by GARY DARBY
I turn back. There is still the matter of getting the golden out of her enclosure. Not to mention the Wilder, who’s standing nearby still gazing outside. I have a feeling that he’s not going to leave his post and will leave the fighting to the others.
I push my body into a little stoop and silently step to the stall’s side postern nearest the barn doors. The bar that holds the gate in place is smaller than the barn door rod, but it’s still heavy for me to raise, especially when I’m trying to remain unseen and not heard. I lift it up and over the stanchions that hold it in place and turn to set it down.
A sword point appears less than a finger’s width from my face and leveled exactly at my right eye.
The Wilder is standing a sword’s length from me. Covering his face and head is a turban wrap-around, only his fierce eyes show through a small slit in the cloth. “Put it back, now!” he hisses as the tip of his sword dances just in front of my nose.
I draw in a deep breath and nod. I raise the bar up as if I’m going to replace the grainy shaft so that it’s once more cradled in the two braces. I hesitate, and the rod wiggles in my grasp as if I’m having trouble lifting it up. I step back, wobbling until I have the thick board right where I want it.
Then, with every bit of strength I can muster, I shove the wooden beam straight into the Wilder’s chest. The bar’s blunt end catches the man just below his throat. With a grunt, he stumbles backward but doesn’t fall to the ground. Before I can turn and fling open the gate, the man rushes me, swinging his sword in a high arc toward my head.
I fumble with the knife in my belt. For some reason, it’s stuck, and I can’t get it out. My eyes catch the sword’s dull glint, and I try to jump aside, but my heel finds some unseen object, and I fall, landing on my back. The Wilder’s foil hits the stony ground next to me with a muffled clank, but he whips the blade back up again and raises it high.
I try to squirm away, but it’s no use, I can’t escape.
The sword starts to slash downward, but before it can land its deadly blow, a great golden muzzle swings over the stall’s top rail. A fang-lined mouth opens, and a scream echoes through the barn. I look up, gaping at the sight above me. Swinging in the air, his arm gripped between the golden’s jaws is the Wilder.
He shrieks again, his voice filled with pain and terror. For another second, he hangs there before the golden tosses him aside where he hits the ground with a thump. He rolls over and becomes still on the floor, his bloody arm beneath him.
I pull myself up and swing the enclosure gate open. I stumble over to the barn doors; place both hands on the planking and start to push. Before I can get them to move a finger’s length, the doors shatter in a burst of planks and splinters from a dragon head-butt, and the golden lumbers past me into the night.
Behind me, there are shouts, yells and the sound of boot steps pounding, racing toward me. I start to run, but then I hear the fluttering of tiny wings and stop. I wave frantically at the four sprogs, “If you’re coming it’s now or never,” I yelp.
The four dash past the door, waddling along like ducks out of water. Without looking back, I make a run for it, with the sprogs right at my heels. I never knew they could move so fast.
A sudden realization hits me. The golden will almost surely be able to get away. Though her wing chains prevent her from flying, even in her condition, she can run as fast as a horse. The pursuing Wilders, being on foot, will never catch her.
I, on the other hand, can barely outrun baby dragons. Without wings to carry me away to safety, the Wilders will surely find me long before I can reach the forest. I don’t have a choice; I’m going to have to make a final stand.
I’m past the cookhouse, so I can’t stop there. The woodpile. Can I make it to its relative safety; use the cords of wood as a barrier against the Wilders’ arrows? I stub my toes against a rock, and I fly forward. I don’t catch myself in time, my head plows into the ground, and I put a face-sized furrow in the grass.
I turn over and spit out dirt and grass. The sprogs are all over me, their little talons scraping at my tunic in panic. I push them away, pull myself up, and stare wildly at the woodpile. I’m too far away. I’ll never make it before a Wilder arrow finds my back.
I glance behind and see several Wilders stop just beyond the meal hut. One drops to one knee and draws back his bow, his arrow point aimed straight at me.
