Strange to ride on someone else's dragon. Even when he stole dragons for his father, he never tried to get on their backs. He'd only ridden one other dragon besides Decepshun, but the one time he'd ridden Beau, he'd been too focused on deposing his father. Now that he was back on Beau again, the difference between him and Decepshun was stark. She was almost serpentine in her movements, smoothly gliding around and through every obstacle. Beau, on the other hand, was sheer power, galloping so hard that the riders felt the shock waves of his paws hitting the asphalt.

"How much farther?" he mumbled, wondering if Artha would even hear him over the wind and Beau's running.

"We're here," Artha answered.

Slowing Beau down as they came into the stables, Artha took them into an empty stall and gently lay Decepshun on the floor. Without waiting for help, Moordryd stood in the saddle and stepped off, landing off-balance and falling on his side next to his dragon. He groaned and sat up, leaning against Decepshun as he opened his eyes. The stable spun around and everything inside wavered like a mirage, blurring and melting into each other.

"Are you trying to hurt yourself?" Artha snapped, jumping to land beside him. "Moordryd?"

The pale teen didn't answer. His eyes stared at nothing, unfocused and too bright. Leaving them under Beau's supervsion, Artha ran out of the stable and into the house, calling his father's name. Moordryd heard him as if he was yelling underwater and far away.

Before he could give into sleep, Decepshun shifted under him, grunting as she tried to lift her head. Belatedly, he remembered that she still wore his saddle.

"Hang on," he mumbled. "Just a second."

Turning over onto his hands and knees, he shook his head a few times to clear it, then got to his feet and put his hands on the saddle. Thanks to years of practice, he didn't need to see what he was doing, his hands following the familiar routine of disengaging the mag-locks. Once it was loose enough, Decepshun gave a shake of her head and let it slide off.

Moordryd dropped back to the ground and draped himself across his dragon's neck. She barely felt his light weight, but she turned her head slightly to brush her snout against his leg. He responded by rubbing the top of her head the way he always did when she was spooked.

"Don' worry, girl," he whispered, slurring his words together. "I won' let 'em hurt you. I'll call Cain, get the crew together. Even stable brat can't stop the whole crew."

She snorted. Whether she agreed or thought he was being ridiculous, he couldn't tell.

"I'll call him," he continued, lowering his head. "As soon as I can get up again."

But he didn't feel like getting up anytime soon. He lay his head down, then winced when his helmet got in the way. Yanking it off, he tossed it aside and lay down again. Their combined labored breathing made sleep impossible, but at least he could rest. When he heard heavy footsteps coming towards their stall, he barely cracked an eye open.

Connor Penn stood in the doorway with a weird staff in his hand. Moordryd wondered if it was a jack stick, but as long as Penn didn't look like he was going to hit him, he didn't care. Funny, he didn't look as stern as he remembered, but then Penn hadn't caught him trying to steal a dragon this time.

"Can you tell what it is?" Artha's voice floated around them, but Artha himself was out of sight. "Decepshun couldn't breathe when I found them, and Beau's energy only helped a little."

Stepping closer, Penn nodded once as he looked over the black dragon and then knelt beside Moordryd. "I recognize it. And they're lucky. Their black draconium energy probably saved them."

"Saved them from what?" Artha asked.

"Draconian blight. It's a very old poison made from a plant that I was sure was extinct." Penn frowned in thought. "Not too many people would even know about it now. I would've thought only Word would do such a thing, but he wouldn't try to kill his own son. Unless it was a plan that backfired?"

Even starved for air and exhausted from simply breathing, Moordryd recognized an accusation when he heard it. He started to laugh derisively, but stopped when a coughing fit scraped his throat raw.

"Forget it," he rasped, trying to glare at Penn. "My father's not trying to kill off dragons. If he wanted to, he could've done that any time."

"No, he's just trying to start a war," Penn threw back. "A war that'll kill hundreds of dragons and humans."

Moordryd shrugged. Only if humans were stupid enough to fight back, but arguing the point didn't matter. "It wasn't my father, so think of someone else."

"Armegaddon," Penn said. "He would know about it and actually use it. But I don't know why he would target a race."

"We can worry about that later," Artha said. His gold armor flashed into view, but Moordryd only saw it as a big blur. "There's an antidote, right?"

