Chapter Fifteen
Fears Old and New
Sagan was still panting, barely able to lift his head. Marci ruffled the fur about his head, whistling softly to calm him.
They had run for the rest of the evening and well into the night, reaching the other side of the Broken Peaks before stopping. Marci had steered the tiring lunar tiger towards the closest shelter she could see. Now, they watched and waited within one the high vertical fissures which gave the Broken Peaks their name.
Mirana had not moved from the entrance since they had arrived. She had been standing there for over an hour, an arrow nocked, praying quietly. Davion had yet to sheath his sword. He hadn't realised it at the time, but Kaden had badly damaged the weapon. It wasn't so much notched as it was gouged. It was a good thing he had not blocked with the flat, otherwise the sword would have snapped in half.
He was going to have to replace it. The warsword was unlikely to survive its next fight. He had actually grown fond of it, though he wasn't sure if this was because it had proven to be a reliable weapon, or if it was simply because Marci had bought it for him.
Marci had noticed Davion's expression, forlorn and sad. When he looked her in the eye, she knew what he was feeling. She knew what it was like to have an old life torn away forever.
Marci left Sagan to rest and approached Davion. He was trying to hide it, but there were tears in his dark eyes.
He did not regret attacking Kaden to save her life, she knew that. He had been a distant friend for Davion. He had paid a different price where Kaden was concerned. He was a disgraced Dragon Knight now, an exile just like her and Mirana.
Marci put her arms around him. Davion remained mostly composed, he had made at least one choice with his eyes open and no regrets. Even so, Marci felt a tear fade into her hair as she held him. She did not need to say that she was both sorry and grateful. He knew.
Mirana was impatient and anxious, but she at least waited until Davion was calmer. 'Davion? Do you know what that thing was?'
Davion sighed and leaned against the wall, then slid down it. Marci sat next to him, hugging her knees to her chest. 'I've only heard rumours. He's an Eldwurm named Vylgranox, and he's not supposed to exist.'
'Yet he showed up to kill you.' Mirana stated needlessly.
Davion leaned his head against the cold stone. 'There are eight known Eldwurms, each representing an elemental or fundamental power. Slyrak—the one who bound himself to me—was the Ember Eldwurm, the embodiment of fire, one of the elemental powers. Then there are Eldwurms like Indrak: the Eldwurm of lightning, a fundamental dragon.' He paused to consider what he knew. 'Vylgranox is not one of the eight. The other Eldwurms see him as an outsider, an aberration, which is why they call him the "Outcast".'
'If he isn't one of them, what does he represent?'
'Nothing.' Davion shrugged.
'What about that... whatever it was he did to those men?' Mirana actually shuddered at the memory of the unfortunate Dragon Knights melting away. They all did. Even Sagan grunted with agitation.
'I don't think that was his power. I think that's just something he can do naturally, like a man spitting.' Davion ran a hand through his hair. 'But the stories I heard said that Vylgranox has the ability to diminish the powers of the other Eldwurms.
You saw what he did to Kaden. Kaden's armour is imbued with the power of the dragons he has slain. That's how he could lift his sword. It takes two squires to carry that blade, yet he can swing it with barely any effort. But Vylgranox made his armour useless. If I was to change and let Slyrak take control, he would probably stop him from breathing fire or sealing his wounds.'
'If he's so powerful, why did he retreat?'
'I'm not sure.' Davion frowned. 'But in all my time with the Dragon Knights, I have never seen any dragons like him before. The other Eldwurms all have lesser dragons similar in form to them. They're soulless avatars. Whenever an Eldwurm's body dies, its soul migrates to another suitable dragon. I don't think that Vylgranox has any avatars to use.'
'Why?'
Davion shrugged again, still frowning. 'I remember reading a story saying that the other Eldwurms destroyed the avatars of another dragon, an exile who they despised.'
Marci made a series of gestures at Mirana, supplementing her signs with whistles.
Mirana nodded. 'Maybe.'
Davion looked lost. Marci signed a little more slowly, but he was only able to pick out a few fragments of her meaning. He still had a great deal to learn. 'You're saying that... they feel... sorry, I don't understand.'
'Marci's saying that maybe the other Eldwurms killed Vylgranox's avatars out of fear. He can negate their powers. I've heard that the Eldwurms are proud creatures. The thought of losing power can scare anybody who possesses even an iota of it.'
Marci signed at Davion again, her expression hopeful.
