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Not long after, Bükrek slithered back to Abarōz. There was no sign of Shāhpuhr.
“What–what happened?’ Abarōz asked, still stunned by her friend’s outburst.
His mother sighed.
“I feared all was too easy when the S̆āh let him go.” Abarōz stiffened—so had she. Bükrek let out a snort. “Dardan’s ruler fancies himself invincible. Still, Sangal must have told him how to turn good dragons to bad.”
“But Shāhpuhr isn’t a dragon!”
“No,” said Bükrek, “yet the S̆āh has discovered a way to apply the curse to men.”
“A curse!” Understanding flooded Abarōz. “There must be a way to undo it. I–I want my old friend back!”
“And I my son. I do know of a way, but it is far too risky.”
“Just tell me—I’ll do it!”
Bükrek looked grave.
“It is said that the blood of a dragon, drawn from its head, has the power to cure all ills.”
“But we can do that!” Abarōz cried. “We have you and Az!”
“Yes,” answered Bükrek, “but since this curse is dark, a dark dragon is required.”
“You mean . . . Sangal?”
“Or one of his followers. The deed must be done with stealth, and ebrens aren’t stealthy. That’s why this task falls to you.”
Abarōz opened her mouth, but before she could answer, she was distracted by a noise like wood being struck. At the edge of the clearing, she found a pitiable figure: Shāhpuhr, secured to a tree by bonds. Even in the faint moonlight, she could see the hate in his eyes—the fury in every feature.
“Whore!” he screamed.
Abarōz dragged back to Bükrek.
“I will go,” she said. “To the north, where the bad dragons live.”
Though it was hard to believe, Abarōz provisioned her pack again. If only Shāhpuhr could come with her! But he was the reason she went. Bound to his woody prison, he was like a mad dog . . . one who could curse in two languages.
She moved slowly toward him, taking from his belt the gold goblet he’d stolen from Az.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I will make this right. It’s my fault this happened anyway. If we’d never met, you could have avoided the S̆āh.”
He gave her a growl in response.
Abarōz turned sadly before buckling on her plate. She made sure she held both sword and shield before bidding Bükrek farewell.
“Do not let down your guard,” the dragon told her. “Remember, Sangal is chaos, and his horde isn’t far behind.”
“Where are their lairs?”
“Not as far as the southern ebrens’. You need go about half that distance.”
Abarōz nodded before marching out of the clearing. It was now early morning, Mihr’s beams scattered through trees. She walked by the river, then took to a winding dirt path to emerge onto sparkling sand. It figured. Even the north was a desert. Still, she tried to keep up her spirits, remembering the old Shāhpuhr. As Mihr became more intense, she had the urge to tear off her plate, but thought this course unwise. Tengri knew what was out here . . .
Judging by Mihr’s position, she must have been trudging for hours, stopping only to steal the occasional drink. Her body told her to stop; to turn back to the cool forest, but she wouldn’t give up on her friend. If she didn’t help him, he would surely die. It was said that the end of curses could kill, the poor victim’s skin blackening and cracking. So, she walked on, her own exposed flesh burning as her boots sunk into sand. It shouldn’t be too much longer . . . not long. Unless Sangal’s horde decided to swoop overhead . . .
Tengri, she thought, new god: let me live to complete this journey. Not for me, but Shāhpuhr.
Through a shimmer of heat, she swore she saw sand turn to rock, or was it a waking dream? No! As she dragged through pebbles, she came to a vast row of caves, each entrance arched and open. What could these be, if not dragons’ lairs? Certainly not the realm of men . . .
Abarōz approached the lip of one, dousing her head with water and blinking the sand from her eyes She walked quietly forward, now prepared for the lumpy cave floor strewn with goblets and gold. If she’d been gold-sick like the S̆āh, these gleaming riches would have called to her. But, she wasn’t, so . . .
She hugged a cave wall as she made her way in deeper, light fading with every step.
Then, she heard it: the familiar whistles and roars of a sleeping dragon.
Its breath was more like a growl, wafting two puffed lines of smoke over Abarōz’s head. That’s when she saw the ebren. It was about the size of Az, its scales of heavy silver. It was likely dreaming of Sangal and his next attack.
Abarōz stopped some six paces from the dragon’s head. Her mind whirled with plans: Should she attack without warning—take it by surprise? Or awaken the beast and attempt to bargain? Her indecision cost her as the dragon opened one eye. Of course, it was gold, and, as she quickly discovered, so was the other.
For a moment, they engaged each other in an unblinking stare. Then, instinct took over:
Abarōz raised her round shield just as the dragon spat fire. Thanks to the Perils, she wasn’t charred into ash.
“WAIT!” Abarōz cried, raising a hand. “I have something for you—more treasure.” The ebren raised what would have been its brow. Slowly, she swung round her pack, and with shaking fingers, removed the gem-studded goblet. “See?” she said, holding it up by its handles. “This is solid gold. With–with emeralds!”
The dragon looked interested, holding up a front claw, its pupils narrowed by greed.
“I–I need something small in exchange,” Abarōz told it. She pointed to the beast’s head. “Your blood. Just a thimbleful. To help my friend get well.”
The ebren looked puzzled. She decided to demonstrate by lifting her sword to her forehead and cutting a shallow gash.
The dragon gave her a look he must have reserved for fools. Shrugging, Abarōz moved to its head and waved her sword at its horns.
This was not a wise move. The beast reared, its horns bumping the ceiling as it opened its mouth. Abarōz rolled just in time to avoid its orange stream. Then she did something desperate: she rolled back toward the dragon, hefting her blade and hurling it at its head! The roar that filled the cave penetrated even her helmet, but she tried to stay calm as she extended an urn, catching a few drops of blood!
“I’m sorry,” she told the ebren, leaping up to remove her sword. “If you apply pressure, the bleeding will stop.”
She hurled the gold goblet to the floor, dashing back toward the entrance where with her every step the dragon’s cries became fainter.
“Thank Tengri!” she cried once she’d made it outside. A renewed energy filled her, giving wings to her boots. She ran back across the desert, ignoring dunes, her sinking feet, and the killing rays of Mihr. Nothing could stop her as she flew down heated sand: not thirst, not hunger, not even exhaustion as she spotted trees up ahead.
Abarōz tore off her plate once she’d reached the Rōd, wading in to wet her feet. But she didn’t stay long before crashing into the clearing.
“Bükrek!” she cried, “I’ve got it!”
That was all she remembered until she woke to the sight of a large green dragon’s head.
