deep sound that was neither growl nor cough nor roar nor rumble nor bellow, and Grandsir let out a scream and fell backward into the cellars, pulling the ladder down with him, knocking Arlian down and landing atop him, the ladder wedged across the passageway over both of them.
Somewhere above, flames blossomed into roaring brilliance.
The boyâs head hit the stone, and again Arlian was dazed; pain shot through his head and neck, and he tried to contract his spine, to pull himself inward in self-defense, but he was unable to move.
He lay sprawled on the stone, and Grandsir was sprawled atop him; the back of his grandfatherâs head was pressing down on his right eye, blocking his vision on that side. With his left eye he could see the burning ceiling far above, now pierced by widening flame-lit cracks, the remaining ceiling black between the lines of fire. Swirls of gray smoke filled much of the ladderwell now and dimmed the light, even though the flames were bright and the ceiling was splitting and crumbling. He could see the left side of his grandfatherâs face, more or less, but it was so close he had difficulty focusing on it.
Grandsirâs weight on Arlianâs chest was so much, and the smoke so thick, that he couldnât get his breath to speakâand Grandsir did not speak.
Even if Arlian had been able to speak, and Grandsir to hear, he wasnât sure he would be heard. Above them the pantry and the surrounding village were roaring chaos, a constant hammering of undifferentiated soundâflame and wind and terror.
Grandsir did not move to get up, did not stir, did not raise his hands or shift his feet. He lay still. Arlian thought he might be dead, but that blurry, out-of-focus bit he could see did not seem lifelessâArlian could see motion, as if Grandsir were blinking, or twitching.
But then he managed to blink the smoke from his eye and get a clearer look, and realized that what he could see was not Grandsirâs own face moving, but something on his faceâsomething liquid, something that seethed and steamed and roiled.
Arlian desperately wanted to shriek at the sight of that, but he couldnât get enough air; he let out a strangled moan and struggled to free his left armâhis right was too securely pinned under Grandsirâs body.
Red and gray fluid was bubbling up where Grandsirâs left eye should have been; a bright, sharp stink scorched through Arlianâs nostrils, making it even harder to draw the deep breath he desperately needed. Arlianâs mouth was wide open as he sucked frantically for air.
He watched in sickened horror as the thick red fluid oozed down Grandsirâs cheek.
That was not just blood. Blood would have been bad enoughâto have his grandfather lying atop him, perhaps dead, perhaps dying, with blood welling up from his eye socket, would have been terrible enough to give Arlian nightmares for years. But this was not just blood; human blood did not steam and bubble, and was never so viscous.
Arlian knew what had happened. The third dragon had looked into the pantry and seen Grandsir there, and Grandsir had shouted defiance. The dragon had listened for a moment, then grown annoyed. It had been unable to reach into the stone pantry with fang or claw, had not wanted to trouble itself with smashing down the stone walls, so it had breathed its fiery venom at Grandsir.
But the dragon had been so close to the old man that the venom would not burn, so close it had not time to ignite; instead it had struck Grandsir full in the face as a toxic spray. Some had burst into flame when it struck the hot ceiling or the back wall of the ladderwell, but the liquid that had hit Grandsir had remained venom, rather than fuel.
And if the stories were right, it was eating the flesh from his grandfatherâs bones.
Arlian almost hoped Grandsir was dead, for his sakeâbut for his own, he hoped the old man still lived, and might somehow help them