Davion understood this time. 'No. He's still immortal, or at the very least he'll live a hell of a lot longer than we will.'
'But if he dies, he won't return.' Mirana surmised. 'That's why he fled when he was injured.' She frowned. 'Davion, you said that Eldwurms reincarnate when they die. Why did Slyrak fuse his soul to yours?'
'I don't know.' Davion murmured. 'Maybe the Dragon Knights killed too many of his avatars. Kaden hated Slyrak. The standing orders for us were to kill red dragons on sight, regardless of age or the potential danger. Now I know why.'
Marci tapped his arm and signed again. Mirana translated instinctively. 'Or perhaps Slyrak was afraid of something else. Whatever he did, he must have had a reason for it.'
'Well, he's not sharing it with me.' Davion scratched at the stubble on his chin. It was starting to lengthen into a beard now. 'I can see bits of his thoughts and memories when he takes over, but I still can't figure out why he chose to do this to me.'
'How long until Vylgranox recovers?'
'I don't know.'
'Can he find us again?'
'He can probably find me.' Davion corrected heavily. 'Look, I promised to help you and I will. But if you want me to go, I will go.'
Marci shook her head, her expression one of determination.
'No, Davion.' Mirana said firmly. 'I meant what I said. We're in this together now.' She looked significantly at Marci, who nodded in response. 'Which means that it's time for you to know the truth. It's time for you to know why Marci and I are so far away from the Nightsilver Woods.'
'If you're sure you want to tell me.'
'We must. It's only fair.'
With that, Mirana proceeded to tell him how she and Marci were part of the Dark Moon Order, how several of Selemene's sacred lotuses had been stolen under their noses—poor Marci flushed with embarrassment and looked down at her feet, even when Mirana assured her that she was not to blame—and how Selemene had charged them with finding the thief and the lotuses.
'We were in Barreltown because we heard that the lotuses might have been found by a man who specialised in finding rare artefacts. He also specialised in stealing them.'
'That was the elf who I saved, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' Mirana muttered. 'Though it might have been better if you hadn't. He actually wanted to lure us into a trap.'
'Something tells me that he failed.'
Mirana indicated Marci. 'Badly.'
Marci lifted her hand and made a show of curling it into a fist.
'Ah.' Davion understood. 'Remind me never to get on your bad side.'
Marci smirked. As if he could!
'Why would somebody steal sacred lotuses?' Davion asked. 'Forgive me. I don't know much about Selemene.'
Mirana considered her response. 'Some people believe that Selemene is a usurper. She deposed Mene as a goddess. She had Her reasons, but some still want to bring Mene back. The lotuses are part of that plan. They used to belong to Mene, and they still contain Her power. As for how they would be used, I don't know.'
'And what happens if Mene returns?'
'Have you heard of the Dark Moon?'
'Just stories. They weren't happy ones.'
'Rightly so. Selemene told me that if Mene returns, She will exact terrible vengeance upon those who turned from Her. That's most of the world, Davion. Only a scant few still worship Mene.' Mirana answered gravely. 'If She returns, She will cast the Dark Moon across the sky and plunge the world into darkness—a darkness She will only lift when the world worships Her again, or when all of Her enemies are dead.'
Davion grimaced. 'She's not one for half-measures then.'
'She's angry, Davion. I can understand that. But that doesn't mean that I won't stop Her.'
'Wait,' Davion frowned. 'You've actually spoken with Selemene? In person?'
Mirana sighed. 'I was the Princess of the Moon, Davion. I was Her...' she tried to find the right word, 'some would call me Her consort.'
Davion raised his eyebrows.
'I know what you're thinking.' Mirana rolled her eyes. 'Don't ask.'
'Fine. But I can imagine.'
Marci nudged him, looking distinctly nettled.
'I'm joking, Marci.' Davion told her. 'I'm not going to get between a goddess and her consort. I like living.'
'Selemene's not like that, Davion.' Mirana stated.
'I hope so. If we manage to retrieve these lotuses of yours, would there be any room in your Order for a disgraced Dragon Knight? Whatever happens, I doubt I'm going to be welcome back amongst my brothers.'
Marci looked up hopefully at Mirana and nodded eagerly.
Mirana huffed. 'Maybe. It isn't up to me.' She shrugged. 'But, I suppose Selemene might be grateful to you for helping us.' She frowned at Davion, wondering. 'Don't you have anywhere else to go?'
'No.' The single word was heavy, and Marci knew with that single utterance that he was not so different from her in one way: he knew what it was like to lose everything.
