Chapter: Help from Unexpected Quarters: 14 of ?

Author: Sam

Series: A Deeper Magic

Last Chapter: Ambrose wakes up after surgery and is accosted by Leona. She tells him about the coup and propositions him. Both are severely injured.

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Gentle hands over hers stopped Azkadellia's painful attempts at dressing herself. Dylan tugged the scarlet blouse over her shoulders and down over her hips then helped guide her splinted, broken wrist through one of the loose sleeves. "Az . . . " his voice sounded as gentle as his actions, "take it easy."

Az let him continue, fighting her embarrassment and confusion at their circumstances. He lifted the grey skirt knee high, but she merely raised her arms. Understanding seemed to dawn in the young man's eyes as he slid the flowing material over her head, seemingly ignoring the fact that he only wore a towel and a loose shirt.

Quietly, Az said, "the shaper goes over both, Dylan, but I'll need you to lace it . . . not too tightly."

He nodded and did as instructed, carefully ensuring that her hair, streaming to her hips, wasn't caught in the material or ties. Once he had her decently attired, Dylan moved back to his pile of clothes and turned his back to the princess. He slipped into drawers, awkwardly working under the towel wrapped over his own pelvis. After pulling on a pair of sturdy trousers, he tossed the towel to their heap of dirty laundry and turned, fastening the closure quickly. Sitting next to his companion, the man reached over and picked up her stockings. "Do you want some pain medicine, Az?" he asked.

She lifted both feet onto his lap, allowing his help still. "Yes, please . . . Dylan. I feel like I'll pass out."

Dylan nodded and quickly put her stockings on her. Slipping her feet to the floor, he rose and went to the medicine box, looking for something stronger than the original drug he'd given her.

A knock on the cabin door brought both occupants whirling around, evidently on edge from their ordeal. Without waiting for a response, a rather pretty middle-aged woman walked in and offered a gentle smile. "We've food for you, when you wish. My other boots should fit you, Your Highness." She gestured to a pair of sturdy walking boots by the door.

Gratitude swept through Az, and she offered a smile in return. "Thank you . . ."

The woman nodded but didn't provide her name. Rather, she gestured to the medicine in Dylan's hands. "You'll find very little there, Captain . . . we've young ones in the home." Apparently, the children had been hidden at the arrival of strangers, a habit resistance fighters had long practiced despite the witch never bothering with their young. "Come outside and we'll medicate you while you eat."

"Again . . . thank you." Az hesitated then opened her mouth to directly ask her hostess' name, but the woman slipped out too quickly. With a sigh, the princess looked at her companion. "Will I ever learn their names?"

At the odd question, Dylan laughed softly. He fastened a belt around his lean waist then picked up his whip. "Resistance fighters are shy, Az. We don't give our names easily. I'll see what I can do for you, though." He made a face at the condition of his weapon and turned to clean it in the hand basin. Apparently the leather had been waterproofed which made for easier cleaning, but after using a towel on it, the man draped the whip double crosswise, shoulder to opposite hip, to finish drying. Quickly he donned socks and boots then helped Az into the other woman's offered footwear. "Let's get that medicine." He gently helped her to stand, careful of her broken wrist.

She went with him but flushed as her hair tangled around her hips. "My hair, Dylan . . . I'm engaged," she told him, self-consciously, hoping he would respect the customs of her people; who knew what the Nature Clan practiced if they counted scarification among their rituals.

He paused, looking at her in apparent surprise. Steel colored eyes studied the long mass then moved to her face, meeting her deep brown eyes. Nodding, sending relief through Az, he opened the door. "I'll braid it for you if you'd like? It's the only hairstyle I know," He slipped the knife into his belt, but she didn't protest.

"Yes, please," she responded preceding him out of the cabin.

The pair found a low, crude bench set near the recently built fire. The pastry chef and the woman, most likely his wife, seemed the only beings present. Even the horses had been moved on in the mass desertion of the camp. As Dylan and Az sat down, the man provided them bowls of soup and heels of day-old bread. The woman brought over a small tin of pills, offering one with a cup of water, which Az gladly swallowed.

