Kymil settled into a more relaxed position with his back leaning against his bedroll and the upper bulkhead on the deck of their recently acquired airship. He’d heard of these but couldn’t recall ever seeing one, especially one this size, big enough to hold their horses and them with plenty of comfort. Several minutes of idle fancy passed in thought on the skill needed to create such a vessel, one so beautiful and practical it could only truly be of elven manufacture.
He hadn’t realized how much he longed to return to his ancient homeland until the clues led them in that direction. Longed and dreaded in equal measure if he was honest, at least with himself. In the heat of rage and anger he’d sworn oaths to Rillifane more than fifteen years ago, and later to Meilikki in thanks within Corydaliss’s grove, none of which he felt any closer to achieving, and instead he had become entangled in the web of mystery surrounding Harpers, and now the Stewards of the Star. He didn’t regret the actions, but most of the time it felt like their mission drew him even further away.
Reverie came slowly, as the dread and anxiousness intermingled as they traveled towards High Moon, combined with Twitchtip’s questions about Bianna, and the realization that when Twitch asked him, that he’d been wandering with little hope of discovering her alive, and just wanted to bring her body home to rest beneath the ancient trees of Semberholme. Conjoined with the shock of discovering that the Sword of Thorns had an ancient name from a legendary elder bladesinger, and that the bladesmith of the Dun Hedir could repair the blade. Somewhere along the way he had lost the joy, hope, and laughter that guided his travels throughout Cormathor and Cormyr. The lighter emotions appeared less frequent, and the melancholy more often.
Horrific pain radiated from all parts of his body as he struggled to open his eyes, but even the slightest movement of the left side of his body pushed a scream through his blistered lips but finally he was able to open his right eye to the fuzzy light of a forest morning as memory returned. “Zhentarim. . . ” he gasped.
A musical voice responded, “She’s dead, the knight. Now don’t move.” A musical fey word and the pain in his left arm rescended from the crescendo of his awakening, although it had only dulled, not dissipated.
“If you can,” the dryad continued, “I’ll help you move to lean against this tree so I can bind your arm.”
He started to nod, but pain sheared thru his head from the unopened left eye and he gasped. ”I’m sorry, I can’t do anything for the eye unless we return to my home, the iron poisoning is too great.
With lots of groans, hisses of pain, and one shreik when he accidently put his hand down a hand onto her foot, a foot oozing a disgusting pus around the iron nail the orcs had pushed into it. ”We need to get that out of your foot.”
She groaned in return, “Feet, but only after your arm is locked in, because it won’t do any good for both of us to pass out.”
Eventually, and it seemed like hours with the amount of pain the two wounded souls suffered from, the dryad was able to bind his ruined arm against his chest, and he, by sitting on her legs to keep them immobile, able to pull the poisonous iron nails out with his one good hand, although true to her word she passed out from the pain of the first and he quickly did the same with the other, leaving them unbound to bleed freely for a bit to clean as much of the poison as possible from her system, before gently bandaging them as best he could with his minimal aid training.
As he stood, she began to awaken, the fear easily visible in her eyes that he might be leaving, “I’m going to try to retrieve my pack and the food it contains. I will be back in a few moments.”
She nodded slowly, before a musical, but bitter toned, “I have little choice but to remain.”
He walked slowly, stumbling even then with his warped vision from just one eye, unbalanced with his left arm also bound to his chest, and nearly fell when Vaelorn cawed, landing on a branch near his camp from the night before. ”Of course I am not leaving her. What was the point of helping if I am going to leave a wounded dryad to suffer from her wounds?” A curious screech from the eagle, “Yes, yes, of course, go stand watch above her.” With a powerful push of her wings she took off and glided the relatively short distance to the scene of the battle.
It proved slow, and agonizing, to pack up the most important items from his camp one handed, including his javelin quiver to carry his remaining weapons now that his sister’s sword had shattered, an event he never thought possible. By the time he returned the half mile to the site of the battle, the sun had long settled on its downward pass towards evening.
“I think we will need to build a travois, or litter,” and he halted as his eye focused on the one the obviously exhausted dryad was not laying on.
“My sister’s outer wards recognized me enough to assist, and they will help me hold the poison for the night. However, already her magic begins to fade. If your efforts to save me are not to be in vain, I request your assistance in returning me to my home before dawn the day after tomorrow.”
“Well, then, we best have the remains of this wine and a little food before resting the night. I sure can’t pull you during the dark, I can barely see in the light.” With that, he sat, pulling together enough small debris to create a small fire with his magic as dusk settled, before placing two cups and a small pot for a minimal stew on the fire, filling the cups and some of the pot from a flagon of wine, tossing in some crumbled spices and veggies as well.
“The nearest healing pool I am aware of is at least forty miles away, and the nearest village with the remotest possibility of a healer even further. Our fates are intertwined, and if we are either one going to survive, or not, I intend to finish this delightful mulled wine with another beautiful being.”
With that, he turned to the beautiful young dryad, handing her a warmed cup of mulled, spiced wine, “My Lady, to our continued survival.” He touched his cup to hers, before taking a deep swallow. ”Now, after tall of that, I am Kymil Thornstream, a ranger of Semberholme.”
The dryad smiled, “A pleasure, I am sure, Kymil Thornstream. I am Corydalis, of the Aspen line.”
A SWORD OF THORNS WILL CONCLUDE IN PART III, COMING SOON!
Last Dreams 