So it is, Fustiar’s thought came.
Mage, how did this happen?
The black dragon listened in growing amazement and unease as Fustiar told the tale of how badly the night had gone so far.
Is that all? he asked, finally.
The mage’s fury burned into the black dragon’s thoughts. Is that not enough?
Are you sure they told you the truth?
Fustiar made no reply to that. In the innermost parts of his mind, where the mage could not reach, the black dragon wondered if the mage’s fury had not finished the work of making the guards witless with fear. They had failed, but turning them into simpletons would not mend matters.
It does not matter, Fustiar said, more calmly. Their failure cannot be endured. They must be punished.
Is it Synsaga’s right-
“Synsaga has no rights against me!” Fustiar screamed. The black dragon heard that both in his mind and with what remained of his bodily hearing. He hoped none of the humans heard those words, foreseeing much trouble coming of them if they reached Synsaga. He had slain prisoners and slaves, at Fustiar’s command or from hunger. He had yet to shed the blood of a free man sworn to the pirate chief.
What is your wish, then? the dragon asked.
Kill them, you overgrown lizard! was the not unexpected reply.
All of them?
Yes. Either they die now, or you die alone and without purpose! Is that your wish?
The black dragon threw back his head and howled his anguish at the night sky. The sky swallowed the cry and gave back no answers to his problem.
Not quite. He saw that he’d started every man around the tower into movement. Some of them were running, and some of the runners were on their way toward the gate or the climbable portions of the ruins.
The dragon picked one of the deer’s ribs out from between his teeth, reared up, and took wing. If the men ran fast enough, he would have every excuse for not chasing them down. Fustiar could hardly wish open war with Synsaga through a public slaughter of pirates. If those mutes did not run, the dragon would have no qualms about strewing them all about the castle; he had never liked them anyway.
The black dragon soared over the walls and circled back past the tower, glancing at the roof to see if anyone was still up there. It was empty and even more ruined than before.
He banked, feeling stronger than he had most of the time since Fustiar had awakened him. Life was precious; he would not give it up easily, even if the price was the lives of a few humans.
But the next time you are too drunk to do your own killing, do not ask me to do it! he snarled at his master.
Haimya awoke so free from pain that she knew she had to be dead. Either that, or a prisoner, and Fustiar had healed her for the purpose of meting out a fate far more lingering and dreadful than dying of fever and loss of blood.
Then she realized that she was not only free from pain but that she was hungry. Hungry, nearly without clothing, but wrapped in a blanket and lying on a bed of leaves and branches.
This was a possible condition for a captive, particularly the hunger. However, she seemed to be outdoors, from the smell of the forest all around her and the sky above. Someone was moving about, close to her, and she turned her head to see.
As she did, the someone knelt beside her. She recognized Pirvan, holding out to her a bowl that was half of a gigantic nut, roughly split.
She was so surprised that she gagged and nearly choked on the first mouthful of water. Pirvan pounded her on the back-with his left hand, she could not help noticing-and held the bowl out.
This time she finished it without mishap, though without really paying attention to what she was doing. She could not take her eyes off Pirvan’s using both hands as if he had never been wounded.
No, that wasn’t quite right. He was still favoring his left arm, using his right arm even more than a right-handed person did normally. Once she saw him rub his left arm lightly, and heard him sigh.
But he had two arms again. She sat up, holding the blanket around her, and shook her head. She felt as if she’d awakened from a long, deep sleep after a banquet of fine food and excellent wine in the best of company. No, that also was not quite right. Her stomach was rumbling too loudly for it to have been filled any time in the last-how long? She felt as if she had not eaten for a month.
But the muzzy-headedness and aches from the fever were gone. Her leg was still stiff, but when she felt it, there was no blood, little pain, and, instead of a gaping wound, only a ridged, puckered scar.
It would not be her first, and in any case she no longer needed to worry much about her appearance. As long as it did not slow her, she could return to the field, perhaps not with her old rank among the sellswords, but with every prospect of living well enough until her luck ran out.
“Pirvan, I thought you had no magic except the one spell and no strength left to cast that-” she began.
Pirvan laughed. So, in the darkness behind her, did someone much larger.
“Hipparan?”
“If I put you and Pirvan in danger, I am sorry. But it seems that the healing has been good enough that the danger was-”
Haimya sat up, not caring about the blanket, and stared at Hipparan. All she could make out were his eyes, but at her gaze he seemed to lower them.
“You healed us?” She felt her wits had shrunk to those of a child, likewise her command of Common.
“It seemed the least dangerous course,” Pirvan began, but Hipparan interrupted.
“Let me tell this story myself, if you please. We do not have much time, and I may not be with you much longer.”
What those last words meant, Haimya badly wanted to know. She took Hipparan’s advice and listened in silence. At some point in the story, Pirvan sat down beside her and she put her head on his shoulder, where it felt quite natural.
“Now I must fly,” Hipparan concluded. “The black dragon has gone to work among the guards at his tower.”
Haimya stiffened. “Killing them?”
“That is what I sense,” Hipparan said. “Perhaps he only seeks to frighten them, but I must go see for myself.”
Pirvan asked the question Haimya could not shape her tongue to utter. “And fight him?”
“If there is killing, and no other way to stop it …” Hipparan said.
Haimya did not reply in words. She leaped up, felt her leg hold up as if it had never been hurt, and ran to embrace Hipparan. She knew it was ridiculous to cry into a dragon’s scales when a decent man was there with a shoulder, but she could not help herself.
Also, she realized as her sobs diminished, it was just. Pirvan was here, would be here. Hipparan was going to battle-for good, for his friends and what he owed them, for perhaps no more than being able to sleep soundly at night.
“Paladine, Kiri-Jolith-may they keep you, friend,” she said at last.
Pirvan looked as if she’d stolen the words he wanted to say, then smiled. He put an arm around her, she did not resist, and they stood that way as Hipparan spread his wings, stepped into the open, and sprang into the night sky.
Hipparan climbed as high as he could without flying into the clouds. He wanted to be clear of the mountaintops, able to use all his senses, with the advantage of height if matters came to a fight.
He hoped they would not. The pleasure he had found in healing Pirvan and Haimya made him realize that he was not a warrior in his soul. He could fight, and would, with the strength of his youth, which should give him the edge even though little experience seasoned that strength.