[Mkguild] Healing Wounds in Arabarb (57 of ?)

[C. Matthias]

Healing Wounds in Arabarb
By Charles Matthias


Pharcellus swung his head around, and turned 
about on his legs, tail swinging through the air 
behind him as he scanned the northern bank for 
any sign of Lutins. But no matter where he looked 
there weren't any more to be found. The dozens 
that had been camped here had either fled or had 
died beneath his claws or burned in his breath. 
For the first time since he'd hurt his wing, he 
felt like he'd actually done something useful. 
Lutins – such foul little creatures.

He swung around to stare at the castle on the 
southern bank and felt some measure of hope when 
the shouts arising from the city beyond were 
cheers. Was it over? Had the Resistance won? 
Pharcellus let his form retract into the human 
guise that was now very familiar to him. His torn 
wing still throbbed, but the pain faded when his 
scales hid themselves beneath a seeming of soft flesh.

The stone bridge, almost a bronze in the midday 
sun, spanned the gorge and the rushing river, 
with an arch structure beneath to support the 
weight. The stones were coated in moss and 
lichen, and had a particularly old look to them. 
But they were sufficient for his human weight. He 
dashed across as quickly as his twinging shoulder would allow.

The road through the grasses was mostly dirt with 
a few loose stones to suggest an older road that 
not seen upkeep in over a century. It led down 
along the declivity to the southeastern gate of 
the city and past the eastern walls of the 
castle. He noted the gaping hole in the side of 
the castle where he'd escaped the night before, 
and then let his eyes rove to the walls but there 
was no one watching them anymore.

He nearly tripped over his feet when he saw one 
of the pups run up to the edge of the wall and 
leap off with a limp body cradled in his arms. 
And then he did trip when chasing after him off 
the edge of the wall was a young red and 
gray-scale dragon too young to leave the 
mountains. He jumped back to his feet in time to 
watch with jaw agape the little one spread his wings and attempt to glide.


Lindsey was getting better in his dragon body. 
This time he only had a little trouble chasing 
his friend up the stairs. Jerome bounded the 
steps as if they were mere pebbles in his way. 
But the new dragon had to bunch all of his limbs 
at the bottom landing and leap as far up as he 
could and then scramble the last few steps with 
his claws gouging at the stone to give him 
purchase. And whenever he leaped he had to resist 
the urge to spread his wings. They were beginning 
to feel cramped in the castle corridors and his 
body ached to spread them wide and stretch them to their limit.

He wondered if this was what Guernef felt like 
those few times the Nauh-kaee had been trapped 
with them in human buildings as at Metamor, Breckaris, and Marzac.

Still, Jerome easily outpaced the dragon. By the 
time Lindsey reached the open air again, Jerome 
had already reached the western wall and scooped 
his father's decapitated corpse into his arms. 
The Sondecki's face had returned to its lupine 
visage, and his entire body was coated in black 
fur, his chest muscles broad and wide, and his 
arms thick like Lindsey's had been when a man. 
Jerome's golden eyes flashed in the light once as 
he ran straight toward the dragon and jumped 
clear over him. Lindsey snapped with his jaws in 
surprise, and then twisted his serpentine body 
around and ran after him toward the eastern walls.

His heart trembled in fear as he saw his friend 
run headlong toward the walls and the forest 
beyond. Had he lost whatever fight he'd been in 
against Gmork? Was he running back to his father for good?

Lindsey couldn't let that happen. He tensed his 
leg muscles and leaped through the air, nearly 
catching Jerome by the tail, before the half-wolf 
propelled himself over the battlement wall, legs bracing to hit the ground.

Something in Lindsey's old human mind begged him 
to stop; but the new dragon body kept going 
forward, pushing off the stone and accepting the 
air. At last his wings unfurled and he felt his 
body jolt as the thick folds of scaled hide 
caught the wind and kept him from falling face 
first into the hard, grassy soil.

For one moment Lindsey felt an elation that 
defied all his fears. He was flying!

And then when he started to wobble in the air as 
the ground continued to rush toward him he 
realized that he had no idea how to fly. He tried 
to move his wings up and down as his arms and 
legs frantically clawed the air before him. The 
world tilted on its side as he his tail lashed 
about behind him. And then, before he could turn 
end over end, he landed chest first into the 
ground with a whump. He coughed and managed to wobble back to his feet.

When he managed to get his eyes to focus again he 
saw Jerome was already another fifty feet ahead 
of him, carrying the body toward the forest-line. 
He huffed and started to run, when he caught 
sight of a very familiar red-haired human in gray 
traveling clothes running toward him from the 
bridge. He slowed and waved a paw in disbelief. “Pharcellus? It's me, Lindsey!”

