The Last Lies of Ardor Benn Page 21

  “Did you find anything interesting?” she asked.

  “I waited for you so I didn’t disturb the tracks,” he said.

  “True love,” Nemery whispered. But Mohdek seemed too distressed for her frivolousness. His vibrating eyes had homed in on something, she could tell.

  He set across the clearing, careful where he put his feet. Nemery followed, only ten steps in when she saw the blood. It covered the grasses, laying them over to the south.

  “Dry,” Mohdek said, crouching to inspect the blood. “But not old. I’d say this happened last night.”

  Nemery took five more steps in the direction the grasses leaned. Her heart rammed to a stop against her ribs and she recoiled.

  “Moh!” she cried, pointing.

  There was a body in the underbrush. Or at least part of one. His head was intact enough for Nemery to realize it was a young man. But his middle had been ripped open, and it looked like every bone in his body had been broken.

  “Dragon,” Nemery whispered, holding her stomach together for another look. “It had to be.” What else could shake a man with such bone-shattering force? And that would explain the scorched clearing.

  “What is it?” gasped Legien Dyer, finally catching up to them, thundering haphazardly off the trail. “What do you see?”

  Nemery held up her hand. “This isn’t for the faint of heart,” she warned. “Looks like one of the poachers got a taste of Pekal and we didn’t even have to interfere.”

  Dyer’s face paled and he desperately pushed past Nemery to get a look for himself. “Oh,” he muttered, almost gagging. “Oh, praise the Homeland.”

  Praise the Homeland? That a poacher got gutted? Sparks, maybe there was a dark streak to this guy that Nemery hadn’t seen.

  “Well, maybe that’ll spook the party back down,” Nemery continued.

  “Tracks,” Mohdek said. He was walking away from her, heading into the trees at a crouch. “Oh, Nem,” he whispered. “It was a baby.”

  She scrambled over to him, seeing the first clear track in the soft soil. The print was significantly larger than her open hand, but it was small for a dragon. So small. And there was blood here, too. But not human.

  “No!” Mohdek shouted, breaking from his tracking posture and sprinting forward.

  Nemery saw it then, the little hatchling lying on its side among the ferns.

  “She’s still breathing,” Mohdek said, dropping to the hatchling’s side.

  “Can you see where she’s hurt?” asked Nemery. They were both speaking in their native languages, too shocked and frantic to use any extra brainpower to translate.

  The dragon was small. Maybe a runt to begin with, or just younger than any hatchling Nemery had seen before. Still, it was at least the size of a Dronodanian buffalo.

  The hatchling’s scales were such a pale green, they looked almost white, with darker stripes developing on her flanks. Nemery reached out, pausing with her hand above the creature’s side. This was the moment. She had dreamed of it for as long as she could remember, though the circumstances were spoiling it a bit.

  She touched the dragon.

  Her dark skin was a stark contrast to the shimmering creature, its raspy breath gently pushing Nemery’s hand up and down. The hatchling’s scales hadn’t hardened yet, still relatively soft and supple, like a tanned leather.

  “She’s losing a lot of blood from the underside,” Mohdek said, his Trothian eyes perceiving something that Nemery couldn’t. “We need to roll her over. On three. You ready?”

  Nemery repositioned herself, sliding aside one of the hatchling’s wings, which lay unfolded like a discarded blanket.

  Mohdek counted, and the two of them strained against her hulking form. The sudden movement seemed to send a shock of panic through the animal and she let out a cry that Nemery immediately recognized.

  Hatchling in Distress.

  It wasn’t very loud, but if the mother was anywhere nearby, this situation could turn deadly in a matter of moments. Still, their effort was enough, and the small dragon flopped onto her other side when she couldn’t find the strength to stand.

  “Holy sparks!” shouted Legien Dyer. “It’s still alive!” Nemery hadn’t even realized he had joined them. “You’ve got to kill that thing,” he continued. “Kill it fast before it gets up.”

