Wizards of Fyre (Island of Fyre Book 3) (2 page)

Once he finished this chore he left the workroom and walked to the outer courtyard. He halted near the grille and peered into the hareem. He saw her, tall and lithe with her dark hair in a long braid. She stirred a kettle.

His gut constricted. His member throbbed. His desire to win her escalated. He refused to allow Cregan to despoil her. With a vow to save her from his rival, he nodded to the gate guard. “Open the gate.”

He strode from the citadel and across the grass to reach the path leading to the tangle. The growth was so thick he couldn’t see the center of the tall green bushes. The fyrethorn hedge was forever green. Only the thorns and berries fell. He saw Cregan holding several sacks.

Cregan plucked thorns from the protruding branches. Arton frowned. His rival seemed to have no fear of being stabbed by the long poisonous spikes. When Arton reached the tangle he saw the reason for the fearless behavior. Cregan wore gloves made from green dragon hide. His arms were covered almost to the shoulders. Arton clenched his teeth. Mecador had given his son an advantage.

Arton walked around the table seeking an area of new growth where the branches had few thorns. Quickly he cut as many wythes as he could and tested them for suppleness. He cut until his arm ached and counted the number. He laughed. Forty-two potential wands lay on the ground.

The afternoon sun raised a heavy sweat. He pulled off his red dragon skin tunic and let the air dry his perspiration. He stared at the bushes and saw a multitude of thorns almost ready to fall.

“Cregan, here are branches with clusters.”

“Bring the thorns to me.”

“And risk being stabbed?”

Cregan laughed. “Are you afraid?”

“I would rather not gather them, but to help you I have an idea. He placed his shirt beneath the laden branches. Using his knife he tapped the limbs. A shower of thorns landed on his shirt. He bound his wythes and picked up his shirt, being careful to hold the cloth away from his body. He circled the tangle to where Cregan worked.

“Hold one of the sacks open and I’ll dump these inside. Should fill one. I’m taking the wythes to the workroom. Started after you, finished before and lacked the special protection you seem to have received.”

* * *

Cregan glared. How dare Arton taunt him? His rival would soon learn who would be the next council member. With care he reached for more thorns. Even with the gloves made from dragon hide, picking thorns presented a danger. One slip with a thorn stabbing his face or next and he would suffer or even die. He lifted an empty sack and stomped toward the other man.

“Fill this.” He thrust the sack at Arton. The foreign adoptee should become used to taking orders. There was ho way he could win. Mecador, chief wizard, was Cregan’s mentor and father.

Arton opened his shirt and spilled as many of the thorns he could into the bag. Just as many fell on the ground. “Gathering thorns was your task. Be quick to pick up the fallen ones before they lose their potency.” He shook out his shirt and strode away.

“How dare you disobey me?” Cregan’s hands rolled into fists. “You don’t understand. You will be my toady. I will win the challenge. I’m already ahead. Mecader knows I’m the better wizard.” He grabbed Arton’s shoulders and whirled him around.

Arton pulled away. “Stop. We are forbidden physical fights against anyone who is a wizard.”

Fury bubbled like a steaming cauldron. Cregan abandoned the sack he held and ran after Arton.

Arton stumbled and floundered to regain his balance. Cregan hit his rival’s shoulders and Arton fell into the fyrethorn tangle. His screams filled the air. He pulled free and ran toward the citadel.

Cregan abandoned the sacks and raced after the other man. What could he do? If Arton died, the council would act to banish Cregan. In the past he’d heard of one challenger being sent from the citadel for a year. The man had never returned. If he had he would have been named a second level wizard.

As Cregan ran after his rival, he planned his story. He had to cast the blame on Arton. If Mecador believed Arton had stumbled and fell into the bushes, there would be no punishment. If the worst happened Cregan vowed to survive and fight for his rightful place, even if he needed to wand duel every council member. He was Mecador’s son. He deserved a council seat.

* * *

The ancient dragon stirred. A faint voice crying for help had roused him from his dreams. Slowly memories oozed into his mind. Though he tried to stop the cascade, he couldn’t. Once he’d been a young green preparing to take his place as guardian to young reds and blues of his line. Then disaster had arrived on white sailed ships.

The men known as wizards had come from afar. The screams of slaughtered dragons filled the air. Three lines had been obliterated. One line had fled to the mountains.
His kin.
Many of them had died in the attempt to cross the towering peaks. He had been left behind because he’d been too young to make the journey. The cave system had been his home. When the last voice of his kin had faded, an ancient yellow had sent him into the deep hibernating sleep.

How many cycles of the sun had passed since his sleep had begun? Why had he roused? He searched for the voices of other dragons and met silence. Anger fueled by memories filled his thoughts. He sensed the presence of wizards. Not the ones who had first come, but others. A desire to see his kin avenged roared through him. He needed someone to hear and speak for him. Would the voice he’d heard be the one?

He dragged his aching body to his feet. He lumbered to the entrance into his sleeping place. Slowly he moved along the wide corridor past the cold room and the one where his people’s belongings had been stored. Humid heat drew him to the cavern where heated water bubbled in a pool. The steaming water eased his aching body. He continued to search for the voice that had awakened him.

* * *

A man’s roar of pain startled Lorana. She slid the cauldron from the fire. A guard shouted an order to halt. She ran to the gated entrance to the outer courtyard and peered through the grille. A bare-chested man with thorns protruding from his back and arms staggered inside. White streaks of flame shot from his wand.

Lorana dropped to the ground just before a bolt struck the grille. A matron of the hareem screamed and slumped against the wall. A wizard knocked the wand from the man’s hand.

The grille hung askew. The man’s scream pulled Lorana to her feet. No one should suffer such pain. She ran to the fallen wizard. One by one she pulled thorns from his skin.