'You mentioned a farm.' Mirana recalled.
'There was a farm.' Davion nodded, not looking at her but rather at the wall, his eyes unfocused. 'It was... a long way from here, a long time ago.'
Noticing his tone, Mirana spoke more softly when she asked, 'What happened?'
'Dragons.'
'Oh.'
'My story is one dozens of Dragon Knights share. Many of us are orphans, our homes destroyed by dragons.'
Marci reached over and put her arm across his shoulders. When he looked round at her, he read a similar pain in her eyes, the same sadness on her face.
'I can't imagine how hard this must be for you, Davion.' Mirana said, her voice gentle and quiet. 'Marci and I have... we've also lost a great deal. We too have had to abandon our old lives. But you have been forced to harbour the soul of something you swore to destroy, and it's cost you dearly.'
'Then let's hope that this sage of yours can rid me of it.' Davion muttered. 'I want you both to promise me one thing: if I lose control, if he takes over and there's no way to bring me back, put an end to it. I don't care what you have to do, just end it.'
Marci reached over with her other hand and squeezed his arm. She shook her head, and he could tell that she had gone into her stubborn mindset once more.
'Fine,' he tried to smile for her sake. 'Just punch Slyrak into submission then.'
Marci half-smiled grimly. She would do just that if she had to.
Fymryn carefully disentangled herself from Dyfed's arms. She had to keep her mind away from him, try to ignore the fact that she might never see him again. If she dwelt on it for even a moment, she would break down and her resolve would fade away.
Tears prickled in her eyes as she dressed quietly and quickly. She kept telling herself that if she did this, Mene would return and their homelands would be theirs once more. The sooner she fulfilled the will of the true goddess, the sooner she would be back with Dyfed.
How long would it take her to find the priestess of Selemene and her allies? Would they try to kill her on sight? The auburn-haired handmaiden would probably recognise her, and she had come very close to running Fymryn down with a lunar tiger.
Mene had need of her. She would have to work something out. If it was a long journey, she would have plenty of time to think.
Fymryn hesitated as she finished tying the sash around her waist. Dyfed looked so content and peaceful. What would he do when he woke to find her gone?
Fymryn decided to risk one last kiss. She leaned down, pressed her lips to Dyfed's temple and whispered, 'Goodbye.'
Fymryn tore herself away before she could have second thoughts. She gathered up some supplies, leaving enough for her friends to return to the village, and used some of the rare ink they had to write a message on a stone close to where they had hobbled their horses—also a valuable commodity amongst her people. She told them that she had to leave, and that they should not look for her, that she would return home soon.
How soon was soon?
Fymryn sighed and climbed into the saddle. The sooner she got started, the sooner she would be done. Simple as that.
She guided the horse away from their makeshift camp, then clucked him into a canter.
Mene had need of her. When She returned, She would give her people a better world.
She dashed away her tears as she rode, telling herself over and over and over that she would see them again.
Lina glanced out at the people strolling around the park from under her hood, the sunlight filtering between her eyelashes.
These people were all from various High Houses, many of them had relatives in the Senate and other positions of power. They all seemed so happy, so carefree. Lina could not understand how they could shut out the rest of the world, or even just the rest of Rasolir for that matter.
How could these people carry on so easily when the rest of the city, and the rest of the Imperium, suffered from the neglect of a tyrant who had no right to the throne he sat upon?
'You should put your hood down, Lina.'
Lina looked up to see Gavenus standing there, his hair more white than grey in the sunlight.
'You're not worried about me being recognised?'
'It's the middle of a gloriously sunny day in Rasolir, yet here you are with your hood up.' Gavenus said, smiling. 'That's a little odd, don't you think?'
Lina saw his point. She pulled her hood back, letting her distinctive fiery hair spill out around her collar. 'They'll recognise me.'
'They'll recognise you anyway. You're a memorable person.'
'Flatterer.'
'I only speak the truth, dear Lina.' Gavenus waited for her to stand. Her legs felt stiff after sitting on the bench for so long. 'It makes a nice change from having to lie.'
'That's the price we pay.'
'Yes, indeed.' Gavenus fell into step with her. 'But one day, we shall all be able to speak truthfully again.'
'It's a risk meeting like this.'
'No more so than having many people meeting in a big house after dark. The curfews may not be in force now, but it is still a risk.' Gavenus countered. 'This is safer. Most of the city knows that we are friends. That is how the guards and Janulus' spies will see us now: friends taking a stroll, having a nice chat about nothing which need concern them.'
