The Dark Throne (26 page)

“So authoritative,” said Luca under his breath to Finnead.

“Tea and crumpets?” Finnead repeated with a chuckle.

I sighed in exasperation and watched as both men struggled to stand, attempting to mask their pain with expressions of stoicism.

“You two are ridiculous,” I said, mostly to myself, as I saved Luca from toppling into the mud, inserting myself under his arm and steadying him with an arm about his waist. I felt his breath hitch and we adjusted so that he was leaning on me more with his arm on my shoulders, minimizing my direct contact with his ribs. I glanced over and saw Finnead making his way just behind us, left arm held across his stomach. He gave me a little nod of reassurance.

As I helped Luca clamber through the muck—he was
heavy
—I said in realization to Finnead, “That’s your shield arm. You deflected the dragon with your shield?”

“Yes. My shield had a bit of power behind it. The
vyldretning
helped.”

“That makes more sense.”

“Are you saying I was only able to deflect the dragon because of the shield?”

“It
was
an enchanted shield, from what you just said,” I pointed out.

“
Mildly
enchanted, on the scale of these things, and it shattered. Which I think is why my arm broke.”

“Oh,
mildly
enchanted, I see.” I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Finnead’s quick grin, which turned into a slight grimace as he navigated a particularly nasty patch of mud. “Was your spear enchanted, Luca?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“See? Luca didn’t need an enchanted spear to kill the dragon—”

“I didn’t kill the dragon,” said Luca.

“Well, you’re right,” I said, “technically Calliea killed the dragon with your axe, but it was really a culmination, I think…”

“Isn’t this a heartwarming sight,” said Arcana, crouching atop the dragon’s corpse.

I jumped, Luca stumbled, and I went down on one knee but kept him from completely losing his footing. He held his breath as we struggled upright. “Sorry,” I said quietly, looking up again at the Morrigan, sitting on her haunches like some carrion crow atop the neck of the dead monster, her eyes gleaming from the strip of scarlet war-paint. “I’d think you’d be glad to see your fellow Knight whole,” I said out loud to Arcana.

The Evermage slid down the dragon’s neck, a distance of at least four or five times my height, and landed lightly in front of Finnead. She smiled her dead smile. An amber spark escaped her mouth. “I am glad the Queen’s power is not diminished.” Arcana studied Finnead for a moment, tilting her head to one side as she looked at his arm. “That needs to be set.” She held out her hands, palms up, her flat eyes fixed on Finnead, watching him intently. My skin prickled and I felt as though I was observing a challenge, a contest of wills. His face smooth of any emotion, Finnead placed his arm in Arcana’s hands. I felt Luca tense but I couldn’t look away. Arcana closed her child’s hands around Finnead’s arm and, still staring at him, set the bones with a twist and crack, the raw strength in her movement terrifying. Finnead’s body tightened and he paled, but he kept his feet, staring down at Arcana. I felt grudging admiration despite my exasperation at his obstinacy.

Arcana pushed up Finnead’s sleeve and ran her fingers over his lividly bruised skin, checking the alignment of the bones. She made a considering sound and her fingers wrapped around his arm again. Finnead took a deep breath, his face still impassive.

“Enough,” I said.

“Oh, brightly-burning Bearer, you don’t like others touching your pretty playthings,” Arcana said, her voice sliding sinuously through the air. “I am only assisting my fellow Knight, who is bound to the High Queen, as am I.” She released Finnead and glided toward us. I set my jaw and stepped in front of her, blocking her path to Luca.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” I said in a low voice, looking down at the Morrigan in her pretty almost-woman body, “but if you wish to help those in need of healing, I suggest you put your skills to use with the other healers.”

She cocked her head. “As should you.”

The bright-copper scent of fresh blood wafted over me with the Morrigan’s words. We stared at each other for a moment and then Arcana chuckled, leapt up onto the dragon’s head-spike in a spider-like jump, and disappeared.

I turned quickly to Finnead, even as he put his good arm against the dragon for balance. “Are you all right?”

“Relatively speaking,” he replied in a tight voice. “But I doubt Vell will let Arcana lay hands on any other
vyldgard
. She is not particularly gentle.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know why you let her do that to you.”

