Belius settled back on his aching heels with a great sigh, watching the glow fade from around the corporal’s still form. He’d done all he could do, the rest was up to the gods. Keeli the girl bit her lip as she watched. She’d been asking questions, and she knew that her beloved wasn’t healed by a long way, and might never be so, despite the power at the mage’s command.

The worst of the destruction had been repaired, but it would take time for the new muscle and meat to knit to the old. Too, wounds of the sort the ogre had inflicted were often deeper than the physical, and might well have broken the boy’s spirit.

The weary old mage reached out a hand as the last of the glow vanished, feeling of the boy’s forehead. Hot, but that was to be expected. His body was fighting a battle no less fierce than his dance with the ogre had been. Lifting an eyelid, he watched the pupil. A hand on the boy’s chest confirmed that his heart was beating a regular rhythm. Belius smiled across at the worried girl.

“He appears to have survived, girl,” he told her. “All that’s left is for you to keep him mending for the next turn or so. Think you can do that?”

Keeli nodded vigorously, eyes tearing. Then she turned to the still form on the bed and lay her head against his chest, hearing the heart for herself. The wizard might well have ceased to exist. Fine, the old man smiled to himself. He could live with that. A casual wave and a few muttered syllables freshened the spell that kept the white haired girl a girl and he slipped quietly out of the room.

Burly was in the hallway, seemingly by chance, but Belius wasn’t fooled. The corporal seemed outwardly the bumbling drunkard, but somehow was always there when you needed him with just the thing you needed him to have. At this particular moment, what he had was a stein of the inn’s surprisingly fine brown ale.

“He’ll be alright then?” the corporal inquired, chucking his chin toward the corporal’s room as he handed over the mug.

“It appears so,” Belius confirmed, taking a long draught and wiping foam from his mustaches with a forearm. “How did you know to come?”

Burly shrugged. “The dealicus’ sphere went dark, sor, and it occurred to me, it did, as yer moight be after ‘avin’ a thirst.”

“I did indeed, Burly,” Belius clapped the trooper on the shoulder. “Thank you. A stronger thirst than this will cure, I think, though. Come, I’ll stand you to one if you’d like.”

Burly smiled a large, thirsty smile and nodded agreement, turning for the stairs.

Keeli lay with her head on Luka’s chest for a long time, just enjoying the feel of his warmth against her cheek. After days of not being able to reach through the glow, just the ability to touch him was a balm.

Hours later, as the sun settled behind the trees, the corporal stirred. Keeli jerked upright, peering intently into his face, a face which, for the first time in days, was not entirely blank. The eyes were squinted shut, the mouth clenched in pain. She leaned forward and cradled him against her breast, kissing his damp hair and whispering soothing nothings.

The old mage had warned that there would be much pain as the corporal came back to his body, and that there was little they could do at the outset. There were soothing draughts and healing ointments, but all required that he be fully back in the physical realm, and his body acquainted with it’s new bits first.

The corporal swam to consciousness in a sea of pain. He coughed once, but decided he didn’t want to do that anymore. He became aware of a pounding sort of thumping and opened his eyes. He saw pale skin and realized that he was hearing a heartbeat. He raised his eyes and saw a veil of white hair framing the most beautiful face in creation.

“Keeli,” he husked. “Thank the gods you’re alright.”

She burst into tears at that, eyes welling even as she smothered him in kisses. Kisses marred only slightly by the hiccupping sobs that erupted at regular intervals from her throat.

* * *

“Get up,” Storm nudged the boy’s backside with a boot.

The governor general of the Iskan Republics groaned softly as he rolled onto his back. The cave was indistinct in the darkness. The cold kiss of mist touched his cheek. His eyes popped open and his head jerked toward the river. Rain poured from the sky, roiling the surface of the water. His eyes went back to the man looming over him.

“That’s right,” Storm told him. “You think you can manage to saddle a couple of these horses?”

The boy nodded and staggered to his feet.

Storm pointed to the corner of the cave where he’d been storing the extra gear and moved to gather the restive horses closer under the overhang. They didn’t much like it. He couldn’t blame them; even he could see that the river was rising. In a very short time, this cave was going to be a fish bowl.

Working quickly, he led the first three inside, stomping the picket pins into the hardpack. Sweeping the water off the back of the officer’s black, he hurried to the piled gear, passing Corwyn, who struggled under the weight of dragging two saddles one-handed.

Ignoring the boy, he caught up the officer’s saddle and tack. He had the big black saddled and cinched while Corwyn was still struggling to get the first saddle on a horse’s back. Almost trotting, Storm gathered up the boy’s blankets and began fashioning a nest for the crone.