The human blinked and looked him from head to 
tail as he ran toward. “Lindsey? You're a dragon! Ho ho! How did?”

“Later. I've got to stop him!” He started running 
again. Jerome's tail disappeared into the woods 
but his scent was still very strong.

“The pup?” Pharcellus asked, running along side 
of him as he swelled to his usual proportions.

Lindsey shook his head as his brother quickly 
outgrew him, making him realize just how young a 
dragon he really was. He may be a dragon now, but 
he was still just a child. Still, it didn't keep 
him from growling with anxious passion. “He's not a pup. He's my friend!”

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It took three trips to Calephas's larder to bring 
enough wine bottles to finally put out the fire 
in the armory. All three of them carried as many 
bottles as they could, but there was only so much 
each bottle could do. By the time they were 
finished the room stank from so many different 
odors, some pleasant and others vile, that even 
if they had wanted to sift through the remains 
they could never have managed without vomiting.

So instead Alfwig decided that he was going to 
make sure that the pup had been telling the truth 
about the baron. Gwythyr knew where the iron door 
to the hidden wharf was and so he led the husband 
and wife back into the dank regions of the 
castle. He kept a discreet distance ahead of them 
and let the two talk quietly with their heads leaning against one another.

The words that passed between them were few, 
mixed with joy and sorrow, but after so many 
years and after so many struggles, there was 
little that either could say that the other did 
not already know. They spoke of Lindsey, now a 
dragon, wondering what sort of future was in 
store for him. And they whispered of Andrig, 
their other son who had never returned from the 
ill-fated assault on Metamor the previous winter. 
They were parents who knew that tears were coming soon.

It did not take them long to reach Calephas's 
secret wharf. Gwythyr gawked at the utterly 
destroyed door and the paw-like handprints 
indented several inches into the iron. Alfwig 
pushed past him and ran onto the stone dock and 
let out a sigh of relief when he saw the two 
bodies sprawled on the deck amidst a dried pool 
of blood. He recognized the tiger Weaker 
instantly, but the headless man was knowable only 
from the quality of his clothing.

Elizabaeg followed him onto the boat and put a 
hand on his shoulder when he leaned over the 
bodies to try and see what had happened.

“Drowned I'd say,” he announced after turning the 
tiger's head and seeing water dribble from his 
snout. “But somebody cut Calephas's head off. I 
wonder who...” his eyes spied a bit of parchment 
in one of the baron's hands. He gingerly pried it 
free and then felt his heart tense. The backside 
had a singe word written in a clumsy but determined scrawl.

It was his name.

“What is that?” Elizabaeg asked while Gwythyr 
approached and gingerly tapped his sword at the 
edge of the hole near the fo'c'sle.

“A note,” Alfwig said as he opened it and started 
to read more of the same handwriting inside. “To me... from Yajgaj?”

“The Lutin gaoler?” Gwythyr asked with a 
surprised frown. “I didn't know any Lutins could write.”

Alfwig nodded. “Neither did I.” His voice choked 
in his throat as he finished reading the note. He 
folded it carefully back together and took a deep 
breath. “He is... a very interesting and unusual 
Lutin. Do you have something I can keep this in? I have no pouch.”

His wife's gaze was intensely curious, but she 
did not ask him anything. He would have to tell 
her soon but now wasn't the time. She opened a 
little satchel draped at her waist and carefully 
slipped the note within where it wouldn't be 
damaged or lost. Her eyes met his for a moment, 
but he turned to the baron's body and nudged it 
with one hand. “We should bring this back with 
us. We need to drag it through the streets.”

“And the tiger?” Gwythyr asked.

“Was he known in the city?”

The soldier shook his head. “Not particularly.”

“Then we'll just dump it back in the river. Let the fish have it.”

Together, Alfwig and Gwythyr were able to lift 
the dead tiger's body and heave it over the 
gunwale. It splashed into the river and 
disappeared beneath the current almost 
immediately. They then bent over and hoisted 
Calephas's body into the air, Gwythyr holding the 
arms and Alfwig the legs. They did not bother to 
try and keep his neck stump from bumping against 
the gunwale as they carried him off the ship, or 
from the stones beneath them on the wharf or in the castle halls.

Elizabaeg followed behind, one hand resting over 
her satchel, wondering just what it was that her 
husband had seen in the Lutin's note that had 
shocked him so. Alfwig kept his face set in a 
thin line, unable to think about anything else.


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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias


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