“Dominance,” murmured Luca. “It was a test of wills.”

Finnead smiled a little. “It needs to understand that I don’t fear it.” He took a deep breath and pushed away from the dragon. We slogged onward, toward the edge of the dragon’s head-spike.

“It would have needed to be set anyway,” Finnead pointed out reasonably.

I shook my head slightly. “I would set my own arm before I’d let her touch me.”

“That would be an interesting sight,” said Finnead.

“I’d figure it out.” I breathed a sigh as we reached the end of the long, curving spike, finally able to walk away from the mountainous corpse. As we ventured out onto firmer ground, Luca gave my shoulder a squeeze with his hand and then relinquished his hold; Finnead, too, was walking with surer strides, as though he gained more strength with the growing distance to the dragon-corpse.

I spotted Farin as she separated from a small group of Glasidhe flying above us; she dove down and bowed to both Finnead and Luca with a flourish.

“The dragon is dead,” she announced in her high bright voice. “Long live the
vyldgard
!”

“Long live the
vyldgard
,” agreed Finnead solemnly; I envied his self-control as I tried to hide my smile.

“There shall be much feasting and celebration of the evil beast’s death!” Farin continued, landing on my shoulder. “Oh,” she added, directing her voice toward Luca, “the wolves are coming! They’re just over the hill—there!”

I looked up at the hilltop where I’d stood with Vell and glimpsed a tawny streak flashing across the ground. Clouds of dust still hung low over the ground like fog, making figures shadowy and ghost-like. Nehalim snorted and shook his head, distaste plain his eyes. “I know,” said. “We’ll be away from this thing soon.”

“Kianryk and I will be just behind you,” said Luca.

I nodded, pushing away my instinct to watch both Luca and Finnead with every step. They were warriors. “See you at camp.” I swung up onto Nehalim’s back and Finnead pulled himself up behind me with an exhalation of effort; he slid his right arm about my waist, holding me lightly for balance as Nehalim carried us over the dusty field.

A cool wind sprang up and swept away the fog of dust as we slowed and came to a stop near the makeshift triage, where the other healers glanced up briefly; a winged
faehal
switched its tail, foam-lathered flanks gleaming in the gray light as it watched the healers working on the wounded. My chest tightened as I took in the sight of at least a score of gravely wounded Sidhe, with more being carried over by those still able to walk. I searched until I found Calliea, her golden braids and the whip coiled neatly at her hip identifying her more readily than her once-bright breastplate, now black with dragon gore. She knelt next to a gasping bright-haired Valkyrie.

“The Queen requests my presence,” said Finnead in a low voice. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”

I slid down from Nehalim’s back and strode over to Calliea, my stomach turning at the blood spattering the dirt. Nehalim shook his head; I felt both him and Finnead watch me until Finnead murmured a Sidhe word to the
faehal
and they slipped away silently.

“Tell me what you need,” I said to Calliea, slipping my satchel of supplies off my shoulder and unrolling it.

Calliea barely looked up from cutting away the straps of the Valkyrie’s mangled breastplate—it looked as though the prone Valkyrie been hit by a giant mace, the enameled surface of her armor punched through as though it was paper thin, the edges ripped and gnarled, smeared with blue-black blood. I swallowed hard but turned to my bandolier of herbs and instruments, finding the packet of pale snowmoss that would stop the bleeding, and then something for the pain. My fingers worked of their own accord as I tried not to hear the wheeze at the back of the Valkyrie’s throat when she breathed.

“Settle now, Rhan,” said Calliea as she peeled the armor away from the Valkyrie’s chest. I stared at the mess of darkly gleaming blood and white flesh and shining bone, my heartbeat suddenly roaring in my ears. The Caedbranr prodded me sharply. I coughed and took a deep breath and set my jaw.

“Tess,” said Calliea. I looked up and she held my gaze. “Stick with me, we’ll work as a pair. Just listen to what I say, all right?”

I nodded, too grateful to her for offering her partnership to be embarrassed about my lack of bearing. I lost track of time as we worked over Rhan, Calliea directing me or asking for a certain herb or instrument from my kit; my hands became slick and shining with blood, no matter how often I wiped them on my breeches. I pushed conscious thought from my mind, reducing my focus to Calliea’s voice and my hands, sewing ragged flaps of skin together with neat, precise stitches, packing shallower wounds with snowmoss, checking the pulse at Rhan’s neck every so often. Then Calliea sat back on her heels and squeezed Rhan’s shoulder with one hand, though the Valkyrie was now unconscious.