Then like a spear of light, a flash of dragon fire streams down on the Wilders. It catches the one who knelt and in an instant, he’s a human torch running and screeching in the night. The others break and make a run for the barn’s protective cover.
I glance up to see Wind Song hovering over the meal hall. Cara pulls back on her bow and sends an arrow flying. A scream of anguish fills the night, and another Wilder falls dead. A second later, Cara sideslips Wind Song so that she hovers over me, the powerful downdraft of her wings almost bowling me over.
“Go!” Cara shouts. “The Wilders are skying their dragons. We won’t be able to hold them for long!”
She tosses my bow and quiver to me. Wind Song dips her wings, heels to one side and then speeds away into the darkness. Clutching the bow and arrows, I spin around and trundle for the log pile, the sprogs running right along with me. I stop long enough to catch my breath before I make for the tree line.
I slow as I slip past the first tree trunks, not wanting to trip over the gnarled roots that spread from the trees to catch the unwary toe. I keep going, deeper into the forest, the sprogs trailing right behind me. I have no idea why they sought me out instead of staying with their mothers, but I have the feeling that if I left them behind, Cara would never forgive me.
I slow long enough to sling both the bow and quiver across my back before I take up my stumbling run again.
Nothing is familiar and in the darkness, every tree looks the same, every bush has limbs reaching out like skeleton claws to grab and pull me down. My eyes take in the gloom, and my imagination sees a drog or a Wilder hiding in every shadow, just waiting to leap from the blackness to run a lance or shoot an arrow into my body.
Or worse yet, the night specter will reappear, only this time, there won’t be a Phineas Phigby or a ghostly emerald dragon to save me from a grisly death.
I have to stop to take in a deep breath. As I bend over, hands on knees and sucking in great drafts of air, the sprogs crush up against my ankles. “You know,” I gasp between breaths, “running away from death is hard work.”
Though the night air is cool, nevertheless, I wipe sticky sweat from my brow. Straightening, I plunge farther into the murky woodland, the sprogs staying right with me. Now that I’m not stumbling along, I can hear the rustlings of small animals, field mice and rabbits, and overhead the occasional fluttering of wings in the tree limbs.
The sprogs want to cluster around my feet, and I almost trip over them several times. The purple voices a plaintiff screeep and I bend down and furiously whisper, “Be quiet, all of you.”
We tread deeper into the forest. I believe I’m heading towards the stream, but I’m not entirely sure. I’ve never had to go this far into the woods at night, and there are no landmarks to guide me. I’m positive the golden is in here somewhere as this would be the best place to hide, but where is she?
You’d think that with something that big moving in the woods, you could hear it, but I don’t. It’s like she disappeared into nothingness or was swallowed up after falling into a giant hole in the ground.
I stop to get my bearings. There’s a tree stump nearby, and I sit down to rest for a bit. The little dragons press up against my legs, their heads turning anxiously in every direction. There’s not much light to see by, but from the look in their eyes, I can tell that they’re scared.
I wonder if my eyes have that same frightened expression. Probably.
I bend over and run a hand through my hair. The sprogs turn their heads hopefully up to me. “I’m not lost,” I mutter to them as if they can understand what I’m saying. “I just
don’t know where I am, that’s all.”
I hang my head down and bite down on my lip. I grip the bow so hard that I feel pain in my knuckles. Was Scamper in the barn? If so, did he make it out and make a run for the forest? Maybe he never went back to the barn but was so afraid that he stayed hidden in the dark? Maybe he’s out here in the woods like me, lost, scared, alone and wondering what to do in a world gone mad.
I pound a fist on my thigh. But what if he didn’t make it out of the barn and lies dead from a scarlet arrow? Did I sacrifice my friend to save one stinking dragon?
If I did, it will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I stand and continue walking; turning my head in every direction, trying to find Golden Wind but it’s the same wherever I look, trees and dark shadows. “This is impossible,” I say to the sprogs. I turn in a big circle, my arms held out wide. “How do you lose something as big as a full-grown dragon? Losing one of you, I can understand, but something as huge as the golden?”