'You think we're being watched?'
'My dear Lina, I know we are being watched.' Gavenus chuckled. 'I am a Senator. Every Senator is watched for even the slightest whiff of treason. And you are from a recently annexed province. Many of your people are angry about having to live under the rule of an incompetent tyrant just because he has more money and a larger army. And of course, you have a power few understand. Why else would you have been asked to come here? Shabarra wants to keep an eye on you.'
'Some figurehead I will be.'
'Indeed.' Gavenus ignored the sarcasm. 'A figurehead can hardly be an unknown.'
'I'm a risk to all of you.'
'We are all a risk to each other. That is the nature of this game.'
'I don't see this as a game.'
'A poor choice of words, I admit.' Gavenus said placatingly. They were now walking around one of the ornamental fish ponds, or what had been a fish pond. Shabarra didn't like fish, so he'd had them removed and fed to his hounds. Rumours spoke of other things being fed to those dogs, including dissenters and traitors.
Gavenus came to a halt, gazing down at the mosaic under the clear rippling water. It depicted the sun, a single figure within with its arms outstretched as if to embrace the city below it. 'The ruler of the Imperium is supposed to be a protector and a guide. Shabarra is anything but.'
Lina carefully glanced around from under her lashes. They were alone, but Janulus' spies were canny and appeared when you least expected them. Sometimes she expected to see them lurking in hedges and trees, ears open for a whisper of dissent, eyes seeking a hint of treachery.
Shabarra saw dissent and treachery everywhere, and so did his pet spies. His informers had to earn their keep somehow. What did it matter to Shabarra and his crooked judges that many of the people they had killed were probably innocent?
There had been new heads atop the spiked gate that morning. Lina recognised none of them, but she could not help but wonder who did. How many people were mourning the loss of their friends today? How many families? Fewer of the latter, she thought, because Shabarra was in the habit of condemning entire families to death if one member was found guilty.
Kashurra had told her what Shabarra had done to one particular family. The usurper's dogs had eaten well that night.
Lina shuddered at the thought. Shabarra was a monster, and it was taking all of her restraint to resist the urge to run up to the palace and set it ablaze. Immolation would be too kind a fate for that man.
Though she had obviously not lost anybody during the coup, having been in Misrule at the time, she had lost many good countrymen to Shabarra's whims and paranoia. Perhaps Misrule would always be a part of the Imperium now. It had never been much good at standing on its own feet. But if that was to be its fate, then Lina would try to make sure that it served a good master rather than a deluded tyrant.
'What do you know of the legends of the Imperium, Lina?'
'Only a little.'
'Then hear a little more, lest it be forgotten. They say that the Imperium was founded by a man blessed by the gods. As long as he ruled wisely and fairly, his kingdom would be forever blessed. It would be a shining beacon of hope and prosperity, golden like the sun.' Gavenus sighed. 'Every Emperor and Empress is said to be descended from that blessed man. In each it is said that there rested a spark of divinity.'
'Is that why Shabarra calls himself "God Emperor"?'
'Yes, though I'm sure the gods would rather we be humble than proud.' Gavenus muttered.
Lina snorted. 'Nothing reeks of insecurity more than proclaiming yourself to be a god.'
Gavenus chuckled. 'Indeed, dear Lina. You are quite right. But perhaps one day, we shall have somebody worthy of such a title to lead us.'
Lina glanced around again. Even unobserved, they dared not mention Princess Mirana. The whole world had been told that she was dead, and the world had to continue believing that for the time being. The people outside of the Imperium had long forgotten who she was, even though the coup had only occurred six years ago.
That was probably the only reason she was still alive. She had to remain forgotten, until the time was right.
It was up to her, Gavenus, Kashurra and their fellow conspirators to ensure that there was a right time.
'What is our next move?' Lina whispered.
Gavenus inhaled deeply as he stared at the mosaic. 'We pave the way, dear Lina. We lay the foundations for the road ahead. Kashurra believes that the people will be our army. Our role is to prepare them for the war to come. Yours will be to lead them.'
'That I will do, whether it be to victory or defeat.' Lina vowed. 'I would rather die fighting for freedom than live under the boot of a despot.'
'And that is why they will follow you, Lina. You will light the fire, and they will keep it burning, and a new, better Imperium will rise from the ashes.'
Lina laughed. 'You've become very poetic in your old age, Senator.'