  Nemery ignored their ignorant onlooker, finally getting a clear look at the cause of the hatchling’s pain. A spear had pierced the dragon’s side, just behind its foreleg. Nemery didn’t know how deep it had penetrated, but the broken shaft protruded a few inches from the hatchling’s skin.

  “We need to pull it out,” said Mohdek.

  “She’s so young,” Nemery said. “Maybe only a day or two old. That could have been her nest across the canyon.”

  “And she attacked this camp so soon?” cried Dyer.

  “She probably smelled the cooking meat,” Nemery answered, remembering the hog on the spit. “Poor thing came to investigate and the poachers attacked her.”

  “Unless she attacked first,” Dyer said.

  “They’re not like that,” Nemery insisted. “Especially the young ones. Dragons are more reclusive than you might think. If they had given her the hog, she probably would have left them alone.”

  “Something doesn’t add up,” said Mohdek. “If the poachers attacked her, why didn’t they finish her off?”

  “Maybe they thought she got away,” said Dyer.

  “She’s too close to the camp,” Nemery pointed out. “And her soft scales would be worth a fortune.”

  “Scales, teeth, talons…” Mohdek listed. “All of her.”

  “So why didn’t they kill her and strip her for parts?” Nemery asked.

  She’d tracked a lot of poachers in her time on the island. If there was one commonality among them all, it was greed. Specifically when it came to dragons. An infant hatchling like this should have been easy prey.

  Mohdek knelt down and gripped the splintered end of the spear with both hands.

  “You really think we can do this?” Nemery asked.

  “We can’t leave her like this,” he pointed out. “The moment I pull out the spear, I’ll need you to put pressure on the wound.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She nodded, trembling hands at the ready.

  In one quick motion, Mohdek pulled out the spear with a squelching sound. The hatchling tried to bellow, but her body went limp, great green eyes rolling back in her head.

  Nemery pounced on the wound as dark blood spewed upward. It was hot and sticky, and the smell was strangely sweet. She thought of that tale she’d told the young boy in New Vantage, grateful that the dragon’s blood wasn’t hot enough to burn her hands.

  “Is she dead?” Nemery noticed that the dragon wasn’t moving at all.

  Mohdek cast aside the broken weapon, its metal spearhead basic and barbless. Daringly, he placed a hand on her muzzle, marring her beautiful nose with her own dark blood.

  “She’s still breathing,” he whispered. “Just overcome by the pain. We need to stitch her up.”

  “You’re trying to save it?” Legien Dyer exclaimed.

  “I have a needle and sinew in my pack.” Nemery gestured with her head to the spot where she’d dropped her things at the edge of the trees.

  Mohdek hurried over and started digging through her belongings. “You think it’ll be strong enough?”

  “Get the big needle,” she said. “The one for leather. And use the thick sinew that I spin for bowstrings.”

  In a flash, Mohdek was at her side as Nemery did her best to pull the wound together. It was difficult to see through the steady flow of blood. Mohdek tried to push the stout bone needle through the thick skin, but it wouldn’t puncture.

  “Try starting the hole with your knifepoint,” Nemery suggested.

  Mohdek dug the tip of his knife into the dragon’s flesh, sliding the leather-stitching needle along the flat of the blade until he successfully punched through.

  Through
it all, the dragon remained unconscious, which was good, since the job was hard enough. It wasn’t a pretty stitch, but Mohdek managed to close the wound. Still, blood flowed from the injury. Less than before, but steady enough that Nemery wondered if they were already too late.

  “She needs Health Grit, Moh. She’s not going to make it.”

  “Peeker’s Hollow,” Mohdek exclaimed, standing abruptly. “We’ve got Grit, and supplies, and—”

  “It’s more than a day’s hike from here,” Nemery cut him off. “In the wrong direction.”

  “It’s our closest cache,” he replied.

  She and Mohdek had established stashes of supplies all over Pekal. They’d tried to spread them equidistant from one another, providing the greatest chance that they’d be able to reach one in a moment of need.