"Yes, the same flower you used to cure dragon's bane. It just has to be processed a little differently." Penn escorted his son out of the stalls, his voice fading as they walked away. "You've got to hurry, though. You may have gotten rid of most of the poison, but unless they breathe in the antidote soon, they still might not recover..."

Wonderful, Moordryd thought. His life lay in the hands of stable brat. Beneath him, Decepshun whuffed and stretched out, trying to get comfortable.

"It'll be okay," he said. "If he was willing to save my father, then I'm sure he'll try to save us. Besides, who would you rather have looking for a cure, him or Cain?"

She didn't snort or bark a laugh or do anything else that let him know she was listening. As she groaned and twisted, Moordryd started to realize something was wrong besides her breathing. He sat up again and spotted black dust falling in front of his eyes, and when he touched his hair and face, he found the same poisonous residue.

"Looks like stable brat didn't get it all off us," he grumbled. He looked around and winced as the sudden twist of his head made the room spin. Getting back on his feet, he leaned against the wall and slowly scanned the room until he found the hose and buckets all stables kept on hand to bathe their dragons. He stumbled towards it and turned the valve, releasing a steady stream of water.

First things first. He could only take care of Decepshun if he wasn't too sick to walk. Holding the hose over his head, he raised his face into the stream and let the water flow over his hair and down his body. He shivered. Cold.

"You should take a real shower," Penn said.

The only reason Moordryd didn't outwardly startle was the poison making his responses sluggish, but his hand still tightened on the hose. With a sneer, he ignored the older man.

"And get rid of the suit," Penn continued. "The poison could be lingering inside it."

"It's sealed so nothing gets in," Moordryd said. "Besides, there's too much black draconium woven inside. Can't lose it just 'cause of a little poison."

Once his head felt a little clearer, he unwound the hose from its holder on the wall and carried it over to his dragon. "Brace yourself, girl," he warned her.

After the initial shock, she settled down with little more than a grunt as he worked the remaining slime off of her. He wondered how the smoke could have left such a tangible mark that took several buckets just to rinse Decepshun clean. He heard Penn doing something behind him and looked over his shoulder, watching him sweep the dirty water into a sluice in the center of the floor.

He didn't know how long it took to bathe Decepshun, only that he was exhausted by the time he was finished. He sat down and leaned against her again, breathing hard.

"How long until the Dragon Loser gets back here?" he asked.

"So much for gratitude," Penn said, not really expecting a reply. "I don't know. It's a long way through the wastelands and then the flower has to be processed..."

Moordryd frowned. "But he'll make it back in time, right?"

Penn hesitated. "I don't know. Decepshun got a large dose. If she wasn't a black dragon, she'd be dead already. As it is...I'm afraid she may only have a few hours left."

"What?" Moordryd shook his head in denial. "No! Her energy levels--"

"Draconian blight doesn't just attack a dragon's body," Penn explained. "It also attacks their energy levels. Scraping that poison off of her may have bought her a little more time, but it's in her blood now. Unless she gets another power surge, and I mean a surge from within, I don't think Dragon Booster will make it in time for her."

Moordryd curled up against Decepshun's neck and stroked her head. She didn't even move, using her remaining energy solely to breathe. He closed his eyes and refused to believe it. What did Penn know? Dragon Booster always screwed up his plans, his father's plans, Armegaddon's plans. Surely he'd be able to screw up one more.

As the sun slowly sank towards the horizon and the air turned colder, however, he started to think that Artha really wouldn't make it in time. Decepshun was still breathing, but slower and with a lot more effort. Her whole body heaved as she panted. He stood up and turned the lights on, then stood at the door and stared outside for a moment.

The other stable brats were clustered in a corner talking to Penn, shooting worried glances at him every few seconds. A sliver of sun remained above the horizon and the city lights were coming on. He wondered if his father was worried or if Armegaddon was laughing. And why hadn't Cain come looking for him? Maybe Cain just thought this was the last place to find him.

A sudden barking cough made him run back inside. He fell to his knees beside her, calling her name as he tried to hold her as she spasmed, but he knew he couldn't help her. She dragged in every breath, simply too weak to continue to fight. Her frightened eyes met his. This was no way for a dragon to die.

And he wouldn't let her go this way. He still had one option left. He would give her the inner surge of energy she needed, no matter what the cost. Although he heard everyone else's footsteps, drawn by Decepshun's suffering, he raised his amulet and slid it into his gauntlet as he released the shadows.

TBC...