Gavenus smiled. 'I read, dear Lina, and the long years have given me much time to indulge my poetic side. Come now, let us pretend to be out for nothing more than a stroll, and then we can get back to rolling dice in the grand game of fate.'
'You're doing it again, Senator.'
'Old hounds have no time for new lessons.'
The sandals felt thin against her small feet. She would need to make another pair soon. They always wore out so quickly.
"Always in a hurry." That was what her parents said. "Always running to the next fight." That was what her brothers said.
Marci trotted around the marketplace, her gritty hair as tangled as ever. Her knuckles were still sore from the last fight.
She had long since given up on trying to make friends of those she protected. They respected her, but they were also scared of her. That stranger had been right. Her strength frightened them. Even her parents and brothers were agitated by it.
She was all skin and bone, a tiny little thing of eight years clad in tattered sackcloth, yet she could lift a sack of flour with barely any effort. Marci sometimes carried things for busy stallholders to earn a few extra pennies for her family. It was not unusual to see her hauling around a sack bigger than she was, hurrying along as if it was full of feathers. This was of course not as common as her getting into a fight.
The stallholders were packing away their wares. She hovered around the baker's stall, wondering if he would ask her to carry something. He usually did, and he was generous with his rewards. He'd always give her a few pennies more than the others, and usually throw in some unsold bread for her brothers. Sometimes he even gave her a raisin roll, a little treat just for her—a rare treasure she could never have afforded to waste money on.
Marci waited as patiently as she could, bouncing on the balls of her feet. He'd need her help soon, she was sure of it. He'd hurt his back a year ago, and he had no sons to help him. Marci always liked to help, she'd always been encouraged to put the needs of others before herself.
That was why she protected the other children too.
A scream stopped her in mid-bounce. A child's scream.
Marci turned and ran towards it, clenching her little fists as she ran. She was completely unafraid. She had not lost a fight in years, not even when faced with boys bigger and older than her.
Sometimes they would retreat just at the mere sound of her footfalls. Hopefully they would do that today, she was hoping to get a raisin roll or even just a slice of bread. Like every day she lived, she was always ravenously hungry.
She would run around the corner and deal with whichever bullies awaited her, as usual. Then, she would run back to the market and be of use to someone. Just another day in the Rasolir slums for her, Marci the slum-rat.
But today was not a normal day for Marci the slum-rat.
This was the day when her life would change forever.
There would be fear.
There would be pain.
There would be loss.
There would be change.
There was always a price to pay. Today, she would pay a price for a new life.
Marci turned the corner, planting her shabby sandals firmly on the dirt. There was a small girl on the ground, looking up at three larger, older boys standing over her. They had not hit her, yet.
Marci would not let them. 'Hey!' She called out to them with her piping, tremulous voice, a musical lilt flowing off her tongue. 'Leave her alone!'
As they turned, she heard feet scraping on the stones and dirt behind her. Many of them.
Marci turned her head enough to see them out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't actually count them, she had never been taught how. She only knew her age because her parents had told her. They would tell her later that there were seven of them.
The little girl stood and looked straight up at one of the large boys. 'Now! Pay now!'
Marci felt the first shivers of fear as the boy pressed a coin into her hand. A trap. She had run straight into a trap. The stranger had warned her that she would make enemies, and now they had ganged up on her.
She tried to muster her courage. She was strong, she was fast, she had not lost a fight in years, she would not lose today!
Marci kicked the first one as he ran at her, then punched his friend in the stomach. They fell back, but their friends had come better prepared.
The improvised club hit her in the back and she stumbled straight into the three at the front. A fist struck her in the mouth and she fell back, her lips bursting like overripe fruit.
Marci spat, spraying blood across the dirt. A boot jabbed into her side as she tried to stand. Another dug into her ribs, turning her onto her back.
Marci kicked back, and was rewarded with a shout of pain. She scrambled to her feet and saw the club whooshing towards her head. She ducked, then tackled her attacker to the ground and started to punch him over and over and over again.
Strong hands seized her and dragged her away, even as she flailed madly with fist and foot.
The blade glinted in the sunlight as he drew it.
Marci now felt more than fear. For the first time in her life she felt pure terror.
They weren't here to teach her a lesson.
They were going to kill her.
Marci screamed and thrashed, lashing out at anything and anyone, mad with panic. She somehow broke free and she saw an opportunity to escape.
One of the boys tried to grab her. Marci swung at him, blinded by the sun. She felt her fist strike something solid, something hard which was not flesh.
