by a great many people. Weren't deities, after all, supposed to be invincible, at least to the actions of normal mortal beings? It was a concept that was common, instinctive even, to the people that followed it.
But what was often overlooked was that dragons were mortal beings as well. Their abilities greatly dwarfed that of most others, that was very true. And yes, their lifespans would make even the longest lived Namek seem like a mere infant in comparison. Despite the level of honour that the Nameks now bestowed upon the creatures known as dragons, things had not always been in such a way. Long ago, according to a history that was either lost or held secret by the elders, Namekian sorcerers had attached the spirit of a dragon to a set of seven balls, binding it so that their will could come about.
So much for invincibility.
Thus trapped, the dragon's powers became more limited; it became more vulnerable to creatures that it could have crushed with ease had it been free. The dragon could be harmed now, by these lesser beings. Killed even, should a mortal have been powerful enough.
This dragon, however, was not dead. The strike that had sent it to the ground was not strong enough to wrench its life away, at least not for now. At this moment it was wounded, bleeding, though nothing more than that. Any more than that would not be needed, were things to continue as they were. If the dragon went back to its slumber, the wound would heal in its own time, would be an inconvenience rather than a threat to life. But its chains, those balls, held it here until it expended its power for the wishes of others.
However much the dragon wished for it to be otherwise, he could do nothing to help himself. And he was not so foolish as to think that any lesser mortal would even come to his aid – those selfish creatures – much less actually be capable of helping him at all . . .
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Even Basalt was stunned at his own actions.
He had intended for that blast to wipe out those three irritating Nameks who were giving him such a difficult time in this battle. Instead of that, he had missed all of them and his attack had instead caught the body of the great beast that had sprung up in violent bursts from the Dragonballs.
The beast's roar of pain had drowned out any other sound that there might possibly have been – for miles, even, as far as he knew. Quite honestly, he would not have been surprised in the least if that were indeed the case.
He could almost feel the ground shake as the beast's falling body came into contact with it, despite the fact that he was in the air. The tremors were just that powerful, rocking both earth and sky alike. They took what seemed like ages to dilute into nothingness, though he still heard a faint rumbling in his ears.
And after another age, that dwindled to nothing as well. Silence took hold over the area, almost frightening in contrast to the noise that it replaced. Not even the barest breeze sprung up, as if even the air itself could only mourn without sound. The black sky around him felt heavier now, like a giant funeral shroud only waiting for the life to finish bleeding out of the body before it swooped down to cover it.
Not that things had been going well for him anyway, but this hurt his chances even more of wishing for the power to obliterate that glass ceiling that he'd been victim to for his entire life. He had no recourse now, and if what the first Namek had said was indeed true, and that the ship had been destroyed – and all things considered, he did not doubt this one bit – then he was trapped here. Trapped here with nothing but hostile locals and absent of the ability, of the power, to subdue them all.
In short, he had nothing left.
Some strange feeling inside of him, one that he was sure he had never experienced before, began to eat away at him. To be stuck on this world, to be at the absolute mercy of its locals . . . It was something that he refused to accept, regardless of whether or not he could do anything about it.
Curse those superiors of his, for surely they had cursed him. He had been sent to this place when his rotation was supposed to be over, when he would have a few months of leave to remain on a single planet. And there, somehow, he would have found a way to advance. But they did not want him to advance; it would have been an affront to all of their old-power races. They had sent him here to die.
So be it, then. He had no control over their actions, but he did have control over his own. Perhaps he truly would die on this unknown, technologically forsaken rock. But he would not go down without a fight and he would not be the only one here put to death.
Furtively, he glanced around at the three Nameks. All of them were still staring in shock at the fallen beast, and had likely forgotten that he was even there. So much the better.
Without another thought or any warning, Basalt launched himself at the closest one.
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He was not quite sure just when the ground stopped shaking, for his body continued to do so without any outside help. Though his eyes had been closed since that brilliant flash of white light, he had still seen what its effects were. It was difficult to miss the sight of a creature the size of Porunga falling to the ground, eyes open or otherwise.
Nonetheless, Dende finally took his hands away from his ears and nervously raised his head. He gasped and shuffled backward at what he saw. Most would have broken into a full-out run at this point, but Dende's typical reaction to being frightened was to freeze, and that was just what he did now.
For he was looking straight into the enormous red eyes of Porunga himself. Each one of them was at least three times as large as he was tall, and held no pupils within their depths. To look into them was to look into a bright, unending sea of pure red, intense enough to fully drown an onlooker.
It was difficult to notice other features upon him, for the eyes commanded such an incredible presence, but Dende eventually made them out. The flat yellow of the dragon's front, the scales that coated his body in a brilliant armour of green, the fin like extensions attached to the backs of his muscular arms . . . It was an awe-inspiring view at any distance, any angle, but especially so when upon the same level and less than two metres away. The world around him seemed to disappear, and anything that occurred did so within and around the dragon.
