The last installment of this story can be found here: http://www.chesapeakestyle.com/literary/nov04c.html
The thuds of hammers filled the air around Lord Regor as the workers began driving stakes into the ground.  
Will watched the teamwork of the workers. “The camp set-up is proceeding smoothly.”

      Yes. The flawless building of the camp was a good sign.  Lord Regor hoped that the coming hunt went as well.  “Let’s go down.  I am needed elsewhere.” 

      “Fine.I should check on my sons. By now they may be getting into mischief.”

      Lord Regor willed his muscles not to flinch.  Every titled lord in the gathering party had sons who would participate in the hunt.  Only he was without a son. Digging his fingernails into his palms, Lord Regor focused his thoughts on the many tasks that remained unfinished.

      Together with Will, Lord Regor descended.  At each step, “Kiril, Kiril,” ran through his mind.  He wondered if any of this was worth the loss of his only son.  Clenching his teeth, he tried shaking these thoughts out of his head.

      “Are you okay?”  Will raised an eyebrow.

      Lord Regor merely nodded, his lips pressed tight.  He began searching through all the details of the expedition, looking for anything that could go wrong.

      Inside the camp, Will walked away, searching for his sons.  Lord Regor strode through swarms of workers hastily preparing the tents and setting up the equipment.

      In the residence area, the tents for Lord Adrik Jashovich, IV, Lord Maximillian La Sorde, III, Lord Boris Cancrin, III, and Lord Percy de Neville, II were already up, rustling in the wind, the coats of arms making bright splotches against the beige material.  Hosting these powerful dukes and their sons was a great privilege.  The four senior dukes and their sons would arrive this afternoon, after the camp was ready.

      Lord Regor walked past his own tent.  The small painting of Kiril as a boy stood on an easel inside, visible through the open door.  His servant was carrying in his trunks.   

      Lord Regor rubbed the itching scar on his cheek.  An image formed of the dying dragon thrashing on the ground.  Its hind talons lashed out.  A claw grazed his cheek while he shielded Kiril with his own body and tried to stanch the blood flowing from his son’s arm.

      Lord Regor gritted his teeth again and strode on through the camp, inspecting the tall net poles crowned by crossed support boards.  He spotted a man untying a bundle of equipment.  A knot in the leather thong resisted the man’s efforts to pry it apart.  

      Memories of Kiril lying in the frigate welled up.  The air ship’s propellers roared at full revolutions, making air thunder out of the engine nacelles.

      Lord Regor held a leather thong looped around Kiril’s arm and knotted on a stick. He twisted the stick, stopping the hemorrhage from the terrible wound. There was so much blood. Kiril was turning white.
Each time he loosened the tourniquet so that blood could reach his son’s lower arm, more blood spouted out of the gash.  Kiril’s agony battered at his mind.  Lord Regor fought the pain and wished the ship could fly faster.  

      Kiril was bleeding to death.  Oh, please hurry.

      Kiril opened his eyes and moved his pale lips. Lord Regor bent close while keeping the tourniquet tight.
“What did you say, Son?”

      Taking a breath, Kiril said through clenched teeth, “Tell mother that I love her.”

      “I will.  Hold on Son.” Lord Regor blinked away tears as Kiril’s face blurred. “We are only moments from the camp now.”

      Kiril took in a labored breath as if he was returning to the day of his birth. Lord Regor remembered Kiril as a new-born baby, his tiny chest jerking as he gasped for air.

      “Please live,” pleaded Lord Regor.  “I need you to live.”

      Kiril gazed at Lord Regor and smiled, radiating love.  His eyes rolled upward and he stopped breathing.

      No. This couldn’t be happening. Don’t leave me, Kiril. Lord Regor lifted his head and screamed.

© 2002 Cathy Brunson All Rights Reserved.