Finally the chef squatted next to Dylan, pulling out a crudely drawn map. "Here, Captain. My wife drew this for you . . . best one for good directions I've ever known." He smiled at the pretty woman, and she flushed, ducking into her home.

No matter how crude the map, it was certainly as precise as the chef promised. Even measurements had been neatly listed, the criss-crossing paths and roads depicting ways to Central City, the Western Tower, and the Crack across the O.Z. in the south. "Not sure where you want to travel to, Your Highness," the man spoke over Dylan to Az. "Doubt you'll be able to fight with that arm. Best go south, I'm thinking."

She nodded, swallowing the food she'd been enthusiastically eating; she had missed breakfast after all. "We're going south to Finnaqua," she informed him, knowing the location of the pleasure palace was ready information to all.

Dylan nodded. "We'll need horses and a doctor, first."

Smiling grimly, the chef nodded. "Horses can be found here," he pointed to the first juncture of the Vinkus River and the southern brick route. "There's no real village but a blacksmith and farrier live in a tiny hamlet . . . no name except Vinkus, like the river. They always help and often change horses for travelers." He gestured further south on the map. "Course the road goes through the Papay fields further on. You can avoid that by leaving the road and going through the hills here, but don't miss getting back on the road or you won't find crossing over the Crack. Serra didn't know further down. She's never been south."

"Serra," murmured Az, offering the chef a smile. "I will remember her kindness . . . and yours, Sir."

"Name's Furren, Your Highness," he smiled at the pair. "And we're just glad to help. We thought there might be trouble with so many young men in the Long Coat service, but never thought they'd be fool enough to attack the Family. Must be that ambitious bastard Zero."

"No!" Az shook her head, vehemently "Zero wouldn't do this!" Both men looked dubious, but she knew that her former bodyguard would never betray her. She didn't care if they didn't believe her; if Zero were alive, he'd put down this rebellion for her. Unfortunately, it had been a month since he'd rode off to arrest DG's party. They'd made it; he had not. Unsure how she felt about the idea that DG's Tin Man may have killed her own bodyguard, Az pushed the idea deep. There was no time to break down and any serious thought about losing her oldest friend tore at her heart.

Serra came out of her home, carrying two men's jackets and a bright butter-colored cloth. "Your Highness, should I hold this robe for you?" she asked, looking uncomfortable handling the silk.

"No," Dylan said, reaching for it. "I'll take it, Serra." Dylan pulled out the knife and started cutting the strong yet delicate looking material.

Az let him, apparently to the surprise of her hosts, finishing her food. "How long to get to Vinkus?" She asked softly, looking up at the woman.

"Um . . . if you leave soon, you should reach it a couple hours after zenith." Serra offered the jackets, flushing when Az looked at the sturdy items; they were homespun and nowhere near as pretty as the slowly destroyed robe. "That arm won't fit through my coat sleeve without cutting, and it's still chilly these spring nights, Your Highness," she explained.

Nodding, Az carefully rose and took the proffered jackets, folding them awkwardly into a bulky bundle. "Thank you, Serra," she met the older woman's kind eyes and smiled gently.

Serra flushed, nodded, and handed over some leather hair ties. "I can do your hair if you'd like?"

Dylan looked up from his work to watch the women.

Despite having already accepted Dylan's offer, Az nodded at the woman. "Yes, please." She turned, granting the woman access to her hair. She offered a smile of apology to her companion as Serra quickly plaited the long tresses.

He smiled back and finished shredding her favorite dressing gown. Rising to his feet, he strode over and wrapped a thick diamond of the material over her chest, tying the two far points behind her neck then adjusting the knot to the side, preventing pressure to her neck. He padded the point where it lay across her flesh, using some of the bandaging from the medical kit. Using more soft bandaging in the widest part of the folded cloth, Dylan carefully slid Az's right wrist into the support, letting her arm take the bulk of the pressure.

She whimpered as he manipulated her limb, but relief washed over her as she realized the pain medicine had taken effect . . . she could tolerate this.

When Serra stepped back, Furren eased a well-stocked supply pack onto Dylan's back then turned with a second leather satchel. He took the folded jackets and extra hair ties from Az and slid them into the pack then handed it to Dylan, who slipped the pack onto the princess's back.