How Dende regained his composure, he did not know, but it came to him what he could only surmise was a few minutes later. As amazing as the sight before him was, it was only here because of a vile action; it marred any true beauty that might have been present.
There was a wound. Somewhere on this immense body there was a wound that was causing it a pain most terrible. On instinct, Dende hurried along its expanse, barely noticing the wobble that still ailed his left leg. It was the first thing that had come to his mind once he had gained control of it. He had a duty to perform here, one that he had been born to, for even Saichourou had been unable to draw out a person's power if the person never had it in the first place. The gift was powerful within him, and though he had long since grown comfortable with it, he had feared it upon its awakening. Perhaps he could do something to help.
And if he couldn't . . . Well then what kind of a healer was he, anyway?
Traversing the body took time, as Dende had known it would. Above him, not far away, the battle continued, its hiatus brief and clearly finished. Despite a wounded dragon sprawled over the ground, life and the world went on.
Dende stopped short upon finding the injury, and an ill, tingling sensation swept through his stomach. He covered his mouth with his hands, and as much as even he wanted to close his eyes at this sight – it was not, after all, as if he had never seen serious injuries before – they would not respond to the silent order that he gave them. Rather, they contradicted it entirely, and opened even wider.
A chunk was torn out of Porunga's side, almost half the breadth of his narrowing torso. Smoke still rose from the blackened edges, discernable not by sight but by smell; that of burnt flesh wafted into his nose. While the wound had been partially cauterized around these edges, the more central parts of the injury were as fresh as lake water. Blood, as red as the eyes long since passed by leaked through here, staining and discolouring the ground into a sickly hue.
And Dende imagined that this hue probably matched the one that his skin had taken on at this dreadful scene. His stomach lurched, and his throat was working, but somehow he avoided succumbing to the urge for a dry heave. No time for such things, now. He was a healer and had a job to do.
With a final quivering breath, Dende took his hands away from his mouth and stepped closer to Porunga's side. He was tentative at first, but he placed one hand and then the other just inside the edges of the wound. To his surprise, the dragon shuddered under his light touch and he stood still a second, waiting for it to subside.
There were eyes on him suddenly; he could sense that much without looking. But some part of him could not resist a peek, and he slowly turned his head to one side. For the second time in a few moments, he was staring straight into the eyes of Porunga. With only that flat redness, it was difficult to read any expression within them at all. In fact, Dende had only ever known his mood from speech patterns and tone of voice and he doubted that he would have either of those to work with right now.
What are you doing, young one?
Dende started at the voice in his head. It was unmistakably that of Porunga, but the booming echoes were greatly lessened if not completely absent. While it was not really a surprising thing that a dragon was capable of telepathy, he would have never expected one to speak to him in such a manner. He wasn't quite certain whether he should be honoured or afraid. Regardless of that, the tone only served to increase his already great discomfort.
You're wounded, he replied mentally. He had little talent for telepathy, but could use it if the one with whom he was communicating began the connection. I want to help you.
He was sure that he picked up a note of smug disbelief on Porunga's part, but other than that, the dragon gave him no reply. Why would he give such a reaction? Was it because he doubted Dende's ability or his intentions? It was a vexing question, and one that Dende desperately wanted an answer for, but he could not bring himself to ask one. It just sounded too rude, too forward. And, he was willing to admit, he was afraid of what the answer might be.
For his own part, Dende doubted his ability. The first injuries that he had ever treated had been dire ones, to be sure – but for obvious reasons none of them had ever been this large. It would be easy to think that he would grow tired here very quickly, exhaust both his powers and himself, only to have it come to very little good.
But despite his lack of confidence, he was not one prone to giving up. With his quiet and respectful demeanour, it was easy for him to be perceived as weak-willed, effortlessly persuaded against any action. It really was quite the perfect cover for a person that was ultimately fairly stubborn. Whether he could be effective or not was beside the point; he had the chance, and that was all that anything mattered.
He would have told Porunga to relax, but that seemed like such a profoundly odd thing to say to a dragon that he thought better of it, and finally closed his eyes against the wound that had affronted them so. Not that this action necessarily helped much in that department; he could still feel the soft insides under his hands.
Willing himself to ignore that sensation, he took another deep breath, and called upon his healing aura.
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The pain had dulled somewhat, though it was very much still with him. Despite the fact that it was intense, Muuri actually felt better. That was the funny thing about pain; after one had experienced horrible levels of it, a normally bad level felt good.
He was cradled against the walls now, two villagers hovering over him and looking on in concern. Weakly, he tried to smile in reassurance, but only managed to make his lips twitch the slightest bit. It would have been nice to have been capable of giving them a little comfort, but his body was still not up to such a thing.
