RIDING ON a flying horse gave Lucky such a rush that he lost himself in the joy of it. Despite everything, all the hurt and hardship and hunger and loss he’d endured over the past months, he grinned while he rode, laughed when K’ormahk’s black wings took them into a dive to catch a current or banked into a sudden headwind. He knew the fun couldn’t last. K’ormahk was flying him and his passenger Han Shieth home to the Sisterhold. Once there, Lucky was going to have to grow up fast and do his part as future Suth Chiell—Sun Child of the Ethran Sunlands. Some things had clearly gone wrong in Ethra, and he’d have to help fix them. But for these precious moments, he was young and alive and relieved to be so, and he gladly gave himself up to exhilaration.
Han, riding behind him, whooped and laughed with him.
Until he didn’t.
“Han?”
Lucky wasn’t sure how long his uncle had been silent, but once he noticed it, he realized Han had slumped against him and his grip on Lucky’s waist had gone from firm to barely there. Worried, Lucky called out again with his mind.
“Uncle?”
Han’s response was weak enough it almost couldn’t be called one.
Lucky reached back, intending to tap Han and wake him up. His hand brushed Han’s thigh and it came away wet and sticky. The wound he and Ciarrah, the Obsidian Blade, had mended on the mountain must have broken open with the motion of the horse’s wings. Worse, Lucky now realized Han wasn’t just warm, as in pleasant body heat; he was burning up.
Not sure Han wouldn’t fall off, Lucky was afraid to shift his weight to signal to K’ormahk what he wanted him to do. He hadn’t been sure whether the horse could sense his thoughts, but apparently he could, because before Lucky finished saying, “K’ormahk, take us to a place we can rest,” they’d begun a gentle but swift descent. The great black horse landed them in a greening pasture dotted with yellow sweet clover and blue alfalfa flowers. The field seemed to be set on a plateau, with heights to the east and a broad vista to the west showing the land falling away in waves. Despite the sun, the breeze was cool on Lucky’s face and he was glad for his cloak, leggings, and boots—ragged and dirty though they were.
Han seemed to revive a bit after Lucky helped him down from K’ormahk’s back, but the wound in his thigh where the black dragon’s horn had skewered him clearly pained him. Leaning on Lucky, he let himself be led toward a standing stone, one of twelve that seemed to grow from the soil and form a rough circle.
“Here,” Lucky said. “If you come around to this side you’ll be out of the wind.”
Han followed, but said in a stronger voice than Lucky expected, “Wind feels good.”
“You have a fever, I think. The cool probably feels good, but I don’t think it’s a smart idea for me to let you to get cold.”
Han didn’t answer, busy trying with uncoordinated fingers to strip off his shirt.
“Leave it on, Uncle!”
Han’s eyebrows shot up at the commanding tone, but to Lucky’s surprise he obeyed. He helped Han sit against the mossy base of the stone, propping his injured leg with a roll made from quickly gathered grasses and some sticky cleavers he found growing around the base of a neighboring stone. When Han started to shiver and his eyes lost their recent sparkle, Lucky sacrificed his cloak, draping it over his uncle. He could smell the wound, which was not a good sign. It had begun to fester.
“You need to lance it, Luccan.”
Lucky looked at Han, surprised the man was alert enough to know what was going on, and also horrified at the thought. “Why?”
Han looked puzzled. “Because it’s filling up with pus. Why else? Lance it and clean it the best you can, then let’s get home. It’ll be okay with some proper medicine.”
“No,” Lucky said. “I mean, why does this crap keep happening?” He knew he was acting like an indignant six-year-old, and he must have looked that way too, because his uncle clearly struggled not to laugh.
Han said, “Shit happens.”
Lucky laughed then but soon sobered, focusing on what he needed to do and hoping Han was right about the chances being good the wound would heal. “Okay,” he said, then set about gathering the last of their water supply and making a few more rags from the clean parts of the torn clothing he’d stuffed in his pack. “I wish I had something besides water to clean it with.”
Han got an aha! look on his face and said, “Bring me my pack.” After Lucky did so, Han rifled around in the bottom for moment, and came up with a pint-sized, dark-glass bottle. He held it up. “Emergency whirhly!” He uncapped it and drank off a quarter of the liquid, then said, “Sorry, there isn’t enough for you, nephew. You’ll need the rest for the wound.” His smile, though pained, was positively wicked with teasing.
Lucky shook his head, pretending to be disappointed. Really he had zero interest in the alcohol, and he didn’t begrudge Han the mildly numbing comfort he’d get from it. He uncovered the wound, noticed that the entire thigh seemed swollen and a large area of angry red surrounded the wound, especially on the side that had not reopened. Deciding to prepare everything he would need before he started, he asked Han, “Do I need hot water?”
Han nodded, though he seemed less alert, already fading again. “Yes, if you can light a fire to heat it. Hot cloths to draw out the pus.”
Lucky found flint and tinder in Han’s pack, but put it away after he found a tiny camp stone in a tin. Han must have brought it from Gahabriohl. Remembering the warmth of the camp stone fire during a night on the mountain, Lucky was thankful for Han’s foresight. For tinder, he went to the center of the circle, where a gnarled, ancient, but still-living tree held court among a patch of thistle and low-growing shrubs that reminded Lucky of the bearberry that grew in Black Creek Ravine. Plenty of deadwood lay on the ground or caught in the shrub’s stiff branches, but something about the tree made him feel uncomfortable about picking it up.
