“Ryn!” Declan exclaimed, half-laughing, torn between relief, amazement, and even the slightest taste of awe, taking in the great black frame of his friend.

  The dragon, in turn, let out a snorted, pained huff, managing to roll himself onto all fours with an audible shift of his lithe bulk. His massive head didn’t leave the ground, and he made no attempt to lift himself onto his feet just yet.

  W-what…? he started groggily, one white-gold eye blinking at them in an unfocused manner, batting away confusion and fatigue. What happened? How…? Abruptly, the eye snapped wide, the pale pupil constricting. The drey! His voice thundered across their minds, firmer now, and he struggled and failed to push himself up, dry, bloody mud cracking and tumbling from his form in thick flakes. The drey! Where is the drey?

  “Dead, you oaf,” Bonner said in a soothing, tired voice, raising both hands in a calming gesture. “Ease up. You’re far from recovered, and it’s done. It’s been done for half-a-day, now.”

  Done…? Ryn sounded less convinced than he did merely confounded. And…dead? Dead how? His eye grew more focused, and Declan could almost see the gears of fierce intelligence begin to whir again, ridding themselves of the fog of what he guessed to have been an enchanted sleep. Ah… It fell. We fell…

  “Aye, you did,” Bonner grunted in agreement. “Giving Declan and I both the scare of our lives in the process, as well as forcing me to catch you. I might add you’re not exactly light in this form. I barely had any strength left in me by the time the bastard climbed back out of the hollow you made with its body. Think it no exaggeration when I say Declan nearly cutting it in two was all that kept you and I from being gutted by the thing.”

  What? Ryn asked, sharply. It lived? And Declan…?

  His gaze moved away from Bonner, trailing over Ester to settle on Declan himself.

  For some reason, Ryn made an audible, guttural sound, a true spoken word, hissed out with such fervor no one present could doubt it to have been anything other than a curse of disbelief in his race’s own tongue.

  On his left and right respectively, Bonner and Ester turned to see what it was that had drawn out the dragon’s astonishment. Declan watched, momentarily perplexed, as the old man’s face tightened in what looked like anticipated distress, while Ester’s two hands rose to her mouth, the woman failing to stifle the gasp that escaped her lips.

  With sudden, tight apprehension, Declan looked down on himself. He supposed that if he, too, had known any profanity in the dragon’s language, that would have been the moment for it.

  He’d seen the blotched discolorations the night before, trailing up his left arm as he’d held Ester’s hand, but hadn't considered them further. It had been dark, and scars were scars. He had more of them than he could count already, so what were a few extra to add to the mix?

  He’d forgotten, unfortunately, how thoroughly the drey’s blood had drenched him.

  His left arm was the worst of it. He swallowed with difficulty, witnessing the price of shunning Bonner’s gift of the healing earth for much of the duration it had been offered. There, the pallid tarnish where the ichor had touched him was so distinct against his tanner complexion, he might as well have been grafted with some poor albino’s stolen skin. The markings, each of slightly varied shades, splashed over and around the limb, like layers of colorless lichen across bark. They were tight, too, stiff even as he mutely flexed his arm, like healed burns.

  Which is exactly what they are, he realized, taking in with a sinking heart what little was left of the company tattoos that had proudly graced his arm. The Grey Shield’s starred kite shield was half-gone from his shoulder, consumed by a pale spray of blanched flesh.

  The arrow of the Seekers, meanwhile, had been completely obliterated.

  With a twisting of nostalgic panic, Declan looked down at himself. He breathed easier for the briefest of moments when he saw the winged sword of the Iron Wind glaring up at him from under his right collarbone, half of its outer wing and the end of the blade all that had been lost to the blood. That was the greatest mercy he had received, however, and he gaped numbly, taking in the rest of his torso and right arm.

