27

  Longshore, after an even worse morning:

  No longer spurred onward by Lord Winter’s fury, that monstrous landslide finally ground to a rumbling halt. Not before shoving the magical shield fully sixty feet backward and crushing the village’s meeting hall, though.

  Thunderous noise, terrible pressure and violent juddering ceased at last, leaving only a cold, silent darkness. Inside of their magical shield, elves dropped like spelled wyverns, drained past the point of collapse. Loved ones and friends huddled together before unconsciousness took them, sharing whatever strength they had left.

  The mortals were even worse off; ravaged by fire, disease and battle. Most of Longshore’s folk lay there moaning for help and coughing up icy viscera. With the slaying of Jonex, the blight began fading in strength, but not soon enough to save Longshore. Someone else had to do that.

  Bea was pregnant with twins now, and one of those was a demigod. The dragon’s foul plague couldn’t hurt her beyond causing a headache, nose-bleed and fever. It did not strike the paladins, either, for they were protected by Oberyn. Alfea… the butterfly messenger girl… was immune, as well. That seemed odd, but Beatriz had no time for suspicion or questions. She needed Help, not an argument.

  “I can brew medicine,” she said to those still awake. (Renny was safe. He was going to be fine. Just sleeping, was all, and… and the blight couldn’t have reached Ilirian yet. Could it?)

  There was plenty of wood for a cookfire, all the packed snow she could possibly melt, and one drop of godly ichor left over. A plague was a sort of poison, wasn’t it? And that drop of (not allowed even to think the spider-god’s name) ichor could drive away venom. One chance, starting right now, and so Beatriz got to work.

  “What do you need, Milady?” asked Villem, battered and weary, but shielded by faith. Like her, he’d married a Tarandahl, Renny’s aunt Meliara. “What can we bring for your potion?”

  Bea smiled a little and pressed the hand that he placed on her shoulder. He was dark-haired, awkward and sweet, reminding the alchemist of her long-dead brother.

  “A large copper cauldron… a tripod… mortar and pestle… Oh, and anything you can find in the way of herbs, roots or flowers, Vill. This place may be too small for a proper chemist’s shop, but…”

  “I’ll get some help and see what I can find,” promised the paladin, returning her smile. His elvish wife was unconscious, locked in a deep, healing rest; their unborn baby, struggling for life. All that Villem could do was pray hard and work even harder than that.

  He deputized Alfea, then set off to scour the flattened village, leaving his siblings-in-Oberyn minding the injured and sick. Not far from Beatriz, Alexion hadn’t awakened yet, covered in scorch marks and gashes. Vorbol and Nadia kept His Majesty warm and out of the mud, then turned their attention to Honey and Princess Genevera.

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  Both young girls were pale and half-frozen, their life sparks all but snuffed out. Even comatose, though, Genna’s right hand was locked so tightly to her brother’s shirt that they had to cut through the cloth to release him.

  At least… Brother Humble and Sister Constant assumed that the young fellow was her brother, Prince Nalderick. Tough to be certain, for he’d been terribly hammered by impact and blunt, crushing force. They tended him and a small, broken wolf cub, too, as Beatriz started her chant and a fire.

  The shielding spell faded for want of attention, but the snow dome held up. It was eerily quiet inside, except for scraps of muttered conversation, and the moaning pleas of those dying from blight. Time passed. A candle-mark, maybe two.

  Then a faint crunching noise reached them, as if someone were walking about overhead. The snow dome was thinnest up top, and its inmates were wise enough not to build their fire or place their wounded directly under that dim-shining weak spot.

  Bea, Vorbol, Villem, Alfea and Nadia looked up, tracking the scrunch of footsteps. Moments later, a knobby stick burst through the roof of their snow cave and flailed around. Chunks of ice dropped from the opening, letting in sunlight and air. Next, they heard voices.

  “Oy! Yuns alive in there?” someone called down, leaning recklessly over the hole. “Trixie dowsed fer Lud Derrick, which ee’s our mate, n’ all. Saved our lives, ‘ee did. Bravest thing I ever saw!”

  Beatriz nodded vigorously.

  “We’re alive,” she shouted, rising big-belly clumsy, then moving to stand underneath that welcome, bright opening. “But we need plants, clay and seeds, all you can find. Whatever it is, throw it down and I’ll sort it for use in my potion.”

  “Bit of rope wouldn’t hurt, either,” Villem called up, joining Beatriz. “Just one side, though, not the whole thing. Tie an end off to anything left that’s stable, up there… and thank you for coming to find us.”

  “Course we done!” chuckled a woman’s voice this time. “’Ad a find Lud Derrick, innit? Owe ‘im a drink, if ee’s the one nailed that pit-cursed dragon.”

  “Sit tight,” advised someone else, dropping a lot of moss and pine needles down through the opening. “Don’t go nowheres, until we c’n work out a rescue. Back in two shakes!”

  And with that, they were gone.

  Alfea tried a short, wobbly flight, but her harpy-torn wings still wouldn’t support her, sending flashes of pain lancing across her shoulders and spine. The beautiful air-sprite settled back onto the village square, steadied by Sister Constant, whose spell of healing brought a little relief.

  “There’s a great deal of damage just under your skin, Fee,” said the paladin, shaking her beaded head. “And you’re not going to heal without plenty of rest or a really stiff potion.”

  Alfea took a swift breath to protest, causing another flash of sharp pain. She gave up the fight then, eyes filling with sudden, stinging-hot tears.

  “I want to help,” she whispered miserably. “Van is lost in sleep, wandering out of my ken. I cannot aid him directly, and there’s not much left to scavenge in Longshore…”

  “Then help Lady Beatriz with her potion,” suggested Nadia, gently. “Help her to stir or keep the fire going, but don’t strain your shoulder muscles too much.”

  The paladins’ leader was smiling, but very firm, guiding Alfea across to the alchemist.

  “Got you an assistant chef, Milady,” announced the honey-skinned warrior. “Alfea reports for light invalid duty.”

  Beatriz nodded gratefully, looking up from her cauldron.

  “Aye, that! Thank you. Keep the fire going, Alfea. We want it just between embers and blaze, for a constant low boil. Can’t just dump in an armload of twigs and wander off. Plus, nothing green or wet… and make sure to feed all sides equally.”

  Alfea sighed, but she crouched down and nodded. The morning’s next quiet miracle happened soon afterward, when a sudden bright glow transported Lord Galadin, three weeping kids and a shaggy, black-and-white dog.