Everybody stopped.
Marci stared, not understanding what had just happened.
She had missed and punched a wall instead.
There was now a hole in the wall. Several bricks had fallen away. Marci lifted her hand.
There was no damage. She must have imagined it in her panic. She looked round, afraid and looking for a chance to escape again.
They were all staring at her, and now they too were frightened. It was as if they thought she had punched a hole in the wall. But that was impossible!
One of them pointed a quivering finger at her. 'D-d-d-demon...'
'Freak!'
'She's a demon! Grab her! Kill her!'
Somebody seized the fallen club before Marci could act and slammed it into her stomach.
Marci fell onto her back, winded and gasping for air like a grounded fish. They fell upon her, and they did not hold back.
Fists and feet smashed into her skin. Broken nails tore into her flesh. She screamed as her right arm was wrenched out of the socket. She wailed when one of them stamped on her leg, cracking the bone. Their fists continued to rain down on her. Blood sprayed from her nose and trickled into her mouth.
And then it was lifted into the light of the setting sun: the knife.
It was a crude thing, a length of sharpened iron with old rawhide wrapped around the bluntest part. This was the instrument intended to rob her of life.
Marci could only watch as it was lifted high, the crude blade glinting.
In what would be the last moments of her life, she thought of her family. She thought of her parents, her brothers, how they would feel when she was gone, how they had tried their best to protect her. But they could not have protected her from herself.
Tears welled in her eyes, trickling from the one which was not swollen shut.
She had failed them. Marci had failed them.
There was something out of place. A strange sound, almost like birdsong.
Somebody was whistling.
The knife plunged down towards her throat.
Marci sobbed, the thoughts of her family haunting her in these final moments of her brief life, and then she uttered the last words she would ever speak.
'I'm sorry.'
As the blade came to the end of its descent, she heard soft, gentle words in her ear.
'It's all right, Marci. It's all right.'
Marci bolted upright, her mouth open in a silent cry. She stared at nothing, panting hard, still seeing the knife before her eyes.
'Marci!' A hand touched her shoulder and she jerked away, preparing to turn and lash out. 'Marci! Calm down!'
Marci turned, her fist raised. She stopped when she saw Mirana, not a hulking teenager intent on murder. She was not in the Rasolir slums, flat on her back and pinned down, beaten and torn. She was twenty-two years old, not eight. She had been trained how to fight, she was not a brawler. She was a handmaiden and bodyguard, not a slum-rat.
Mirana was staring at her, her eyes wide, one hand reaching out. Marci saw that her lower lip was split and bleeding.
Marci felt shame creeping up on her, shame and guilt. She had hit Mirana. She felt tears run from her eyes and she lifted her shaking hands, trying to tell Mirana that she was sorry, that she had not meant it.
'It's all right, Marci.' Mirana whispered soothingly. 'You didn't hurt me, not really. Shh,' she shuffled forwards and put her arms around Marci. 'They can't hurt you, Marci. You're safe here. You're safe with me.'
Marci sniffled and wiped her eyes with her free hand. The creeping shame and guilt rushed over her again when she realised that Davion was awake. He was awake and he had seen the whole thing. He had seen her thrashing around. He had seen her accidentally strike Mirana. That it had been an accident did not make her feel any better.
'It's all right, Marci.' Mirana repeated softly. 'It's all right. I'm here for you. I always will be.'
Marci took in a shuddering breath and tried to compose herself. She felt a large, rough, gentle hand on her shoulder: Davion's hand. He understood. She could tell.
Marci tapped Mirana's back. Mirana released her, unconcerned by her bleeding lip. She did not need to ask. It was always the same dream, the same nightmare.
The sun was rising, just visible through the narrow fissure. Vylgranox had yet to show himself. Even an Eldwurm needed time to heal, and he had been hit with several ballista bolts as well as Mirana's mystical arrows. Even so, they could not afford to linger.
Mirana and Davion had already packed the gear they would not be carrying themselves into Sagan's saddlebags. Marci was the only one holding them up.
Mirana handed over a piece of salted pork and a dried pear. 'Take your time.'
Marci ate them quickly anyway, partially out of guilt but mostly because she was hungry. Mirana chuckled quietly as Marci rapidly chewed.
'I'll be glad to get off this mountain.' Davion murmured. 'Things can't get any worse at the bottom, can they?'
Marci really wished he had not said that. There was such a thing as tempting fate.