  Bonner’s weaves had worked their powers well, but there was clearly only so much even magic could do for such wounds. The new skin that patterned his chest, waist, and limb was darker, matching more closely to his natural tone, like aged scars. They worried at the muscled outlines of his body, leaving hardly more than any four square inches untainted. The crossed spears of the Holden’s guard on his shoulder was largely untouched, but the crenelated band of Stonewall around his bicep was broken and muted, shattered by the discoloration. Declan felt a lance of true fear, and he clenched and unclenched his hand, flexing his elbow and moving his shoulder about in its socket as he did. He grimaced, feeling the skin stretch and pull, but it was far less of a hindrance than the joints of his left.

  “Well…” he said weakly, trying his best to crack a grin at the three that were still standing around him, having watched him take in the ruinous markings in lifeless silence, “I can still swing a sword, I think…”

  Ryn was the first to answer this, letting out a short, hard snort that eased the tension of the scene the slightest bit. Ester was next, taking a step towards Declan and reaching out a tentative hand, the other still lingering about her mouth. She was rumpled and disheveled from a night spent beneath the stars, silver-gold hair tumbling across her face, but her eyes shined with concern, tracing the bare form of his body from the waist of his pants up.

  “Oh, Declan,” she breathed, lightly touching the palest of the stains—part of the discoloration which had wiped away the Seeker’s mark—on the inside of his left arm. She sounded remorseful, like she blamed herself for this devastation. “Does… Does it hurt much?”

  Declan considered this question, flexing his hands again. “No,” he answered with no small measure of surprise, realizing as he spoke that it was true. His left arm ached dully, but it was nothing worth making Ester feel any worse over. “My skin feels… tight? But it doesn’t hurt. The pain is all but gone.”

  “The tension should fade as well, eventually.” Bonner had joined the conversation, coming to stand on Declan’s other side and peering at his chest with a curiosity that was near-academic. “That part of the recovery will be up to you, however. I can only recommend you resume your training with Ester as soon as possible, so as to keep the new skin from forming contractures. A pity the entirety of the wounds didn’t stay within my healing spells, last night.” There was a gleam of something that made Declan flush under the roguish smile the old man shot him. “What could possibly have possessed you to pull your arm free of the weaves, I wonder…?”

  Declan ignored the comment, as he did the building suspicion that the mage may not have been as firmly ensconced in his previous evening’s slumber as Ester had believed. To cover his deflection, he brought his hands to his face, wincing as he noted the blotching scarification twisting about his fingers. His father’s gold ring on his left hand looked unblemished, for which he was grateful, but he couldn’t help but berate himself for stupidity as he remembered his desperate attempt to wipe away the drey blood in the moments after the fight.

  “Either way, I think I owe you a debt entirely beyond my ability to ever repay, Bonner,” he muttered solemnly. “For the moment, regretfully, I can only offer you my deepest gratitude.”

  Bonner, in answer, scoffed. “You’ve saved the life of Ester and myself now, boy. I’d rather think that makes the debt still quite inclined in your favor, for the foreseeable future. If you hadn't intervened when you did… well…” He drew a thumb across his throat in a macabrely comical gesture, making clear his meaning. Then he frowned, looking over his shoulder at Ryn. “Which reminds me. Since when has a drey been a match for you—much less the pair of us—Ryndean?”

  Ryn’s grunt was commiserating, like the two were sharing a common thought. His roping muscles strained in preparation, and with a groan of effort he pressed himself up, more gently this time, and with greater success. After several second’s struggle he got himself into a lopsided, half-sitting position. The top of his head lifted to rise above them, spined ears—the size of a small man’s torso—clearing the nearby trees of the forest handedly.

  Declan, for the first time, found himself appreciating the dragon’s continued presence in his mind when he discovered he needed no more than a steadying breath to dissolve the pang of alarm that spasmed in his gut at the sight.

  A question I have myself, as well as the likeliest reasoning, Ryn answered Bonner finally. I’m not so out of practice for that encounter to have gone the way it did, especially with your assistance.

  “Imbued?” Bonner asked him, and Declan knew himself once again lost to the two’s conversation. He glanced at Ester, but the woman wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were wide, listening to the pair.

  Undoubtedly.

  “Well, there’s a simple way to confirm it.” Bonner eyed the dragon critically. “Are you strong enough to call up your fire now, or shall we let you rest a bit longer?”