Her nest ready, he moved to where she lay, crouching down beside her. He was already reaching out for her when he saw that she was awake.

“We’ve got to leave,” he told her quietly. “Now.”

“Yes,” she wheezed. “I suppose we do. I don’t imagine you were able to find me a nice enclosed carriage?”

He chuckled. “Would you settle for an expensive horse and a tarp to keep the rain off?”

“If I must,” she allowed, holding out her hands.

He leaned closer and she grasped him around the neck as he scooped her up. It was the work of only a moment to fasten her into the makeshift howdah and stretch the tarp over the uprights he’d attached to the saddle.

“Sandahl,” he called as he was tying the last knot.

The palomino limped over, head down.

“Here,” Storm told him, holding out the black’s reins. “Take her up top. We’ll be along shortly.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Sandahl took the reins in his teeth and turned for the opening.

Storm winced when he saw the stud quiver at the first onslaught of rain on the still unhealed burn. He wished there were something he could do. But they had to move now.

Corwyn was just cinching down the second saddle, so Storm gathered up the next three horses, cursing the sudden storm and life in general as his shirt soaked through, allowing the icy caress of the rain to engulf him.

He was just throwing the blanket on the last horse when he heard the roar. Damn! He ripped the blanket back off the dancing gelding, abandoning the saddle and kit. He yanked the picket pin free and handed it to Corwyn, already astride his own horse. The boy grabbed the lead rope in his bad hand, taking a couple of turns around his wrist.

“Go!” Storm ordered, racing for the blue roan he’d already put his own gear on.

“I’ll never make it up that muddy sluice on my own,” the boy called back, shouting to be heard over the increasing roar. “I’ll have to follow you!”

Storm was in the saddle and had the mare moving, the remaining animals trailing behind. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have time. The river was clawing at the cave mouth and the trail up was already under water for the first fifteen meters.

He put heels to the mare and sent her into the waves. She balked and he whipped his hat off, slapping her rump and letting out a wild rebel yell that probably scared the boy general as much as it did the horse. But she surged forward, and once she had the idea, pounded for the trail with everything she had.

Dim in the downpour, a whiteness could be seen upriver, in the direction they were traveling. The roar and the smell of ionized water had the mare terrified, but he booted her again and her training held. She started up the steep trail, slipping and flailing, dragging her equally terrified brethren along behind.

They weren’t going to make it! The crest of the flash flood was coming on like a blast front, and it was right there, pushing all manner of debris before it. They were above the waterline now, but still well below the wave crest. The mare was screaming, but he didn’t let up, using everything he knew to force her on. Then they were at the top, the crashing wave close enough to touch.

As the mare hit the prairie, Storm snatched the coil of rope free of the saddle and rolled off, giving her a last, parting swat with the rope to make sure she didn’t slow down for awhile. The other five thundered past and he staggered back, uncoiling the rope and praying silently.

He had a loop built and was whirling it overhead as the wave crashed over the trail. He saw Corwyn’s mount rear and heard it scream. The loop shot out and dropped over its neck even as the wave engulfed it. Storm threw himself at the marker rock, taking three fast turns around it before the rope sprang taught and damn near tore his fingers off. He set his heels against the base of the rock and pulled, crying out at the effort.

The wave roared on forever. White lights flashed before his eyes and a burning pain lanced out from between his shoulder blades. His knees bowed and the rope burned through his palms, but he still had it when the roar diminished. The water receded slowly and Storm tied the rope off around the rock.

Staggering, he ran to the trail’s edge. Corwyn’s dazed horse lay half against the bank, near throttled by the rope cutting into its neck, near drowned from the rampaging river, and near beaten to death by the debris. Corwyn lay along its neck, in not much better condition, his good arm wrapped in a death grip around its neck. From his bad arm, a short length of rope dangled. There was no sign of the last horse.

Storm slithered down the slope, half crawling in the slimy mud. Drawing his combat knife, he cut the loop from around the injured horse’s neck, massaging the skin beneath. The horse gasped in a deep, shuddering breath and kicked feebly, tossing its head. Storm put a hand on its shoulder, holding it down, cooing softly to it as he checked for injuries.

“You alive?” he asked the boy as he ran hands along the horse’s legs.

“Unlikely,” the boy choked, spitting river water into the mud. “I must surely have drowned."

“It was a near thing,” Storm admitted. “That’s the second time in ten days that that river’s almost got me. I think I’m going to take the hint.”

