Wistala squeezed herself out of the troll-cave and flew downslope.
She, who as Queen-Consort had once directed the defense of the Lavadome against an invasion, who had held the Red Mountain pass with a handful of Firemaids against the Ironrider hordes, now waged campaigns against trolls and hurried to find dwarfsbeard to patch a painful but minor wound.
The terrible methodology of war, the chaos and life-and-death decision making, the ceremonies over the dead and the praise to the heroic living . . .
She didn’t miss any of it one bit.
She would so much rather be trading philosophy with DharSii after a good dinner, or watching birds go about their clockwork routines, or trying her voice at poetry.
Alighting at the fallen tree, she searched for the ropy mass of dwarfsbeard. Yes, there it was, a thick tangle of hair run wild on an ancient dwarf. When broken and pulled apart, the thick white glue, like a thicker and stickier dandelion milk, acted on wounds, both cleaning them and speeding healing.
Unlike on her long-ago errands with her father to gather dwarfsbeard, now she simply broke off the rooted end of the trunk, thick with water that was pooling and rotting out the wood, and flew back, holding the piece of tree tight under her chest. They could pluck it off the stump at leisure.
She returned and found Yefkoa unconscious.
“Just as well,” DharSii said. “With that skin missing and torn, it must be painful. She won’t have an easy recovery.”
“I doubt she’ll be able to move,” Wistala said. “We’ll have to fly some blighters up here to tend to her wounds and sew her up again.”
“She endangered her life to bring us this news,” DharSii said. “A brave dragonelle. Yefkoa. She’s an important dragonelle, I believe.”
“A member of the Firemaids. Ayafeeia’s personal messenger, I believe.”
“Strange of her to ask for you, then, if there’s war building,” DharSii said. “She’s breaking the Tyr’s law. That could be used against her.”
“No, she’s too popular. Ayafeeia has an irreproachable reputation for fairness. The new Tyr and his Queen would be fools to go against her.”
“Oooh, glad that’s over,” a new, high-pitched voice squeaked.
DharSii and Wistala turned and sniffed.
A huge leathery bat emerged from behind Yefkoa’s ear like a groundhog coming out of its hole.
“Beggin’ your pardon, your worship. M’name’s Larb, one of Tyr RuGaard’s faithful servants. Oooh, I’m chilled. No bat was ever meant to fly so high. I’m frozen from ear-tip to fantail. I’m not askin’ too much by supposin’ you could—”
“Don’t listen to him,” the exhausted dragonelle said, opening a bloodshot eye. “He’s one of your brother’s dragon-blooded bats.”
“Then he can leave off begging us and go to work on your wound,” Wistala said. “No opening up a fresh vein while you’re in there, either, you little flying rat, or I’ll toast you with some mushrooms.”
“No need for threats, now,” Larb said, scuttling behind Yefkoa’s crest for cover. “I’ll lick the wound clean, I will. It’s just that I’m so stiff and sore from the cold of the airs.”
The bat scooted across Yefkoa’s flank and buried its nose in the wound, licking and snipping ragged flesh with sharp little snaggleteeth.
Bat saliva, Wistala had learned, brought a pleasant numbness to minor wounds.
“We’ll need to close that up as soon as possible, dwarfsbeard or no,” DharSii said. “Perhaps, Yefkoa, you can make it out into the light. Fresh air and what passes for sunlight around here will help keep it clean until we can get you stitched up. I know instinct is to retreat to a cave to lick your wounds, but in the interests of hygiene—”
“My love,” Wistala interrupted. “Your turn to run for help. Go back to the hall and get some blighters who can stitch wounds, won’t you?”
“Of course,” DharSii said. “I shall return with help before the sun peaks.”
He exited and Wistala listened to the fading beats of his wings before returning to Yefkoa. She nosed more dwarfsbeard into the trail left by the cleaning bat.
Yefkoa winced as the bat incautiously planted a wing on raw muscle beneath torn-away skin. The bat’s tongue quickened, dabbing up blood and bits of ragged flesh.
“What brought you such a distance, through cold and winter storm and danger?” Wistala asked, both curious and eager to divert her relative-by-mating from the bat’s not-so-tender ministrations.
Yefkoa managed to raise her head. “Another civil war’s begun. Struggle for power between NiVom and Imfamnia against the twins. Skotl kills wyrr. Assassin hominids kill Protectors in their resorts. It will be the death of all of us.”