  Ryn shook his head, standing a little taller, the new scars across his chest and shoulders straining against his scales. We don’t have the time to waste either way. I’ve enough for the task, and I can recuperate later.

  “Good.” Bonner turned to Declan and Ester, catching the former’s confused expression. “We’ll explain in a moment,” he said quickly, already moving past the pair, waving them back. “For now, get well behind Ryn, if you please.”

  This order, neither of them questioned. Declan—and Ester beside him, he suspected—had caught the gist of the last exchange, and they had no intention of staying in front of the dragon even if the mage hadn't ordered them away. They moved swiftly, around Ryn’s looming form, until they stood behind a rear leg each, on opposite sides of the base of his thick, ridged tail.

  You’re sure you’re alright?

  Ryn’s voice startled him slightly, and Declan glanced up. One golden eye was watching him, concern palpable in its depths. He got the impression the question had been only for him, seeing as Ester’s attention was fixed on her father, who was moving towards the trees.

  Declan smiled up at the dragon, then nodded, reaching out—with only the slightest hesitation—to pat the scaled flank on his left in reassurance.

  Then there came a strange, rustling sound, like the wind picking up over the field, and he, too, turned to see what Bonner was about.

  The mage was striding back towards them with slow, purposeful strides, one hand held out in front of him like he was pressing some invisible object along. At his feet, in a crumbled and broken pile of limbs and its one remaining wing, the body of the drey was keeping pace with him, sliding across the grass of the glen with disturbing fluidity. It moved like it was being toted on some low cart, similar to the ones Declan had seen the dock workers of the port cities of Vasteel and Sethylles using when loading and unloading heavy cargo. Only when Bonner got closer did he identify the trick of the mechanism.

  The grass itself was bending to the mage’s will, blades working together like ten thousand narrow arms to push the dead thing along and over them with alarming ease.

  When the drey’s body was some ten feet from Ryn’s planted front legs, Bonner released the spell, and the creature settled into the grass with a muffled thump. Declan couldn’t help but wince at the sudden movement, taking in the drey with measured fascination and disgust. In death the beast was hardly less terrifying than it had been in life. Its colorless eyes were gone, one crushed and one pierced by Ester’s grey-fletched arrow, still protruding from its skull, but from so close the other details of the thing were impossible to discount. The matted, knotted fur of its wolfish head and face, dyed dark around its mouth by what could only have been bloody, long-finished meals. The yellowed teeth, some cracked and rotting to match the dirty, broken claws of its remaining hand. The stump of its missing wing was charred, and the torn flesh of its right arm was crawling with flies already, as was the great, cleaved opening in the side of its neck Declan himself had delivered. Animals had worried at it, in the night, ripping hunks of meat from its ribs and legs, and he felt sorry for the poor creatures, imagining their torment after they’d swallowed the beast’s corrosive flesh and blood.

  He shivered, forcing himself to tear his eyes from the horrid thing, just in time for Bonner to start hurrying in his and Ester’s direction, motioning them even further back than they already were.

  “Past his tail, at least,” the old man chided, taking his daughter by the arm and giving Declan a look that said very plainly that he should follow. “Backs to the flames, obviously.”

  Declan trailed along dejectedly, having wanted to study Ryn’s summoning up of the dragonfire for as long as was tolerable, but Bonner’s tone made it clear he would bear no objections. With a twinge of disappointment he followed the yr’Essels further back, to the drying edge of the sinkhole itself. When they were ready, Bonner called a confirmation up to Ryn. Almost at once there was a deep, billowing intake of air, followed by a brief pause in which the glen itself could have been thought to be holding its breath right along with the dragon.

  And then the blast of gushing flames rocked the morning, keening and howling as loud as the roar of a storm over a buckling sea.

  The shockwave of heat caught their turned backs with enough force to make Ester and Bonner both stagger forward two steps. Declan managed hardly better, catching himself with an extended leg, and shouted in unexpected pain as the searing air stung the exposed, new skin of his scars. Fortunately the heat only lasted an instant, leaving the air almost chilly in its sudden absence and the world deceptively silent until the distant call of birds could be made out once more over the ringing in their ears. Together the three gathered themselves, turning back to the dragon and moving to stand alongside him again, eyes on the black crater he had made of the field before him.

