to fade, but then Dervish winks at me. “Only kidding. You were great.” He wipes sweat and blood from his forehead, then coughs. “I’m beat. Meera was right — I’m getting old and slow. I need to sit down. I feel . . .”
Dervish’s face blanches. His lips go tight and his eyes bulge. He staggers back a step, gasps for air, then collapses. Meera screams his name and rushes to his side.
“What is it?” I cry, whirling around, testing the air for traces of a spell being cast against us.
“Dervish?” Meera asks, holding his arms steady as he thrashes weakly on the floor.
“Who’s doing this?” I bellow. “I can’t sense anybody. I don’t know what sort of a spell they’re using.”
“Quiet,” Meera says. She tugs her cardigan off and slides it under Dervish’s head. His face has turned as grey as his beard. His eyelids are closed. His chest is rising and falling roughly.
“But the spell! I must —”
“There isn’t any spell,” Meera says softly, stroking the tufts of hair at the sides of Dervish’s head. She’s studying him with warm sadness, like a mother nursing a seriously ill baby.
“Then what is it?” I stumble towards her, stopping short of Dervish’s twitching feet. “What’s wrong with him?”
Meera looks up. There’s fear in her eyes, but it isn’t fear of demons, werewolves, or magic. “He’s had a heart attack,” she says.
WAITING FOR THE CAVALRY
H EART attacks were rare in my time. People didn’t smoke (tobacco wouldn’t be introduced to our part of the world for nearly another thousand years) or eat unhealthy food. Most of us didn’t live long enough to suffer the modern curse of middle age. A few of my clan died of weak hearts, but they were exceptions.
Nevertheless, I’m a healer. Once Meera has explained Dervish’s condition to me and we’ve laid him in a comfortable position, I set to work. Without touching him, I feed magic to his heart, softly warming it, keeping the valves open. Some color seeps into his face and he breathes more easily, but he doesn’t regain consciousness.
“Will he live?” Meera asks quietly.
“I don’t know.” I study his face for signs of improvement but find none.
The werewolves are hammering at the door behind us. People are attacking the other door with axes. I direct magic into the wood and walls to keep out the intruders. I also mute the sounds, so we can focus on Dervish and monitor his breathing.
“Can you look after him by yourself for a while?” Meera asks.
“Yes.”
She moves away, digs out her cell phone and presses buttons. “Hell! I don’t have a signal.”
I consider the problem, then mutter a short spell. “Try now.”
Meera smiles her thanks, then makes several calls. She doesn’t bother with the police. This is a job for beings of magic — the Disciples.
Meera’s on the phone for half an hour. I keep a close watch on Dervish. He looks terrible, much older than he did an hour ago. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the next few days.
Meera finally puts her phone away and returns to my side. “How is he?”
“Alive. For now.”
“Can you use magic to keep him healthy?”
“I can help. There’s more power here than in the house, but it’s still limited. If he has another attack . . .” I shake my head.
“Do your best,” Meera says, giving my arm a squeeze. “Disciples are on their way. They’ll be here within twenty-four hours. We can transfer him to a hospital then.”
“In his state, that will be a long time,” I tell her. “You should prepare for the worst.”
She chuckles weakly. “I’m a Disciple, Bec. We always expect the worst.”
We settle back and watch in silence as Dervish quietly duels with death.
After a few hours the sounds of the werewolves and their companions fade. Have they left or are they lurking nearby, trying to tempt us out? No way of telling. Best not to venture forth and chance it. Safer to sit tight and wait for help.
We have to deal
Dervish’s face blanches. His lips go tight and his eyes bulge. He staggers back a step, gasps for air, then collapses. Meera screams his name and rushes to his side.
“What is it?” I cry, whirling around, testing the air for traces of a spell being cast against us.
“Dervish?” Meera asks, holding his arms steady as he thrashes weakly on the floor.
“Who’s doing this?” I bellow. “I can’t sense anybody. I don’t know what sort of a spell they’re using.”
“Quiet,” Meera says. She tugs her cardigan off and slides it under Dervish’s head. His face has turned as grey as his beard. His eyelids are closed. His chest is rising and falling roughly.
“But the spell! I must —”
“There isn’t any spell,” Meera says softly, stroking the tufts of hair at the sides of Dervish’s head. She’s studying him with warm sadness, like a mother nursing a seriously ill baby.
“Then what is it?” I stumble towards her, stopping short of Dervish’s twitching feet. “What’s wrong with him?”
Meera looks up. There’s fear in her eyes, but it isn’t fear of demons, werewolves, or magic. “He’s had a heart attack,” she says.
WAITING FOR THE CAVALRY
H EART attacks were rare in my time. People didn’t smoke (tobacco wouldn’t be introduced to our part of the world for nearly another thousand years) or eat unhealthy food. Most of us didn’t live long enough to suffer the modern curse of middle age. A few of my clan died of weak hearts, but they were exceptions.
Nevertheless, I’m a healer. Once Meera has explained Dervish’s condition to me and we’ve laid him in a comfortable position, I set to work. Without touching him, I feed magic to his heart, softly warming it, keeping the valves open. Some color seeps into his face and he breathes more easily, but he doesn’t regain consciousness.
“Will he live?” Meera asks quietly.
“I don’t know.” I study his face for signs of improvement but find none.
The werewolves are hammering at the door behind us. People are attacking the other door with axes. I direct magic into the wood and walls to keep out the intruders. I also mute the sounds, so we can focus on Dervish and monitor his breathing.
“Can you look after him by yourself for a while?” Meera asks.
“Yes.”
She moves away, digs out her cell phone and presses buttons. “Hell! I don’t have a signal.”
I consider the problem, then mutter a short spell. “Try now.”
Meera smiles her thanks, then makes several calls. She doesn’t bother with the police. This is a job for beings of magic — the Disciples.
Meera’s on the phone for half an hour. I keep a close watch on Dervish. He looks terrible, much older than he did an hour ago. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the next few days.
Meera finally puts her phone away and returns to my side. “How is he?”
“Alive. For now.”
“Can you use magic to keep him healthy?”
“I can help. There’s more power here than in the house, but it’s still limited. If he has another attack . . .” I shake my head.
“Do your best,” Meera says, giving my arm a squeeze. “Disciples are on their way. They’ll be here within twenty-four hours. We can transfer him to a hospital then.”
“In his state, that will be a long time,” I tell her. “You should prepare for the worst.”
She chuckles weakly. “I’m a Disciple, Bec. We always expect the worst.”
We settle back and watch in silence as Dervish quietly duels with death.
After a few hours the sounds of the werewolves and their companions fade. Have they left or are they lurking nearby, trying to tempt us out? No way of telling. Best not to venture forth and chance it. Safer to sit tight and wait for help.
We have to deal
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