Someone grasped her shoulders. Steel-like fingers dug into the muscles. “What are you doing?”

Despite the pain she continued removing the spines. “For him to have a chance of survival these must be removed.”

“No one survives such a dose.”

“Let her continue,” Mecador demanded.

The hands on her shoulders loosened. She looked up. “He’ll need much care.”

“Can you save him?” someone asked.

Lorana looked over her shoulder. “I’ve saved five men since my arrival, though none bore as many thorns. I can’t promise he will live, but I can try.”

Mecador nodded. “I’ve seen this one work. Soon after she arrived she healed one of the guards but he only bore two thorns.” He shoved the burly wizard away. “Cregan, tell me what happened.”

“He carried thorns he’d collected in his shirt and helped me fill my quota. He tripped on a half full sack and fell into the tangle.” He kept his head lowered.

Lorana glanced up at him. A shifting of his eyes made her wonder if he’s lied. She continued removing thorns. Her concern was for the wounded man. His breathing was shallow and she could barely feel the beating of his heart.

Mecador touched her head. “If you can save his life, tell me what you need.”

“Some herbs from the storeroom. I don’t know their names but I do know the scent and taste. I’ll need water to bathe him. The poison will drain through his skin.”

The chief wizard pulled her to her feet. “Gather what you need. We’ll take him to his suite and return for you.”

Lorana nodded. “I’ll do this.” She lowered her head. Perhaps she could learn more about the ways of these men.

“Cregan, use your wand to maintain Arton’s life. You know the consequences if he dies.”

Lorana pulled the last thorn from the man’s shoulder. She rose and backed away. Four men arrived. They rolled Arton onto a cloth attached to wooden poles. The man called Cregan pressed his wand against the wounded man’s chest.

Unlike the pale-haired man, the fallen one had hair streaked with the colors of fire, and she wondered why he was so different. She scurried to the storage room to gather what she needed to treat the fyrethorn poison.

In the large room she selected a massive basket. Jar after jar on the shelf containing herbs and spices were searched. She dropped the ones she needed into the carrier and added one of tallow to use as the base for a paste. A small container of cordial and one of poison completed her search of the shelves. She found cloth for dressings. After stopping in her cell for two dresses she carried the basket into the courtyard.

She called to two of the women and told them how to brew the last jug of poison needed to fill the quota for trade. She lifted a mortar and pestle and added them to the basket.

At the gate she found Mecador and a guard waiting. He gestured to the guard. “Carry the basket.” He grasped Lorana’s arm. “Just a warning.”

His deep voice raised a shudder. “About what?”

“Not only does Arton’s life depend on you saving him but also Cregan’s.” He led her to a set of stairs and started up.

“I’ll do my best, but fate rules the outcome.”

“Your life is also at risk.”

Lorana sucked in a breath. Though death was an escape from slavery, she had no desire for that end. If dead she couldn’t find a way to destroy the wizards.

They reached the second level of the citadel. The chief wizard’s giant steps along the dimly lit corridor forced her to trot or risk having her arm pulled from the socket. He halted so abruptly she nearly fell. The guard hit her with the basket. She winced as pain shot down her leg.

Mecador opened a wooden door and pulled her into a room. A fire in the fireplace on the wall next to the entrance to a second room burned cheerfully. A table and two chairs stood against the side wall. Hooks adorned the other wall.

She saw comfort such as she recalled from her home. The chairs were cushioned. An oil lamp on the table waited to be lit. Through the doorway she saw a sleeping chamber. A massive bed with wooden posts and curtains that could enclose the bed, a cushioned chair, a small table, and a long one completed the furnishings.

Mecador dragged her into the sleeping chamber. “Three times a day food will be delivered. You may eat what he doesn’t. There is no reason for you to leave these rooms, and if you are found in the hall without an escort you will be punished.” He pointed to a doorway on the side of the room. “The necessary for washing and all other matters is in there.”

Lorana walked to the massive bed. A blanket covered Arton’s lower body. She turned to the older man. “He needs to be turned to his stomach so I can see and treat the puncture wounds.”

He snapped his fingers. Cregan appeared immediately. Lorana tensed. Would the burly man be constantly present? Would he prevent her from finding things to aid in her escape?

“Turn him on his stomach,” Mecador commanded.

Cregan pressed close enough to run a hand over her hip. She edged back and nearly collided with the older wizard.

Lorana approached the bed. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the men had left. She placed her supplies on the table where a cluster of fyrestones formed an intricate pattern on a leather tray. She returned to the bed and touched the places where the thorns had penetrated his skin. Several retained bits of the tips. She needed a knife.

His blue dragon hide trousers hung on the edge of the bed. A sheath on the belt produced a knife. She cleaned the blade with liquid distilled from pine sap. One by one she cut the skin around the wounds and removed the foreign matter. She mixed drops of the poison with an equal amount of the cordial. She added this to a bit of lard and treated each area where thorns had pierced his back and arms. She covered the treated areas with cloth and managed to turn him onto his back. The ends of the cloth were tied to keep the dressing secure.

His labored breathing troubled her. In a large cup of hot water taken from the bathing room she blended a mixture of herbs. After adding sweetened syrup and a measure of spirits, she returned to the bed.

She raised his head with a pillow and spooned liquid into his mouth. At first she had to massage his throat to encourage swallowing. He managed the last of the dose on his own. Soon his breathing steadied. A sheen of perspiration covered his face and chest.

Lorana filled a basin with water and wiped away the river of perspiration. Her fingers stroked his chest feeling the way the hair swirled. She edged the blanket lower to expose the rest of his body. As she wiped the cloth over his abdomen she saw his male part grow longer and thicker.