Read Online The Dragon's Son by Margaret Weis - Free Book Online Page B

at him and
saw how small he was and how lonely and forlorn.
    “Me, too,” she said simply.
     

7
     
    BELLONA STEERED CLEAR OF THE FAIREGROUNDS, MADE a wide detour around them.
She did not enter the city of Fair-field, but avoided that, too, following a
circuitous path that led south along the river. They traveled several furlongs
away from the city before Bellona deemed it safe to return to the road. She was
growing increasingly concerned over Ven. He made no complaint and he managed to
keep up the swift pace she set, but his limp was worse. The bruised leg was
obviously causing him pain.
    Bellona glanced to the west, to the sun sinking gently into a feathery cloud
bank of purple and saffron. Night would be on them soon. She toyed with the
idea of halting for Ven’s sake, but she wanted to put as much distance between
Ven and Draconas as possible. They could walk another couple of miles before
darkness forced them to make camp. Ven could keep going a little longer. After
all, Bellona reasoned, he’d have all the night to rest his leg.
    The two of them had the road to themselves. What few travelers they met were
all heading toward the city, making haste, so as not to be benighted in the
wilderness. Bellona had no fears on that score. Danger lay in the hot and noisy
city, not in the quiet, cool darkness. When the last vestige of the sun’s
afterglow faded from the heavens and the evening star shone bright against
blue-black, Bellona began to search for a place to camp. The night was hot,
oppressive. There would be rain before morning.
    The highway dipped down a steep hill, then dove into a thick woods. She
could not see the river that was off to her left, but she could hear it.
    “We will camp beside the riverbank,” she announced to Ven.
    “Excuse me,” came a woman’s voice, panting from exertion, quite close to
them. “But aren’t you the boy from the faire?”
    Startled, Bellona whipped around, her hand on her sword’s hilt. She had kept
close watch on the road and she could have sworn that there had been no one
either ahead of them or behind them.
    She faced a holy woman dressed in the clothing of her faith—plain black
robes, a black wimple that hugged her plump face. She had been running, which
perhaps explained why Bellona had not seen her.
    Hand on her breast, gasping, the nun added, “You are swift walkers. I have
nearly run my legs off, catching up to you. I was concerned about the boy, you
see.”
    Her face and her hands were all that were visible of her in the darkness, a
pale blur in the lambent light. She was a stout woman and her broad bosom
heaved from her exertions.
    Bellona turned away. “No need. He is fine, as you see. Come along, Ven.”
    Ven did as he was told, but he turned his head to stare at the holy sister
over his shoulder.
    The sister did not take the hint. She hastened after them, her wimple
billowing out behind her in the freshening breeze.
    “I saw that ill-favored man carry him off and I was very worried. I thank
God that the boy is safe, though I see he is limping. After the mauling he
took, I am surprised he can walk at all. I have some knowledge of the healing
arts. Why don’t you let me examine his wound? We don’t want it to putrefy.”
    The sister did not say this all at once. After each sentence, she was forced
to catch breath enough for the next. Bellona quickened her pace. By the way she
was wheezing, the stout sister wouldn’t be able to keep up with them for long.
    The sister proved dogged, persistent. She waddled on, prattling away. “There
is a shrine just ahead. A clear spring runs there. Its waters are in truth the
tears of the blessed Saint—”
    Cloaked and muffled figures wielding cudgels sprung up out of a ditch.
    The nun gasped then shrieked. “Help! Merciful saints defend us!”
    A blow struck Bellona on the back of her head. Pain blazed yellow behind her
eyes. She staggered, her hand clutching at her sword.
    Her blurred eyes found Ven. “Run!”