I stop to watch and listen, but to no avail. I say to the sprogs, “It’s like she’s vanished. She’s in here somewhere, but she must be invisible. I can’t hear her, and I can’t see her.”
I peer down at the baby dragons. “What about you? Any idea where she’s gone?”
They sit down on their rumps and just stare at me. Obviously, they’re not going to be any help, either. “Wonderful,” I mutter to myself, “just how do I explain to Cara and Helmar that I’ve misplaced a golden dragon?”
I do another slow circle trying to spot the golden, but I see nothing that even remotely resembles a dragon. I let out a long sigh and throw my hands up in frustration. After we three risked our lives in the desperate battle against the Wilders, to lose the golden after all that!
It’s not fair!
A dark thought enters my head. “What if the Wilders recaptured her?” I mutter. I shake my head, pressing my lips hard. “No,” I state. “I’m not going to believe that they found her first, not after all we did. She’s in here, I know it, I just have to find her.”
I keep walking, stopping every so often to listen to the woodland noises. I’ve never been this far into Dielong Forest before, and my head starts to fill with the stories I’ve heard about its shadowy depths. Wood trolls and goblins that set traps for the unwary and eat alive those they capture, or green dragons whose fiery breath can scald the flesh off the unlucky.
And other — scary things.
I push aside several low-hanging tree limbs and pause to listen. Except for the rustling of small animals, the cheep of an occasional bird, and the scrabbling sounds of my companions, I can’t hear anything that would indicate that a dragon moved nearby. I start to push aside another limb when a long, low, mournful howling in the distance causes me to suck in my breath.
Dreadwolves!
I’ve only seen the night stalkers once, and that was from a far distance. Sleek and powerful, with a flame-red mane against pitch-black hides, a pack of such vicious animals could bring me down in seconds.
I’m alone and somewhere close is a hunting pack of hungry wolves. I need to retrace my steps, go back. Not into the Wilders’ hands but close enough to Draconstead where wolves won’t go. I start to twist away but hesitate. I haven’t seen or smelled any drogs, but if they’re around, most likely they’re close to the stead too which means if I go back, I could easily run into Sorg and his bloodthirsty pack.
Besides, if I turn tail now, not only would I never be able to face Cara, I might not ever be able to face myself again.
I’m not brave or courageous like Cara, or Helmar, or the king’s knights, and I’ll never be like them. But, still, tonight, for once in my life, someone thought of me as more than just Hooper, a manure mover, a dung driver. Moreover, for a little while, I really was more than that. Did I really want to throw that feeling, that sense of pride away?
And what of little Scamper? If he died at the Wilders’ hands, then as Cara said, this would be at least in part, a way to avenge him.
I snug my knife tight in my belt, swing my bow off my shoulder and grip it tight along with an arrow. I glance down at the sprogs who've stayed quietly at my side. "All right," I whisper, "I’m going on, anyone who wants to go back, now’s the time.”
They just raise their heads and wait for me to make my move. We tread through the grass and leaves and haven’t traveled far when I stop at a noise. I wait and listen, but whatever made the sound doesn’t move. I take a few steps forward. It comes again. My eyes widen and my breathing quickens.
Did the wolves pick up my scent on the breeze? Are they even now closing in on me, their scarlet eyes fixed in hunger on my body, their lips drawn back over their cruel, sharp fangs?
Or, could it be a drog? I shake my head at that, given the circumstances I doubt if Sorg would send any of his troops into the thick forest after me. To seek out the golden, yes, but they wouldn’t waste time on me. Not until they found Golden Wind.
I take a few more steps, stop and listen. The same sound floats through the air again. Only this time, it’s much closer. The night stalkers are behind me, slowly trailing their prey, which I’m sure is me. I can’t see them; their sinewy, slinking bodies must be close to the ground, moving unseen from shadow to shadow. I run my tongue over dry lips and try to slow my breathing.
My hand trembles as I slowly notch my arrow. I’m not sure what one arrow will do against a whole pack, but it’s all I have.
