Thirteen days before the Black Mausoleum
Pain. Pain and hardship. You learned to live with them. Sometimes they were friends, telling you things you needed to know. More often they were adversaries, but they were old foes and known ones. They were comfortable companions if not welcome ones.
Took him a while when he woke up to realise where he was. For a bit he thought he was back in the catacombs under Bloodsalt, that the dragon throwing rocks at him had finally hit him. He could even see someone lying beside him. Vish. Or maybe not.
After that he thought he must be dying. Certainly felt like it.
Bits of memory landed like snowflakes. Bloodsalt, that had been a long time ago, hadn’t it? Or was the time he’d spent in the Pinnacles somehow before?
There was an alchemist. That was after.
That man on the floor there wasn’t Vish.
He saw a bottle. Wine. Yes, he remembered. There had been wine.
He let out a low groan. He’d drunk himself stupid enough times. It had never been like this. Wine must have had something in it. Where was he?
He rolled onto his front, crawled into a corner and was sick. Stale fish. Ancestors but that was bad.
When his stomach stopped heaving, he took a few breaths then sat up. He rubbed his eyes. There were steps. Wooden slats above. Bright sunlight streaming between them. A trapdoor. A cellar then. Yes, slowly it was coming back, where he was and why and where he was going. He was in Scarsdale and everything had burned and they were running from the dragons. Always. Running home, even if they all knew they were never going to get there.
Carelessly he rubbed his head. Almost screamed, the pain was that blinding. Touched more softly now. There was blood crusted through his hair. A lump the size of an egg.
That explained the pain then. Vishmir’s cock!
Fishing. He remembered fishing. Remembered coming back. Cooking. He’d been reeling by the time he was done. Then…
Something about an alchemist. Alchemists. That’s why they were going home.
Ancestors! His head felt like someone had taken an axe to it. He must have fallen. Must have. Couldn’t remember…
He was fading again. Sleep creeping over him like blanket. He was still drunk. Probably a good thing that. Probably eased the pain. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, forced himself to look into the little pouch he still carried with him, the one he’d had ever since he left the Adamantine Palace. All the things the alchemists made for the Adamantine Men before they went to die. Most of them had got used up on the way to Bloodsalt, but not this.
Bloodsalt? Why was he in Bloodsalt? That wasn’t the way home? Was that where here was?
There was a dragon in Bloodsalt. It had killed Vish.
His eyes wouldn’t focus. Couldn’t see what he was doing in the half-dark anyway. He let his nose do the working, sifting through the little waxed paper packets of this and that until he found what he was looking for. Dreamleaf, mixed with just a touch of Petrios venom. Whatever that was. Something to take the edge off the pain. Something to keep a man going. A pinch, that was supposed to be enough.
He took two. Dropped them in a water skin. Forced himself to drink the lot. Just about managed that before his eyes closed and he slumped back to the floor. When it was sunset and they were getting ready to move again, someone would tell him how he’d hurt his head.
Except the next time he woke, the sun had set and it was dark outside and he was alone, and when he tried the cellar door, it wouldn’t move.