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The sharp slicing of Myn's claws into the snow left a clear path to follow, but the rising wind was quickly wiping them away. Racing against time, Myranda trudged through the snow, knee-deep at times, as quickly as her legs could manage. She ignored the savage burning of the wind in her eyes, knowing that if she lost sight of the trail for even a moment, she might never find it again. All the while, she kept her left hand clenched angrily about the front of her cloak, holding it closed and squeezing at the mark that had brought her such misfortune, as though if she punished it enough it would release her from its accursed grasp.
The shadows lengthened as she trudged onward. Long ago, the prints had been wiped away. She moved now on hope alone. For once, luck did not fail her. Ahead, she found a patch of snow stained red by the blood beneath it. The patch stood out against the stark white that surrounded it. The snow, blown about by the savage wind, had faded but not erased the remains of the battle that Wolloff had described. It must have been a terrible one. Though she could not be certain, the half-hidden footfalls scattered about the clearing seemed to have belonged to a half-dozen or so men.
Four did not live to see the end of the battle. The bodies must have been taken; in their places, helmets had been left, hung atop swords stuck into the earth in the center of the bloody spill that marked their end. The helms were elaborate, iron with dark blue enamel covering the whole surface, save a few areas that bore gold detailing. Rising from the peak was a white plume that looked to be horse hair.
"So they were soldiers," she said through wind-burned lips.
She searched the ground with her eyes, but there was no sign of Myn having even been there. The telltale dimples in the snow left by the soldiers' horses all led almost directly to the north. Myranda, with nowhere else to go, followed them. If Myn had not reached them before the battle had ended, then she might have met them further on.
It was not long before she found the site of a different battle. More blood spilled, and a single helmet, left seemingly out of carelessness rather than memorial. Beside the blood-spattered helmet was a deep furrow left by the spirited movements of a creature's claws. Further on, there was a deep pit in the snow, almost to the ground, that bore its own stain, though this blood was of a thicker, darker variety. Precisely the kind that was left in the wake of the elder dragon's rampage. There was no doubt. It was Myn's.
"No!" Myranda cried out.
She threw herself into the snow, digging her fingers into the windblown flakes just as the first crystals of the long impending storm began to fall. Myranda stood. The pit was empty. Squinting, she made out a tiny speck of red, followed by another, and another. She followed the trail of drops to its end. There she found the prone, motionless form of the little dragon. She was cold to the touch, nearly as cold as the snow that half buried her. Two vicious injuries marred her hide, clearly the cause of her collapse. Myranda dropped to her knees and placed her ear to the dragon's chest. There was the weakest thump of a struggling heart to be heard. The tiniest whisper of life, the smallest glimmer of hope.
Myranda analyzed the wounds. There was a horrid gash running along her neck and down her side, cleaving whole scales and clotted with sticky, near-black blood. The second injury was smaller, a notch cut into her crown scale. The thick protective piece of armor had done its work. Only a trickle of blood escaped the wound left by a blow that would have killed a lesser creature.
The novice healer prepared to make use of her fresh knowledge. Suddenly her heart dropped as she realized her carelessness. A crystal! She'd forgotten to take one! She had never been able to cast a spell without one. There was no time to lose though. If she delayed for even a moment, she could lose her friend forever. She placed her hands on the dragon's neck. The creature's unique blood burned at her fingers, but she ignored it. Her mind needed silence for the spell to work. Every thought had to be washed away to provide a trance deep enough to allow her words to reach the ears of those forces that could put them to reality. The lack of a crystal made it difficult, but the high emotions made it near impossible.
She tried, and tried, but she couldn't manage to ignore the fear and sorrow she felt for the only creature that cared for her. Tears flowed from her eyes and stung her cheeks as the flood of powerful emotions fought back. The harder she tried to focus, the more she thought of the danger her friend was in. Her mind swirled, but she could not relent. The feelings intensified until she could not bear it. Finally, she spoke the arcane words. If she could not draw the strength from calm focus, then she had no choice to try to draw it from the maelstrom in her mind.
The words began to do their work, though weakly. Slowly she felt the gash begin to close beneath her fingers, but not completely. She spoke the words again, and again. Each speaking brought the wound closer to disappearing, and brought Myranda closer to collapse. The last trickle of the blood escaped the wound as the apprentice wizard finally passed the breaking point, falling forward. Large, icy flakes of snow began to fall with all of the force of a blizzard as the world faded from her view.