Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [68]
Maxon coughed.
Fenworth laughed. “Not you. Our patient.”
The unconscious tumanhofer coughed.
“Very obliging,” said Fenworth and pulled his equipment out, handing it to Maxon. “Take that back to Librettowit. He’ll know how to clean it.” He hollered over the departing kimen. “Wit, I need some admitriol ointment.”
Fenworth pointed to a bluish smudge on Bealomondore’s temple. “The thumb here and four more bruises coming up along the back of his head, under his hair. The Grawl has a powerful grip. Tut, tut. Could use it in more constructive endeavors. Oh dear, the folly of men.”
With gentle movements, he felt the scalp and then ran fingers down Bealomondore’s neck. “He’s going to have quite a headache. He’s got these five indentations around his noggin. The bone is shattered but not pushed in too deeply. His brain is all right, no damage to his thinking. Nasty headache, very nasty I should think. And The Grawl jarred his neck muscles in quite a beastly manner.”
Tipper relaxed. Fenworth had called Bealomondore’s head a noggin. No nonsense had come out of the old man’s mouth since he first started working on their friend. Noggin meant the wizard was hopeful. Muscles jarred in a beastly manner referred to that creature, The Grawl. A pun of sorts. Obviously the seriousness of the injury was no longer an issue that quelled Fenworth’s fantastic flamboyance. Bealomondore would be all right.
“Tipper, rub this ointment very gently on the bluish spots.” He handed her the glass jar Maxon had brought from Librettowit. “And give me your dragon. I can’t stand that awful color for another moment.”
The wizard got up and traded places with Tipper. She knelt beside Bealomondore’s head and unscrewed the jar lid.
“Phew! Are you sure this goo is still good, Wizard Fenworth? It smells like it turned.”
“Turned? Confound it, girl, it smells like the admit root it comes from. Admitriol is supposed to stink, or it wouldn’t do any good. The ointment will foster the healing of all those shattered vessels carrying blood, and the smell should bring our patient around. When he starts complaining that he can’t breathe through the stench, we’ll know he’s out of the woods.”
Fenworth stroked Rayn’s back. Tipper divided her attention between smoothing the smelly medicine onto Bealomondore’s battered head and watching the wizard work with her dragon.
“Librettowit, Hollee,” he called, “look for tincture of trussell. I shall need two types of torleo, the red and the blue. Of course there is the yellow, but that is for aching feet, and our patient isn’t awake to tell us the state of his feet. And Librettowit, didn’t we pack croomulite? Yes, yes, I’m sure we did. See if you can’t find that as well.”
The Grawl advanced through the forest with as much stealth as usual, but he had tuned out his awareness of his surroundings. Images of the old man plagued him. The sword had sprung from the ground of its own accord. No, the wizard had seized the sword with his magic.
Where had he come from? He hadn’t been with the others when The Grawl watched their clumsy escape from the boat stop. He hadn’t shown up to aid in the fight against the attackers. This morning The Grawl had not bothered to check on the progress of the emerlindian’s lost comrades.
To be taken by surprise was humiliating. To be vanquished by mere words was unthinkable.
Something about the authority in the old man’s voice had sent a tremor of terror coursing through his veins. Now that he was out of the o’rant wizard’s sight, it seemed implausible that he, The Grawl, had reacted so.
There hadn’t really been fire in the wizard’s eyes. The air around them had not turned frigid. The Grawl had not felt panic, no sensation of being trapped, no quailing before a person of greater force than himself. It was all nonsense.
Before, he’d been content to allow the old man to exist.
Now, The Grawl would subdue this wizard.
But first he would go home. His arsenal would provide him with the edge he needed.
He stopped in a clearing no more than six