Dylan wrapped the knife in a strip of silk and placed that, and the leftover yellow cloth, in Az's pack as Serra slid the medicine tin in Dylan's.

"My thanks, Serra . . . Furren . . . for all you have done," Az said. She offered a last smile as Dylan shook hands with the couple, thanking them quietly.

Finally, Dylan took Az gently by her good hand and led her from the clearing, aiming for the brick route nearby. A few minutes later they were out of sight of their rescuers. The resistance fighter stopped the princess, handed her the map, and turned her back to him. Slipping something from her pack, he began wrapping a slippery substance around her braid, crossing over several times, and ending with tying it off at the bottom. When finished, he again took the map and her hand and led her through the treeline onto the well traveled road.

She knew he'd just used the tie from her robe to decorate her hair. It was probably foolish, but the gesture from her companion seemed sweet. She smiled, letting him guide her as they continued the first leg of their long quest for help.

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Mere minutes had passed with the dog comfortably perched over his neck and shoulders before Jeb felt an odd vibration down his spine. Suddenly, the dog stiffened and rolled off his human perch, falling into a thick patch of fuzzy serrated leaves, convulsing like before.

"Baxter!" Jeb shouted and reached into the weeds for the helpless animal.

Pain ripped through the young man's fine-boned hands, the serrated-edged plant tearing at his work-roughened flesh. "Damn!" he cursed, wrapping his burning hands around the small twitching body and dragging him from the undergrowth.

The dog had been cut and his flesh was bleeding and blistering.

Sudden understanding shocked through the human. "Fireweed!" He desperately scooped up the injured animal, ignoring his own increasing pain from the caustic actions of the plant's acidic defense. "Water . . . " Jeb moaned and turned towards the river he'd been hearing close by.

Stumbling out of the trees and onto the slippery rock-strewn bank, Jeb realized the dog had stopped convulsing and now lay eerily still. Without pause, the resistance leader plunged directly into the icy water and sank down, a scream ripped from his lips. The pain intensified tenfold, but Baxter barely responded, his entire body appearing to be once mass acid burn. Jeb frantically tried to think how he could remove the corrosive. From somewhere came the memory of his mother's voice explaining the properties of the vicious plant, and as he tried to wash the dog off, he painfully reached for the river mud at the bottom of the swiftly running water.

A second pair of hands, gloved in leather with the tips of the fingers exposed, scooped up large handfuls of mud and slathered it over the panting, bloody dog. While the other person worked, Jeb didn't bother to even look next to him; he shoved his hands deep into the pebbly silt, feeling instant relief. His unexpected companion continued to lather the dog, apparently ignoring the fact that most of Baxter's fur fell out along with layers of skin peeling back. Jeb pulled his hands from the soothing mud and began to help, despite the increasing pain he felt as the water washed the mud off his burns.

Finally, the dog lay on Jeb's lap, held above the low waterline by the young man's muscular thighs. Mud coated practically every inch of the animal. With a sigh, slipping his hands once more into the soothing mud, Jeb breathed "thank you." He raised pain-filled blue-grey eyes to his erstwhile companion, expecting the creepy woman from earlier.

Surprise coursed through him at the appearance of this unknown woman as she was dressed in men's clothes: trousers, tunic, vest, jacket, and strong boots. Her deep auburn hair had been braided along the sides and combined into one long, thick braid down her back, ending just below her waist. Worry seemed to fill her whisky-colored eyes. She put a steady, wet hand on his shoulder and nodded mutely.

Following her movements with his head, Jeb watched as she stepped out of the river and pulled off her wet jacket, belt, and gloves. Before he could react, she slid the sword from Jeb's hilt and began drying it across her tunic, finally laying it on a dry rock on the bank. He watched in increasing confusion as she began kneading river mud into a flat blue-tinted leaf, liberally blending grass and crushed seeds from the water reeds into the mess. Firmly, she closed strong fingers around Jeb's forearm and wrapped the mixture over his injured hand. The woman carefully slipped one of her gloves on him, holding the mess in place, though his blistered fingertips did stick out of the open glove ends. He was vaguely aware that her gloves fit him perfectly as she treated his other hand, ignoring the fact that his fingertips remained unprotected.