  “Keep pressure on the wound until the bleeding stops,” Mohdek instructed, shedding his backpack. “You,” he said to Legien Dyer. “Try to find something to use for a bandage.”

  Mohdek stepped over and placed a hand on Nemery’s shoulder, his speech slipping back into Trothian. “Once the bleeding has slowed, she might wake up. Try to get her to drink some water. I’ll be back in two days.”

  Nemery nodded. Two days? Was this really happening? As much as she didn’t like it, the Peeker’s Hollow cache was probably their best shot at keeping this little dragon alive.

  “If she squawks enough to call her mother,” Nemery said, “Dyer and I will retreat downhill to that stand of Pichar trees. Did you see it?”

  “I’ll look for you there first,” he said.

  “We’ll need to give her a glorious name if she survives,” Nemery said.

  “And a noble one if she doesn’t,” replied Mohdek. He stooped and kissed the top of Nemery’s head. Then he pushed past Legien Dyer and disappeared through the trees.

  Nemery kept her hands on the wound, feeling the hot blood between her fingers, praying for it to stop.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” she finally snapped at Dyer.

  “They’re not poachers,” he said quietly.

  “What?” Nemery looked over at him.

  “I know who we’re following, and they’re not poachers. That’s why they weren’t interested in this dragon.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They’re members of a religious cult known as the Glassminds.”

  Sparks. What was this nonsense? And if Dyer really knew something, why hadn’t he mentioned it before?

  “Bandages,” she snapped. “Leaves. Vines. Anything you can find to keep some pressure on this wound.”

  “My son is with them,” continued Dyer. “He’s caught up in the ideals and beliefs of this cult. Their leader is a persuasive man. He’s drawn my son in too deep, with promises of power and change. Feltman isn’t much older than you.” Legien Dyer let out a sudden sob. “They’re going to kill him.”

  “Kill him?” Nemery cried. “Like… a sacrifice?” She didn’t know much about cults, but she’d heard enough to know they could be dangerous.

  “Yes,” he said. “There is a group of them willing to die.”

  “They know? And they’re going along with it?”

  There were very few things Nemery Baggish considered worth dying for. Mohdek was one. Protecting Pekal and its dragons was another. And she supposed if she ever saw Ardor Benn or Tanalin Phor again, she owed them her life.

  “They don’t think they’ll die,” explained Dyer. “True believers within the cult think they can overcome death. That’s why they’re going to the summit.” He paused, struggling against his emotions. “To get Moonsick.”

  As intrigued as she was, Nemery didn’t have time for this conversation. The hatchling didn’t have time for this conversation.

  Realizing that Legien Dyer was useless, Nemery slowly released pressure on the dragon’s side and stood up. It was still seeping, but the bleeding wasn’t as intense as before.

  Acting quickly, she plucked a dozen large green leaves and draped them over the wound. She hated to part with the coil of rope on her pack, but this was a worthy cause. With some difficulty, Nemery managed to bind the leaves in place.

  She stepped back from the unconscious dragon, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. The sweat was replaced with a smear of dragon blood, and Nemery shook her hands at her sides.

  “Poachers or not,” she said to Dyer, “your son and his friends did this.”

  “I’m sure they were frightened,” the man replied. “Feltman’s never been to Pekal before. I don’t think the cult is particularly violent, but—”

  “But they just take their friends to the top of Pekal to get them Moonsick,” Nemery cut him off.

  “They don’t think it will hurt them,” said Dyer. “The cult’s leader claims that the true believers will be transformed by the Moonsickness. Into something magnificent.”

  “And he got people to believe that slag?” she cried, not caring how insensitive it might seem toward Dyer’s son.

  “Feltman tried to convince me of it when I discovered that he’d aligned himself with the group,” continued Dyer. “Their leader is a man named Garifus Floc. Feltman said he was a palace Regulator who survived the events in the throne room that night.”

  “That night?” Nemery questioned.

  He looked at her curiously. “The night King Termain was killed.”

