The Return of the Dragonhawk

Chapter 27 -- Attack

Glaring sunlight bored into Alyx' skull, spawning a fiery headache that made his shattered leg seem almost comfortable as long as he did not try to move. And movement was absolutely essential, if he was going to cool his scorched skin and parched lips before he burned up.

Only four short paces separated him from the tiny spring pool, where he could drink his fill: four paces of pure agony. The marshy ground would soak him to the skin. Afterwards, he would have to drag himself back to higher ground. He must be dry at nightfall.

The sun's friendly morning rays had become an inferno of scorching heat as the day progressed; but when the light receded, the welcome coolness of dusk would soon became marrow-congealing cold. His night-time dreams were full of shivering. Dragonfyre would come, holding his saddle blanket in his teeth; or the pack horse would appear, supplies still intact: then he would wake, cursing himself through chattering teeth for forgetting that the pack horse had bolted, and that Dragonfyre was a war horse, not trained in circus tricks. In those times of cruel darkness, Alyx hated his loyal steed for defending him so fiercely from the predators that might put him out of his misery.

It was a predator that had brought him to this plight -- a mountain lion dropping unwisely from above to meet swift death at Dragonfyre's hooves. Alyx had been tossed sideways and thrown clear of the narrow pathway. He had tumbled more than a hundred paces down the mountain side.

When he could breathe again, he discovered splinters of bone breaking through the skin below his right knee and blood pouring from his ear. He had slipped into unconsciousness with some measure of peaceful resignation, believing that death had found him. His last thoughts were of the Azure Dragon, and of Rhoz.

He did not know how many days had passed since he had reawakened to anguish and delirium. He had only vague memories of hacking branches from a bush to make a splint; of struggling to pull himself into the saddle until exhaustion had left him helpless, too spent to curse or weep; of crawling to the spring to slake his thirst. The only mental image that did not waver was the determined presence of Dragonfyre, nudging and nuzzling, demanding that he live.

The stallion was beside him now, snorting, his ears pricked towards the upward slope of the mountain. He had divested himself of his tack and was like a beast of the wild, on guard against all comers, his coat dulled with mud from rolling to discourage flies.

Alyx had been less successful in escaping the assaults of insects. Flies, ants and beetles went about their business as if he were already dead, a nourishing lump to be disassembled to feed them and theirs. From time to time, a pair of vultures landed nearby to check if the time had come for them to begin their work.

Alyx began to edge towards the spring. Pain flared as soon as he tensed his muscles. His vision darkened. He pulled himself forward once, twice -- and slumped onto the ground. As his awareness of his body faded, he relaxed, seeking the peace of oblivion; instead, he exchanged one harsh reality for another as he wandered in the twilight halls between life and death.

His parents met him there, staring blankly when he demanded to know why they had deserted him when they knew full well that he was not equal to the task they had left behind. Harald, with his ravaged legs and searing eyes, ignored Alyx's pleas for forgiveness and cried out again and again, "Remember who you are!" Then Alyn and the High Duidd appeared to point their fingers, shouting a litany of unanswerable questions.

Then, suddenly, he was safely in the shelter of his great canopied bed, sporting with Rhoz. There were no interruptions this time, no maidenly indecision. The tangled knots of his soul loosened, and his heart opened to the light. Everything was simple and clear. Only a single question remained.