Once done with the man, the woman turned her attention to mixing enough of her rough medicine for the dog's entire head and body.

Jeb rose and walked from the river, cradling Baxter against him. He began to lie the dog down in order to help, but she shook her head and doctored the animal herself. After long minutes, the woman wrapped her jacket around the mud-covered dog, using the sleeves to secure the bundle. She straightened and tied her belt around the dog and jacket then secured it around her shoulders.

Shocked, Jeb reached for the dog. "I'll carry him . . ."

She shook her head again, not giving him a choice since he couldn't use his hands. Carefully she recoated Jeb's exposed fingertips, much to his relief. Stooping, the redhead washed the concoction from her hands, a sapphire and silver ring flashing on her left ring finger. She straightened. With a stiff nod, the woman reached for more of the low hanging seed pods of the water-logged reeds growing in the shallows. She broke open a pod and put several seeds into her mouth, chewing carefully. After a moment, she took the pulp from her mouth and forced it between the dog's teeth. She rubbed at his throat and he swallowed reflexively. She picked another pod, opened it, and turned, offering the contents to Jeb.

"No . . . thanks," he said, wary of this unknown woman's motives and what she may have done to the princess's dog.

She gave him a stern glare and offered the seeds again, gesturing to his hands.

Confused by her silence, but realizing that she must be offering him a pain medicine, Jeb relented and opened his mouth, allowing her to feed him the seeds. He obediently began to chew and was struck by a bitter taste and spreading numbness. The juice seemed to course down his throat and throughout his body, adding to the soothing of his acid-tormented hands. Unfortunately, lethargy accompanied the pain relief. "And that's why she's carrying Baxter, not me," thought Jeb. "Thanks again," he said, fighting the drifting feeling. "I'm Jeb. That's Baxter." He stepped cautiously away from the water and she bent, picking up his forgotten sword, then stood and slipped her other arm around him. The sun glinted dully off a collar around her neck . . . a very familiar looking collar. "Hey. Baxter has one of those," he remarked, almost feeling like he floated in a dream.

She looked at him, her liquid amber eyes studying him, but made no attempt to speak. Rather, she guided him from the Kells River and onto the road he'd been avoiding. He let her.

Looking down at the slightly shorter woman, Jeb frowned. "What's your name?"

With a small shake of her head, she gestured to her throat with her hand, still gripping his sword.

Nodding in slow understanding, Jeb looked thoughtful. "Maybe I can guess? If I tell you the correct letter, you nod. A? B?" She shook her head at each letter but watched him intently as he tried to get his medicated-sluggish brain to function. When he hit upon 'M', she nodded slightly. "M . . ." Jeb nodded in response then started for the next letter, making no effort to begin travelling as he guessed.

Finally, he came to the end of her name. "Mariah . . ." At her confirming nod, he said, "Baxter and I need to get to the Nature Clan." He knew he probably shouldn't trust the stranger, but he also knew that he and Baxter needed some serious help. At least she wasn't as creepy as that other, older woman.

Turning him carefully southward, the woman repositioned her arm to provide him better support as she carried Baxter in the makeshift sling. They began to tread the old brick route towards the first bend of the Vinkus River, a place Jeb knew would take at least another hour to reach in their current condition. There he knew would be horses and some of his resistance fighters, though his silent companion didn't seem to mind helping for the moment. Jeb idly wondered if it was because he was dressed as a royal guard from the House of Gale . . . or if she had some other unspoken reason for her timely assistance. At the moment, he couldn't protest. He needed her help too much.

Neither seemed aware of the distant figure slowly shadowing them on their journey.

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Continued in Chapter Fifteen: A Change in Plans

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The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:

Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . (Ice- Mount Runcible)

Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . (Milltown)

Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . (Viewers)

Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . (Guilds- Munchkins)

Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . (formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)

Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . (Alma Mata- Gillikin)

Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . (Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)

Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt

Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . (Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)

Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . (Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)

Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . (Air- Lake Country)

Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . (Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)