He motioned for Corwyn to swing his leg clear and pulled on the horse’s bridle, helping it rise to unsteady feet. He led it the few remaining meters to the prairie and well clear of the bank before releasing it. Turning, he saw that the boy had gotten himself up the bank as well. He walked over to meet him.

“What the hell is upstream?” he asked. “That wasn’t no rain crest.”

The governor general shrugged lopsidedly, wiping rain from his eyes. “The ferry station you saw, the occasional farm. After about a hundred stad or so it disappears into the foothills.”

“There has to be something,” Storm insisted, his gaze still on the roaring cataract.

Corwyn shook his head. “Nothing.”

Storm looked upstream, then shook his head. If he chased after every mystery the second world threw at him, he’d have time for nothing else. Perhaps someday he’d figure out what had so nearly killed him, perhaps not. In the meantime, he had two half-dead charges, an injured horse, and almost no food left.

“This is your country,” he turned back to the boy. “Where’s the nearest place to pick up provisions?”

Corwyn shrugged, or as near did so as his battered condition would allow. “It was my country a turn ago, master. Now it belongs to Shelador. As to the matter of provisions, all would depend on what sort of fight the cities put up when Turalee came knocking upon the gates.”

The man thought about that for awhile as the rain beat down on his bare head. “Anything up north?”

Corwyn gestured. “The wood, the corpses of three thousand Iskans, a million or so of ogres and such. Nothing so civilized as a mud dugout for days. Tepanter and Mockedilly the bastards razed to small gravel, and they were the only towns between the frontier and Turalee proper. The citizens were hunted down and exterminated to feed the monsters, the livestock butchered for the soldiers’ kitchens. I’d be surprised did so much as a cricket survive in either place.”

Storm rubbed his face. West was out– his gaze hung upon the western horizon as a surge of longing forced his heart into his throat. The little birds were there, far off in that direction, at the very edge of his awareness. He’d been keeping them far back in his thoughts because that’s what soldiers did. The mission was what they thought about, not loved ones; not family. But they were there, and he’d managed to get the door closed behind him. Even with another dragon to encourage his efforts, he doubted he’d be able to surmount the chasms the black wall had wrought. No telling, now, when or if he’d ever be able to get back. He shook his head to clear it. West was out. Now north.. “East, then?”

“The river runs deeper and narrower beyond the ferry station, its current stronger. There isn’t much traffic across, so there isn’t much habitation along it. There’re said to be thieves’ camps up in the foothills, but they could be only rumors.”

“Which leaves south,” the man spat in disgust, the spittle lost in the downpour before it hit the ground. “In the wake of a conquering, and none too gentle army.”

* * *

“Are you two alright?” Koli’s voice was a growl. “I heard a cry.”

Swallow regarded the worried wolf with tears in her eyes. “How can we be alright?” she demanded. “He isn’t there!”

Koli looked to Thrush for clarification.

“He’s gone to the cold—” Thrush faltered, but then her shoulders squared, and a wave of relief swept over her face. “He’s back now.”

“That’s all?” Koli demanded. “The Tairn went to the cold place?” He shook his head angrily. “He’s done such half a dozen or more times since we left Woodheart.”

“But not like this,” Swallow insisted, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand. “There was a sudden wave of fear and then he just popped out. And anyway, this was the first time since...” she trailed off and looked to her sister.

“Since the dragon,” Thrush finished for her. “He’s not gone to the cold place since the dragon and the black wall.”

Swallow stifled a sniffle and wiped her eyes. “He’s that way,” she pointed into the darkness.

Koli raised an eyebrow. He was learning a great many things in a very short time. “And you suddenly know this now? After days of search? Through what device?”

Thrush pulled her blanket close around her, shivering. “Fear is powerful. His... he’s brighter when he’s afraid. Easier to feel.”

“He’s very far away,” Swallow’s voice was small. “How did he get so far?”

Joblar loomed out of the darkness. “What was that racket?” he demanded. The whole of the camp is astir.”

“We have to go,” Swallow made to rise.

“No,” Koli told her. “You don’t. The Tairn is a big boy, more than capable of taking care of himself for a few days more.”

“More than a few days,” Thrush breathed softly. “Swallow was correct when she said he’s very far.”

“All the more reason not to go haring off into the night.” Koli pressed. If he’s as far as that, another half day won’t matter. We’ll be in Tencher’s Wood by day’s end tomorrow.”

“And what of that?” Thrush demanded.

“And once in Tencher’s,” Koli replied, “our charges will be safe, or as safe as we can make them.”

“And?”

Koli’s ruff stood up in irritation. “And then we shall find The Tairn together.”