Muuri almost chuckled wryly. Here he had gone establishing a stronger link with himself and Porunga, and all that happened was that he got to share the dragon's pain. It wasn't funny in the traditional sense, but he had to admit that it was quite ironic.
Now he had to hope that it would not turn out to be fatal.
Oh, to be sure he was in no danger of dying himself. The shock of feeling Porunga's death would take a toll on his body, but they were still entirely separate beings. Despite the closer link that he had established, he could only share pain with the dragon, but not a demise. That was simply the way things worked, so that the Dragonballs would not have to die along with the dragon, so long as a replacement one was bound within a specific timeframe.
Not that Muuri wished for Porunga's death, or anything.
And it seemed that Porunga was not going to die, either. The fact that the pain in his own body had receded was ample evidence of that. Whatever wound the dragon had suffered, it was already set to healing. Muuri had no clue as to the recuperative powers of such a beast, but it did not strike him that they were so powerful as that. Something must have been helping the dragon along.
At this, Muuri did manage to smile. Only one scenario entered his mind, and he knew instinctively that it was the correct one.
"Dende . . ."
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Sweat beaded on his forehead in such streams that it felt like his insides were turning to liquid and leaking out through his face. His head felt light and dizzy, and though most of his sensation was gone, he had the distinct impression that he was swaying on his knees. In fact, the only parts of him that he knew were steady were his hands. They didn't waver or quiver like the rest of his body; they held firm, almost as if they were not attached to him.
And he almost would have believed this, too, were it not for the power coursing through him, drawn from his very centre. It felt warm as always, a gentle sensation that he actually wished was a bit more harsh; in his weakened state, the gentleness threatened to lull him to sleep, and he was nowhere near finishing his task. The patient beneath those steady hands of his was still very much in a critical state.
While layers of insides had knitted together, and the leaking blood had slowed its pooling upon the ground, the task was still far from complete. Healing a wound of this size . . . He had doubts again of his ability to do it worming through his mind, telling him to just give into his weariness, that he had tried his utmost and deserved a rest.
After all, where had believing in himself gotten? Porunga would not be in such a horrible state if he'd just made a few more intelligent moves in the recent past. He had concocted a foolish plan, and it had failed spectacularly. Now he faced the very real prospect that he could not atone for the damage that he caused.
Wearied, Dende let his healing aura drop and collapsed against the partially healed wound. He was careful to keep himself to the outside, so that he did not cover himself in blood and innards. Besides, it would aggravate the injury even more.
Breath came heavily out of his body, almost as though he had expelled his very self from his lungs. He was too tired to do anything more, now. Too tired, and too low on power. When he was needed the most, he could not perform the task. He was still too much a child, weak and dependent upon others. It would be years before he had any real strength, assuming that he got to live that long.
After all, even his hazy senses could detect the sounds of a battle still being waged above him.
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Where had this alien gotten his reserves from?
Whelk had to ponder this, even as he continued to fight. He ducked under a punch, then flew backward a little to evade the kick that followed it. And though he tried an attack of his own when the alien turned to make a strike at Limpet, there was still no success to be had.
It just didn't make any sense. Oh, this alien was powerful, yes – a ki perhaps a little higher than his own – but there was no way that the battle against it should have been as difficult as all this. Not with two other warriors aiding in the offensive. Some challenge was still to be expected, that was true, though not so much trouble as they were having.
And the alien's fighting style had changed. It had been largely controlled before, save for a few instances – such as the blast that had inflicted the terrible wound upon Porunga. Now, though . . . Now it was faster, wilder, as if the alien had reached into some previously untapped feral energy. The brutality of the strikes had increased many fold, and he did not quite know how to deal with it.
A surprise blow caught him at his collarbones, heinously powerful. So much so, in fact, that Whelk could no longer hold his position in the air. He went down in a straight line at least, and not in a spiral as had happened the last few times. And he was able to see both Limpet and Chiton fall soon after him.
Whelk grunted in more than pain as his body hit the ground; frustration had a hand in it as well. Three warriors, bested by just one . . . It was not an impossible thing, and it had worked in his people's favour earlier this day. But just because it was possible did not mean that it wasn't an embarrassment. They had to end this battle quickly, or it seemed that the alien would do that for them.
All that remained now was to figure out exactly how to do it.
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How interesting.
He was still in very much pain indeed, yet somehow it had lessened. There were many reasons for pain seeming to do that – one of them being excessive loss of blood, which he had no doubt suffered. But he knew that the sensations were not coming from that; he felt nothing of the light- headedness or dizziness associated with it.
No, this sensation came because the wound had been closing, had been healing. And while he would have liked to think that this was because of his own natural abilities, Porunga was not a fool. There was only one explanation, and it was the tiny, all but unnoticeable presence at his side.