Feeling foolish, he asked the tree if I he could have some twigs and branches. “It’s for my uncle,” he explained. “He’s got an infected wound from a dragon horn.”
The tree, not surprisingly, didn’t answer.
“Right,” Lucky mumbled to himself, then set about picking up tinder, also grabbing a handful of blackberries from an almost hidden vine on which he’d snagged his leggings.
In a short while, with a third of their remaining water supply drained down Han’s throat, a third heated in the tin that had held the camp stone, and the last third set aside for later, Lucky thought he might be ready. Han had munched the berries, made a face at their sour taste, and then drifted into a fitful sleep.
Lucky pulled Ciarrah from his belt and mentally called her name. She responded with a brief flicker of violet light, no more than a flash in the heart of the stone, and a whispery hiss like the sound of wind moving over sand. Lucky wasn’t sure if he was doing something wrong, or if Ciarrah’s depleted energy hadn’t yet been restored. Maybe both. He and Ciarrah—or the spirit who lived within the stone—hadn’t yet completed their bond, so he couldn’t command her. He might ask for her light to help, but he didn’t think he should take a chance on demanding more than she could give. Instead, so she would know what was happening, he informed her he was going to put her stone blade to use.
After cleaning the inflamed skin as best he could, he sat poised, hot cloths ready in the tin of water, knife in hand, and wondered what the hell to do. The wound had torn open during their ride, but one segment of the jagged slash remained closed and had swelled into a bump, the skin covering it stretched so tight Lucky could actually see the yellow-white of pus beneath it.
Han stirred and, struggling, said, “Help me sit up so I can see it, Luccan.” Lucky did as asked, and also held the injured thigh turned to the side so his uncle would have a better view. When Han signaled with a nod that he was ready, Lucky supported him until he again leaned comfortably against the dry moss covering the base of the stone. “If you can’t do it, lad, I’ll try. But honestly I don’t feel too sure-handed at the moment.”
“No,” Lucky said, then bit his lip, searching for his determination before continuing. “I can,” he finally said. “I will. Just tell me how… where to cut.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt me as much as you think. The skin sealing the pus in is likely dead—which means you will need to trim it away, and then leave the cut open. Save some of the whirhly and a long strip of the cleanest rag to pack the wound when you’re done cleaning it. Your blade’s sharp, and you won’t have to put much force into it. Just cut along the edges of the wound and lift the bad skin out—be ready for the smell, though.”
Before Lucky followed Han’s instructions, he sat back on his heels and took hold of the Key of Behliseth where it lay against his chest, still safe on its chain. Silently, he wished for steady, guided hands, and he felt a hundred percent better when the Key hummed in response. As an afterthought he added a wish for a strong stomach, not wanting to have to stop to heave if the smell of putrefying flesh overpowered him.
As a result of Han’s guiding advice as well as Lucky’s preparations, the operation went smoothly. Lucky cut out a half-moon of skin and lifted it with the knife blade to remove it, the entire time wishing hard for Han’s pain to be relieved. Possibly in answer to that wish, Han passed out about halfway through the cutting, which made the rest of the job—drawing the pus out with hot cloths, rinsing, and repeating—much easier. The horrible smell rose twice as strong from the wound once it was opened, but Lucky kept his mind firmly on his task and managed to ignore the impulse to gag. He wasn’t sure what Han had meant by packing the wound, but he thought it through and trusted his mind and his instincts, which he distantly recognized showed how much he’d changed in the last months. After soaking a strip of cloth in whirhly, he pushed it into the wound as deep as he could, stuffing it under the edges of cut skin and pouring more liquor over it.
He took stock. Already, the redness around the wound had faded, the swelling seemed to be abating, and Han breathed deep in what appeared to be something like comfortable sleep, snoring quietly. Lucky wrapped the thigh in the cleanest cloth he could find, covered Han more completely with the cloak, and relaxed against the stone next to his sleeping uncle. He was hungry and thirsty, and he hoped they could find something to eat. Water must run somewhere nearby, he reasoned, as the land was green and healthy. But the sun shone full on them now, about midway on its descent into the west, and the breeze had gone quiet. Warmed, tired, and relieved that Han seemed okay, Lucky decided the search for sustenance could wait a few minutes, and he closed his eyes.
The next time he looked around, he was treated to a dark surprise. The standing stones all lay flat on the ground, scattered over the field, which had been transformed into a wasteland. The ancient tree at the center of the circle had been split by a staff of black metal that burned with a steady blue flame. A world full of mournful echoes opened around Lucky.
Dim. Dead. Cold.
A figure, a woman glowing with a cold blue light, sat astride a dark horse ten yards away, staring at him. In horror, Lucky sat bolt upright. He tried to speak, but choked, then tried again. “Mm… Mom?”
Her answering grin made her look to Lucky like she had risen from the deepest pit of hell.
Panicked, he stood and backed away, tripping over the fallen stone he’d been sitting against before he closed his eyes. Sprawled on the churned mud of the ground, he cried out, “Han? Oh gods! Han!”
He got no answer.
The thing that surely was his mother laughed. Loud, lightless, terrifying as an open grave.