  “Oh,” she replied. “I think I missed all that gossip.” She and Mohdek had been living in the woods of Dronodan at that time. They hadn’t found out about Termain’s death until a cycle after the war had ended. By then, the details were so stale that Nemery had heard a hundred different versions, choosing to ignore them all.

  “Garifus Floc is among those who claim that Prime Isless Gloristar assassinated King Termain,” said Dyer.

  “Wouldn’t she have been executed for that?” Nemery said.

  “At the very least, she would’ve been questioned… but no one can find her.”

  “The Prime Isless is missing?” Nemery cried. She’d heard that a man named Olstad Trable was now serving as Prime, but she’d assumed Gloristar had been simply replaced when Queen Abeth Agaul was made crusader monarch.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “The logical public admits that Gloristar was also killed that night, her body never recovered. But Garifus Floc claims to have seen her transform.”

  “Transform?” Nemery said. “What does that even mean?”

  “My son explained that her body had transformed into a perfected state—like one who had reached the Homeland. They call it a Glassmind.”

  “And your boy saw this?”

  Dyer shook his head. “No. But this palace Regulator, Garifus, did. And he has been spreading the word. Quietly, of course. They don’t want the Islehood coming after them for heresy. Still, they’re gaining followers. Feltman told me that this Glassmind cult is more than five hundred strong.”

  That was actually not very big, considering the vast population of the Greater Chain. Beripent alone had a million citizens. This Regulator’s cult was a drop in a bucket.

  “Why do they call it Glassmind?” Nemery asked.

  Dyer scratched his chin. “Feltman told me it had to do with the Prime Isless’s new form. Her skull was made of pure red glass.”

  “I wouldn’t call that perfected,” said Nemery. “Sounds kind of fragile to me. And they’re saying Moonsickness did this to her? How?”

  Dyer shrugged helplessly. “It’s the teachings of a madman leading my son to a horrible, Settled death. This is why I hired you. Every Ashing I have… It’ll be worth it if I can reach my son before the summit. Before the Moon Passing. I’ll talk to him. Help him see the foolishness of his actions.”

  Nemery drew a deep breath. That sounded an awful lot like the conversation her parents had attempted when she’d returned from Pekal with an injured leg. Their words had not helped her see the “foolishness.” They had pushed her away. She’d been back on a boat to Pekal as soon as her leg had been
strong enough to run away from home.

  “Children have their own ideas,” Nemery said. “What you see as foolishness, he might see as the very reason for living.”

  “Or a reason for dying,” the man muttered. “I don’t care what Feltman thinks or believes. As his father, I have to do everything I can to stop him from throwing away his life.” He shifted his awkward backpack. “You said the group is less than a day ahead of us. Let’s go.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.” Nemery pointed at the hatchling. “Not until Mohdek gets back and we make sure she’s going to survive.”

  “That could take days!” cried Dyer.

  “Or weeks,” said Nemery. “We’re below the Redeye line here, so we can stay for cycles if we need to.”

  “That’s not what I paid you for,” he bellowed. “I need to find my son! Isn’t his life more important than this little dragon?”

  “Little dragons like this are what keep us all from getting Moonsick,” she retorted.

  Dyer moaned. “Of course, you’re one of those Settled lunatics who doesn’t believe in the Holy Torch.”

  That had been the first breaking point in her faith. When Nemery had heard the theory of the dragon shield, it had resonated with her. She had seen the majesty of the beasts, and she had no doubt that they were capable of protecting all humankind with their very presence.

  “You’re welcome to go ahead,” Nemery said. “But I’m staying with her.”

  Surprisingly, Legien Dyer slipped out of his backpack and dropped to his knees in the ferns.

  “Homeland,” he prayed aloud. “End this dragon’s life quickly, that a greater good might be served.”

  Then he rocked back, sitting on his heels, a steely glare cutting into Nemery. “When she dies, promise me that you will show as much care for my doomed son as you have for this hatchling.”

  Nemery felt her heart breaking for the desperate man. The strained look on his face… the tears moistening his eyes. Maybe he did deserve one last chance to speak with his son. “All right,” she said.