He couldn't really see the Namek child now – he was such a small thing, easily missed – but Porunga could still feel his light touch near the wound that had torn open his side. Gone however, was the gentle, travelling warmth that had accompanied the boy. There was no flow of power.
But when that flow of power had been present . . .
A normal mortal blessed with that kind of gift was exceedingly rare. Porunga had seen Namek healers at work before, had sensed their powers. They were nothing really all that special, sometimes not being able to cure their peers ails all of the way. It was nothing that could have done a job upon a greater mortal, such as himself.
But this one, this most insignificant looking of children had managed the partial mending of a wound to one of his kind. It wasn't a drastic amount of healing by any means; Porunga would still die if he was not returned to his place of rest, considering the state in which he remained. It was, though, more than he could have imagined possible.
And if the boy had managed this much, then just maybe he could do a little more. For all of his amazing ability, Porunga held no illusions that he could fully heal the wound. Still, he may be able to ensure his survival. All he needed right now was a little bit of prodding.
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Battles, on the rare times that they came, had usually been sort of fun, with the occasional unfortunate exception. And this battle was one of those exceptions.
Battered and hunched over, Limpet imagined that he looked no better than the other two members of his triad. Were it not for the gravity of the situation, he might have laughed. All of them were warriors of widely varying power and skill – Whelk was the strongest, that strength usually enough to get him through his fights with relative ease; Chiton was the fastest and most calculating, in efforts to make up for his lack of power; and Limpet himself was not particularly good at anything, but was served well with his balanced abilities. All of this variation, and in the end they were reduced to the very same state.
He wondered for a second whether Chiton would appreciate the irony of this. Of course, he already knew that Whelk would not. Whelk never appreciated things like that.
Limpet glanced over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of their opponent. And catch one, he did; the alien was quite a few yards from them, also upon the ground. It was very apparent even at this distance that it was trying to catch its breath, in no better state than he and his comrades.
That was an encouraging sign, but who knew who would be able to recover first?
Whelk made it to his feet next, standing a little straighter than Limpet managed to do, and cast a baleful eye over to their opponent. And Chiton followed soon afterward, almost a replica in relative miniature. Yet another thing that melded them all closer than they had ever been before.
"I don't suppose that anyone has any ideas," Whelk said darkly, voice coming through his throat raw and scratchy.
It would have been time for something of a tart reply, be it from Limpet's own mouth or from Chiton's. That was their common thread, though Limpet's comments carried no undertone of bitterness and disgust; he went for the light hearted approach. But no one made a reply, not right away. There was a little time to spare and Limpet elected to take this time and do something that he normally did not do. A bit of heavy thinking.
There was a reason that Nameks typically fought in triads. Perhaps some other species might think of it as a dishonourable action, a cheat compared to a one on one battle. His people, however, failed to see things that way. Fighting in a triad fostered unity, a great sense of teamwork and timing, adjusting to the strengths and weaknesses of each of the partners. In many ways, it was an ideal manner in which to do battle.
But reality didn't always measure up to that high standard. Certainly here, though he and Whelk and Chiton had been fighting together, there was that solitary sensation. They were participating in the same battle at the same time, but they were still complete individuals, separate in technique. They were three warriors, rather than one whole, and perhaps that was just the problem.
"Perhaps it would be a time for a small change of tactics," Limpet said finally. Both of the others turned to look at him, frowning as though they could not conceive of him suggesting something relevant. "And I do have just the thing."
Whelk sighed, visibly relinquishing some part of himself, perhaps annoyance. "And that thing would be what?"
Limpet ignored the content of the tone and the stares; such things had never been any concern of his. "We're too separate. You know as well as I do why we fight in triads. I don't think that we've been doing it."
Consideration came upon Chiton's face; the frown he had adopted took on a less condescending edge. This was not really a surprising thing. Chiton always seemed to be analyzing people's speech. What was surprising was that he deigned to speak himself. "I believe that he may actually have a point. We've been paying too much attention to the moves of the enemy – including that fraction of which should be cast upon allies."
Limpet almost beamed at this, and the understanding that came over Whelk's face as well. Though most people tended not to listen to him, he knew that he had gotten through here. Logic was logic, after all no matter from whose mouth it came.
"Then we know what to change."
This was all that Whelk said, before gliding over to the ground, toward their opponent. Limpet read his posture, his pace, knowing that beside him Chiton was doing the same thing. And with this reading, Limpet could see the intent behind the manoeuvre; he made a move of his own to match it.
They had been separate yes, put so by some mutual annoyance and dislike. The way that things had been earlier . . . Well, they hadn't worked together properly because deep down they hadn't wanted to, could not fully put aside those differences. But Limpet could sense it; now they were a whole, a single entity built for battle. One warrior, as it were, split into three separate bodies yet still bonded with one another where it counted.
It was the Namekian way to fight.