Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [13]
Since beginning his trek across the plain he had survived by eating… what? Cantor knew he hadn’t killed anything, and there was nothing even remotely edible growing on the parched and arid desert. He had vague memories of carrion, rank and putrid meat surrounded by a maggot-infested pelt, but the gorging upon that foul meal had been a reflexive act, driven by mindless hunger.
And afterward he had been sick, his gut wracked by spasms and cramps that had dropped him in his tracks. Now he lay where he had fallen on the cracked plain, in this place, for more days than he knew. Several times since, just when he thought that the merciless sun must at last kill him, must finally bring to an end the awful suffering, he had been spared by sunset.
In fact, it had just happened again. Cantor’s tongue was thick and dry in his mouth, and his parched lips cracked and bled with every effort of movement. He pushed himself over to lie on his back, staring upward at the vault of sky, seeing the pale wash of illumination, so cool and distant, that characterized the heavens on clear nights such as this. He had no knowledge of stars-Theiwar vision was far too imprecise to pick out the distant spots of illumination-but he knew there was something bright up there, something aloof and mocking.
He wanted only to die, but it seemed that Krynn itself conspired to keep him alive.
“Hey, fellow? I don’t want to be rude, but that’s an odd place to make a camp.”
At first Cantor thought the words to be the products of another feverish dream, an attempt to drive him still further into madness. Yet he forced his aching tongue to move and parted his blistered lips enough to articulate a reply.
“I sleep where I will! I am dwarf, master of all beyond Thorbardin!” he boldly proclaimed. At least, he tried to boldly proclaim; the dryness of his throat reduced the proud boast to little more than a prolonged croak.
“Wait. I can’t understand you. Do you want something to drink?”
Cantor couldn’t reply, and in fact wondered why anyone who possessed such a magical voice would have trouble understanding his own profound response. Yet before he could voice his question, he felt a warm trickle over his lips. Reflexively he swallowed, and the water sent a jolt of pure pleasure through his parched body.
“How’s that? More?”
Now the dwarf could see a dim shape, a shadow outlined against the glow of the sky. Close before him, wonderful wetness dripped from the end of a waterskin. With a reflexive grab, fearful that the precious nectar would be snatched away, Cantor reached up with both hands, tearing the skin out of small fingers, thrusting the nozzle to his lips.
Water gushed into his mouth, soaking his bristling beard, causing him to choke and sputter – but still he guzzled desperately.
“Hey, don’t drink it all!”
Cantor felt those small fingers touch his hands, and he growled a wet, splattering exhalation fierce enough to drive the figure of his rescuer hastily back a couple of steps.
“Well, I guess you can drink it all if you want,” said that same voice, with a sigh of resignation. “Still, we might be better off saving a little for later – that is, if you want to. Well, I guess you don’t.”
Cantor, in any event, needed no permission. Indeed, he would have been halted by no command. When the skin was empty, he sucked on the small spout, chewing frantically, as if he would devour the very vessel itself.
“Wait! Don’t wreck it!” Insistent now, the small hands came out of the darkness, seizing the drained waterskin and pulling it away.
The dwarf made an effort to resist, but his gut was taken by an abrupt spasm that wrenched him into a ball, then threatened to send all that precious water spuming back out of him. Clenching his jaws, tightening his gorge, Cantor resisted the nausea with the full strength of his will, forced the life-giving sustenance to remain in his belly. Gradually, over the course of minutes, he felt the water seep into his limbs, his brain, invigorating his thoughts, restoring some measure of acuity to his eyes,