“No. It’s covered with dragon blood.”
“Mayanchi blood. The little dragons are called Mayanchi,” he says. He lifts his uninjured hand and touches the skin. “It stings,” he says, looking at his fingers. There is a bit of inky blood on them. He touches one fingertip to his tongue and frowns, spitting. Squatting, he picks up his sword and balances it across his knees. The blade is glossy with blood. Taking the scrap of fabric from me, he wipes the weapon. Everywhere the blood is removed, the metal is as bright and shiny as newly forged and polished steel and pocked with shallow holes. “It eats through metal,” he whispers, wiping his face and neck with his sleeve. “Do you have any on you?” His eyes quickly scan me, and I shake my head. “Good. You need to clean that knife, quickly.”
I tear another scrap from my skirt and wipe the hunting knife clean. The metal practically glows.
Golmarr eyes the knife. “When you use that to fight, don’t do little chops. Either hold it with both of your hands and swing with all of your strength, or better yet, use the tip and stab, thrusting with all of your weight. Aim for an eye if you can. It is soft and vulnerable.” He pulls the arrow out of the eye of the beast lying dead at his feet and grunts. Where the dragon’s blood has touched it, the wood is corroded. “Nayadi once told me that dragons have acidic blood, but I never believed her, because how could a blind old woman know something like that?”
I am hardly listening. My feet are throbbing. Burning. I look down. My white velvet slippers are oily black, and tendrils of steam are rising from them. I am standing in a shallow pool of dragon blood, from the beast I killed. I yank the slippers off as fast as I can and throw them, then tear more of my skirt off and plop down on the cave floor. Without a thought for manners or modesty, I spit on each foot and scrub at the blood coating them. The fabric removes the surface blood, but the creases in the soles are lined with black. “I need water,” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. My feet are still burning.
“I know, but we don’t have any.” Golmarr stands and wobbles. “Let’s keep going. There is bound to be water somewhere in this cave. Dragons have to drink, right?” He holds his hand out and I take it. “You saved my life.” He pulls me close and looks right into my eyes. His hazel eyes, lit by the dim glow of the dragon scale, are beautiful. “Thank you.” He puts a finger to his forehead and then crosses it with his other finger. Honored friend.
For once, Golmarr is slower than me. Even with my feet bare and stinging, and a body that has never done anything more physical than dance lessons and riding docile horses, I am the one waiting for him as he slowly makes his way up and down boulders.
We pass the Mayanchi Golmarr shot. Some are still alive, so Golmarr holds his sword in his left hand and kills them, cleaning his blade each time. “I had hoped to salvage some of the arrows,” he mumbles. I look at his quiver. Three arrows with red fletching poke out above the leather lip.
“You only have three left?” I ask, panic apparent in my voice.
He looks at me sidelong. “I wore my ceremonial clothing and weapons today. I only had three to begin with, but my brothers gave me their arrows before I came after you, so I had twenty-seven.” A hint of a smile touches his face, and I realize his skin is covered with sweat. “If I’d known I was going to be fighting dragons with you, Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara, I would have most definitely packed a full quiver.” He stops walking. “Will you hold the dragon scale over my injury?” I do as he asks. The bandage is soaked through with blood. Around the crimson bandage, the skin is puffy. I touch his skin. It feels like meat fresh off the fire. Slowly, I pull my hand away.
“I have never been taught healing of any kind,” I say, “but I don’t think that amount of swelling and heat is normal for a fresh wound.”
He shakes his head and grimaces. “I’ve had my fair share of injuries, and none of them have ever hurt like this. I think I’ve been poisoned. The Mayanchi must have some sort of venom.”
“Are you going to die?” I blurt before I think.
“Possibly. I feel like I’m dying already.” He turns away from me and starts vomiting. I grab his thick hair in a handful at the nape of his neck and hold it out of the way. When he is done, he wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve and throws his arm over my shoulder. “That’s a little better,” he says, and we start walking.
I slide my arm behind Golmarr’s back and hold him close. His body is firm beneath my hand, and every time he takes a step, I can feel his muscles move beneath his skin. He smells like leather and sweat and smoke and blood. His long hair falls over my shoulder, and his weight makes walking ten times more awkward. “So,” I say, pretending that having my arm around the lean waist of a horse lord is a totally normal thing. “How many horses do you have?”