I take another step forward. So do the wolves. I take a deep breath, pull the bowstring back, and spin around with my arrow pointed straight at the things.
And stop; my hand quivering with the strain of pulling the sinew taut.
A large, ponderous shape moves out of the shadows.
It’s Golden Wind.
Thoughts of Golden Wind
So — the Gems of Power and Righteousness begin to come forth.
From the dark now comes the light. From death comes life. Is that not the way it is with a sacrifice of the heart?
They are as small as tears, but mighty in the mind, heart, spirit. A gift long ago crafted for just this day and time.
May these gifts be received with all the reverence due to a lasting sacrifice and may they always be used with purpose, courage, and honor.
Small they are but is it not true that from the tiniest of seeds grow the mightiest of dragon heart trees whose crown of leaves paint the clouds like a brush upon an easel?
Does one’s stature always denote the size of one’s spirit or capacity to fashion great deeds or even miracles? There are those who are large in importance but entirely bereft of any living spirit and filled with nothing other than darkness. They wreak havoc and destruction, crushing dreams, hopes, lives.
Then there are those who must look up to the great in body as if they were staring skyward at a towering treetop. They are small in size but have noble spirits that are as a fountain welling over with an endless flood of goodness.
They are the ones who we remember, they are the ones whose works and achievements flourish throughout the ages. They are the ones who do not diminish us but uplift and cause our minds, our hearts, and our spirits to soar.
To be better than we are.
Who then is the mightiest among us?
10
I let the arrow slip from my bow, bend over in relief, and nervously chortle. I straighten and shake a fist at the golden. “You dumb hunk of dragon lard, you almost got an arrow up your nose, sneaking up on me like that. You know that don’t you?”
The small sprogs trundle forward, bumping up against the golden’s legs and making their usual screeping sounds. I don’t try to stop them. If I were a baby dragon, I’d probably let out a loud, happy screep myself to see a mama dragon.
The golden lowers her head and nuzzles the sprogs before she comes close to me. She lowers her head so that her eyes and mine are almost level with each other. I’m face to face with a beast that could swallow me in one bite, well, maybe two, burn me alive with jus
t one burst of dragon fire, or whose tail spikes could rip me in half with one swipe.
I can see her nostrils quiver, we’re so close. Suddenly, she snorts. Her breath is a gust of wind that smells of long digested slimy grass, mutton, hay, and with just a hint of sulfur. Her splutter lifts the front of my hair, and I jerk my head back from the blast.
We stare at each other for a moment before I say, “I never thought I’d say this to a dragon, but, believe it or not, I’m actually glad to see you.”
I take in another breath and mumble, “Better you than a pack of wolves, for sure.”
I swivel my head and peer at the surrounding trees. For some reason, they seem so much taller and bigger in the dark than in the daytime. I let out a little breath. “To tell you the truth, I’m lost. We need to get to Fairy Falls and meet Cara and Helmar, but I’m not sure which direction is which anymore.”
I notice that the woods are starting to brighten, and I turn toward the east. Through the surrounding spruce and a few birchen trees, I see a pale light from the rising moons. Since we’re deep in the woodland, and there’s no sign of Wilders, I’m grateful for the moonlight as it will make my going a little easier.
I take several steps away surveying the forest, trying to decide which way to go. I say to the golden, over my shoulder in a half-joking manner, knowing that she’s not going to answer, of course, “You wouldn’t know the way, would you?”
The golden raises her head to peer through the break in the trees at the moons. Something in the way that she gazes at the moons — it’s almost a reverent, imploring expression. Abruptly, the whole meadow is lighted in a soft radiance. Then a brilliant shaft of moonlight bursts through the trees onto Golden Wind and then spreads to flow over me, bathing us both in a soft, golden aura for several moments before it fades away.
I just stand there, like a statue, not moving, just staring at Golden Wind who still has her head raised up to the moons. Finally, I swallow, take some deep breaths, and say, “Better that than a dark wraith coming out of the shadows.”
