Haimya was sitting slumped against the remnants of the battlement, her eyes as blank as if she were senseless. Only the slow rise and fall of her shoulders and the slow trickle of blood from her wound told Pirvan that she was still alive.
With every step and every movement, his arm now flung pain up and down until every part of his body seemed to hurt. It would be easy to sit down beside Haimya, take her hand, and wait until Fustiar awoke or the men below gathered their courage and came up with steel in hand.
It would also shame the brothers and sisters of the night work. Thieves either escaped or died on their feet, like badgers defending their burrows.
The torches wavered. Several arrows flew, but none of them anywhere near the castle. They seemed loosed straight up into the sky. Pirvan’s ears seemed stuffed with wool, but he heard cries of alarm.
The black dragon was returning, of course. The men would retreat, but that made no difference. Between them, the black dragon and his mage master would finish the night’s work-
It was not the black dragon that swooped out of the night, but Hipparan. He seemed to have grown to twice his previous size since they last had seen him, his wings blotting out the sky and his body longer than the tower’s width.
Magic, natural growth, or illusion? Illusion, Pirvan realized, as Hipparan flung out his wings to stop himself in midair, then settled cautiously onto the roof. Not all the stones under him could bear even his carefully placed weight; some gave way and rattled and crashed down into blackness.
“Come and ride,” Hipparan whispered. “This roof may fall or Fustiar awake, and the black dragon is coming.”
Haimya stared in silence for a moment, until Pirvan thought he would have to slap or drag her. He wondered which god he should pray to, to avert this.
Then speculation ended as Haimya pulled herself painfully upright. “I must tie Pirvan in place,” she said. Her voice might have been that of a swathed corpse in a tomb a thousand years old. “He has broken his arm.”
“Then be quick about it,” Hipparan said.
Haimya’s first movements were corpselike as well, but her hands were no less deft than before. In moments, Pirvan was as snugly bound as a barbarian’s infant on a woman’s backboard. He did not see Haimya tie herself into her harness, but he did feel the lurch and stomach-dropping effect as Hipparan took wing.
The last thing he saw was the tower, now encircled by torches, dropping away beneath them.
* * * * *
Hipparan knew less than he wished to about human injuries and sickness. He knew even less than that about healing them, though he had once commanded some healing spells and also read more than a trifle in Tarothin’s least secret spellbook.
This modest knowledge was sufficient to tell him one thing: Pirvan and Haimya would not survive their present hurts without healing. They might not need more than rest and good food brought by helpful hands every day for a few weeks, if they were aboard Golden Cup or guests at some castle such as this one had been long ago.
Alone in a wilderness, barely able to tend each other, though, they were doomed. Even if he remained with them and guarded them from enemies, he could not attend them as they needed.
Nor could he be sure of remaining with them. The black dragon was closer yet, and asking querulously what was amiss. So far Hipparan had not heard Fustiar reply.
May this continue, he prayed.
Hipparan had flown as high as he could without chilling his passengers, to see far and wide and be out of arrowshot or even siege engine range from the ground. Seeing no immediate danger from human weapons, dragon’s claws, or mage’s magic, he descended in wide circles to a landing place on a hill opposite the ancient volcano.
He had thought of landing on that weathered summit, for the lake would offer unlimited fresh water and the forests rose high and were rich with game and fruit. But the rock was crumbling and treacherous, and above the forest line there was little cover for two humans who could not move swiftly and would surely be hunted on the ground and perhaps from the air.
Hipparan had also sensed a trace of ancient magic deep within the mountain. He could not recognize anything about it, but it seemed to him that his friends would best be well clear of the mountain when Fustiar awoke in fury, like the ancient volcano in eruption.
The clouds were low and the mist rising as Hipparan descended. He had to slow his flight until he was almost hanging in the air, at a height at which a small boy with a slingshot could strike easily. He reached out with all his awareness, searching the land about for any signs of life.
He found nothing except the life of the jungle, sleeping if it was day-living, awake and feeding if it was night-walking. None of it was human, magical, or evil, and none of it seemed in any way concerned with the odd dragon or the odd pair of humans.
That was as Hipparan wished it. He landed, then twisted his neck to examine his riders. Haimya was asleep or senseless. Pirvan was awake but flushed with the beginning of a fever and biting his lip with the pain of his arm.
Gently, Hipparan sliced through the thief’s harness with two claws, wielded as delicately as embroidery needles for all that they were larger than Pirvan’s daggers. Pirvan gripped the base of Hipparan’s wing with his good hand and gently lowered himself to the ground.
It was not gently enough to keep him from gasping with pain. He sat down, holding his broken arm and staring up at Hipparan.
“Thank you. I wish I had the wits to say more, but you have repaid all debts-”
“Now, now, let us not argue about that,” Hipparan chided. “If we survive, time enough to dispute it. If we do not, the dead owe nothing, or at least nothing that they can pay the living.”
“Cheerful, aren’t you?”
“I can count claws held up in front of my face,” Hipparan said with dignity. “Being young does not make me foolish.”
“I never-echi Can you help me bind this arm?”
“I can do better than that,” Hipparan said with more confidence than he felt. That drew Pirvan’s undivided attention, and Hipparan did not lose it while he explained his intention of healing the humans.
“At least enough to let you find your own food and make your own shelter,” he added. “I am not Tarothin, and I suspect that even he is not a finished healer.”
“That,” Pirvan said, “is the shark calling the walrus a glutton.”
“No doubt,” Hipparan said. “Now, if you will stretch out your arm as best you can-”
“No,” Pirvan said. “You heal-the lady-first. She had both wounds and sickness, and no healing potion remains.”
Hipparan shook his head. “My friend, I said I was not Tarothin. This means I could make a mistake. If you seek Haimya’s safety, should you not offer yourself as my first patient?”
“As a healer, you have a wonderful way of inspiring confidence,” Pirvan said. “Very well, do your worst.”
Hipparan tried to drag up from his memory and hold in front of his eyes the words of Tarothin’s most elementary healing spell. It might have no power to cure more than blisters and dandruff, but a modest start should avoid killing even if it could not cure.
The black dragon knew that his master was awake when he returned to his lair at the far end of the castle courtyard. He carried in his claws a small deer, and his arrival, followed by his devouring the unfortunate creature, kept the humans at their distance. Even the ones without speech seemed more uneasy than usual, and none of them would approach closely enough to tell him what might have happened in his absence.
He had to finish his meal, fly over the tower, and see that Fustiar’s living creation lay dead and the axe that it had carried was gone. The dragon could sense vaguely where the Frostreaver had been, but it now seemed shattered, even melted.