“That’ll do for now,” she said. And we moved on to the next broken warrior. Those who hadn’t trained extensively as healers still helped with rudimentary aid. I’d known that Sidhe bodies were essentially the same as my own, just stronger—more difficult to kill, in the words of one dark-haired Knight; but seeing shattered bones and tourniquets tied tightly around limbs hammered home the reality of our war. It was real. It would claim some lives, and irrevocably change others. One warrior gripped my arm hard enough to bruise as Calliea worked to save his leg, nearly ripped asunder below the knee; his face twisted in a rictus of pain, but he watched her every move, trying not to show his terror at the prospect of losing his limb. Life as an amputee among the strong and beautiful Sidhe…I let him grip my arm and slipped a bit of powdered lady’s-veil his cup of water. After a few moments, he relaxed just a bit, the sheen of panic leaving his eyes. Calliea glanced up at me and gave me a nod of approval.

After what seemed like hours, the first intense wave of life-saving efforts ebbed; the fighters we saw now had serious wounds, but they weren’t on the brink of death. I ran out of most of the herbs in my kit, and a passing healer silently dropped a bundle by my knee as he walked down the line, distributing supplies. A warrior I didn’t recognize brought us a waterskin; we both took long swigs and then wiped our brows and went back to stitching and bandaging. Now and again Calliea would show me a new technique or gently correct my approach to a certain wound. I found it oddly comforting to be back in the role of student. It reminded me of Eamon and Ramel. As we continued to work, I gradually became aware of the activities around us: able-bodied warriors helping to move the most gravely injured to a newly erected tent, the cloth silvery against the dirt and scorched trees; friends checking on their battle-companions, lighting campfires, scrounging out the makings of a meal. I felt my own stomach rumble despite my distaste at the smell of roasting meat—something about the scent of dead things and fire reminded me of the dragon.

Finally the triage area was clear, the rows of prone warriors gone, leaving a stretch of churned, blood-spattered dirt. Calliea and I stared at each other for a moment, and then I blinked. I let myself think again. My hands shook as images from the day flashed through my mind’s eye; and as I caught sight of the layers of blood on my hands, I turned my head to the side and retched. My mostly-empty stomach had nothing to surrender, and I spat bile disgustedly into the dust.

“That was your first battle triage, wasn’t it,” said Calliea, handing me a sprig that smelled something like mint. I chewed it gratefully, and a bright wintry taste chased away the sourness in my mouth.

“There was—some, after the battle in the Royal Wood,” I said. “But nothing on this scale.”

“Well,” Calliea said, grimacing as she unbuckled her gore-encrusted breastplate, “you did all right, for a novice.”

I smiled tiredly, leaning back on my hands. “I guess I am still a novice when it comes to healing.”

“You never stop learning. That’s part of what makes it so interesting,” she continued conversationally, though the edges of her voice sounded raw and tired. A passing healer paused and offered Calliea the contents of a steaming basin; she drew out two hot cloths and passed one to me. I swiped the damp steaming cloth over my face first, and then cleaned the blood from my hands and arms as best I could.

“How long have you been training as a healer?” I asked Calliea.

“Only a few decades,” she replied casually. She plucked a silver-capped little skin from her satchel, opened it and took a quick swig, tipping the skin quickly as though drinking from a flask of liquor. My suspicion was confirmed as she smiled a little tiredly at me and offered it. “Want some? It helps to take off the edge.”

Weariness settled into my bones as I reached out and took the skin without asking what exactly it was that I’d be drinking. When I tipped it to my lips, a drink that tasted faintly like whiskey burned past my lips and down my throat. I swallowed hard to keep from coughing. “Thought that was going to be something like
vinaess
,” I remarked when I found my voice again. Warmth radiated from my stomach, chasing away the chill in my limbs and softening the edges of the recent memories seared into the forefront of my mind.

“
Vinaess
is for children and softheads,” Calliea said disdainfully.