  The crater, and the charred, blackened shapes tumbling haphazardly to pile up in its smoking, smoldering center.

  “Imbued,” Bonner grunted in what could only have been dissatisfied confirmation, and Declan saw Ryn’s head bob in acknowledgment overhead.

  Not a hint of the drey’s flesh remained, the fur and scales and muscles of its twisted form having burned and boiled away into instant ash. Its bones, on the other hand, had largely weathered the blast, and it was this fact that looked to have the mage and dragon so perturbed. Some of the more delicate among them were gone—the digits of its fingers and toes, some ribs, and those of the remaining wing—but Declan could identify the cage of the drey’s chest, the vertebrae of its spine, and—especially—its skull, the latter leering up at them in a lopsided grin from among the assortment.

  Abruptly, he understood, a detail of the fight coming back to him.

  “Its arm,” he said aloud, looking up at Ryn. “When you finally caught it. The bones survived the blast.”

  Ryn fixed him once again with a white-gold eye, looking impressed. Full marks on that deduction, I think. That was when I knew, too. I’d suspected—from the first encounter, I must say—but not until I had to spit out the remains of the limb was I sure. I can’t think of a beast in the world who can overcome a dragon’s fire without arcane assistance. Even our own hide isn’t completely impervious to it.

  “So it had help,” Ester said from Declan’s elbow, and he appreciated the tone of relief in her voice.

  “Aye,” Bonner answered flatly, squatting down at the edge of the smoking hole and extending a hand over it, wincing at what had to have been the bite of roiling heat. “And a lot of it, if I had to guess. For both of us to have had so much trouble with it…” He glanced up at Ryn, standing and pointing at the piled bones as he did. “Could you be so kind as to fetch me one of those, please? Any of them will do.”

  Ryn promptly bent down, nosing through the grisly stack until he gingerly plucked what might have been a femur—a three-foot-long femur—from among the mess with his jaws. He offered it to Bonner carefully, who reached out once again, letting his hand hover over the charred surface of the thing, then patted it carefully, clearly uninterested in burning himself.

  Finally, he accepted it from the dragon’s mouth outright, grasping it with both hands.

  “As I suspected. Cool to the touch. Woven to withstand heat, if I imagine, among other things.”

  For once, Declan understood what that meant, and he was almost pleased with himself upon realizing that he was starting to follow along just the slightest bit. “Imbued,” Bonner had said, and Declan knew now, what he had meant. Imbued. Infused. Fortified.

  The drey had been strengthened with magic.

  Declan felt an undeniable relief, at this revelation. It meant that Ryn and Bonner had not been as outmatched as one might have assumed, meant their ability was not lesser, but had rather been met pound for pound. His relief guttered, on the other, as he saw a dark look pass between the dragon and mage, some mutual understanding being shared in that brief exchange. Even as he watched them, the pair turned as one in his and Ester’s direction, Bonner’s braided beard creased into a frown beneath his bald pate, Ryn’s massive head alone taller than the height the man opposite him.

  “You two,” the mage said to the both of them, casting the femur back into the burning hollow at his back and wiping his hands on the front of his robes. The ash stains he left vanished in the blink of an eye, swallowed by what Declan now understood to be enchanted cloth. “Gather what things you have, and quickly. We need to be away from this place as soon as possible.”

  “What’s going on?” It was Ester who asked, voicing the question before Declan could get it out. “We knew there was a necromancer in Viridian. You said so yourself. Why is it important they imbued the drey?”

  It takes enormous power to collar a creature like that, Ester, Ryn answered gently, lifting a great foot to point at the beast’s charred remains without looking away from them. They’re made of magic, in their own way. Their blood alone is mostly ether, something human flesh can hardly tolerate contact with. He glanced over Declan’s scars again regretfully. A strong mage might be able to control one, but to strengthen it… It would be like trying to fire-harden stone.