by GARY DARBY
After Helmar downs one small sip, Phigby holds the cup over the wound. “This,” he says to Helmar, “is going to sting. But it will cut the pain while I get that arrow head out of your shoulder. Hopefully, if it hasn’t gone too deep, your arm should practically be good in a day or so.”
Phigby tips the cup, letting a good amount of the liquid pour into the wound. Helmar grimaces and says to Phigby, “You and I have a difference of opinion on what the word sting means.”
Phigby ignores Helmar and goes to work on the arrowhead. Fortunately, the tip hasn’t gone very deep, and it takes Phigby only a few moments to work it out. Cara pours the rest of the medicine into the wound and with Phigby binds Helmar’s shoulder tightly with the bandage strips that Phigby has pulled from his bag.
I reach over, pick up Helmar’s tunic, and hand it to Cara. With Phigby helping, Helmar manages to wiggle back into his tunic and pulls it down over his waist. Phigby fashions a sling and settles Helmar’s arm in the crook. Once done, Helmar flexes his fingers and peers at Phigby in surprise. He nods appreciatively while announcing, “The pain is all but gone. From now on, I’m going to call you Professor Medicine.”
“Professor Emeritus of Medicine,” Cara smiles.
Phigby lifts one corner of his mouth in a tight, satisfied smile while he points at Helmar’s wound. “You were lucky, that arrowhead didn’t even go halfway in. Your arm should be pain-free well past sunrise. So, was a few wee moments of pain worth a day or more of no pain?”
Helmar smiles back. “Of course.”
“Good,” Phigby says, “so from now on, you won’t be questioning my medicines, now will you?”
Helmar shakes his head dutifully. “No, Professor Phigby. I promise to keep my mouth shut in the future.”
“Wilder poison,” I say to Phigby, “I’ve never heard of that before.”
He turns stern eyes on me. “There are a great many things that you’ve never heard of before, Hooper. You should have studied my books more.”
“I did what I could,” I mumble in defense.
Phigby flaps a hand at me. “Never mind. I guess you were like most every other child in the village.” He peers at me sideways, and his eyes seem to bore straight into my soul. “Except that I always thought you were different . . . ”
He lets out a long breath. “Maybe I was wrong.”
I hang my head in the uncomfortable silence that follows before I start to rise and murmur, “I’ll go get more wood.”
“Wait, Hooper,” Helmar orders, “I have something to say to you, too.”
His manner causes me to think, what else have I done wrong now? First, Phigby, and now Helmar.
He gestures with his good arm toward the golden. “Where are her wing chains?” he demands.
Cara jerks her head around, apparently unaware until now that the golden’s wing chains were missing. “Did you remove them?” Helmar questions bluntly.
I take a deep breath and let it out before I answer. “Uh, yes, Helmar, I did,” I reply truthfully. I hurriedly go on. “If we were discovered either by the Wilders or drogs, I wanted her to have the chance to escape.”
He and Cara exchange looks. From Helmar’s stern face and disapproving expression, I’m afraid that I’m in for it. I can only hope he understands my reasoning, even though he may disagree with my decision.
I wait for the tongue lashing that I’m sure is forthcoming while Helmar’s gaze flicks from me to the golden and back again. He mutters slowly as if forcing each word out of his mouth. “I guess under the circumstances; it was the right thing to do, Hooper.”
Not exactly high praise, but coming from Helmar, it’s pretty close. I glance over at Cara, who gives me a small smile of approval, too. Cara’s smile warms me more than any fire.
Phigby holds up a hand and says, “No need to get more wood, Hooper, we have enough for now. Besides,” he says while glancing at the lot of us, “I suspect that we need to sort a few things out.”
He points to the golden. “Especially about her. Obviously, the question is, what do we do now?”
“I agree,” Cara chimes in. She nods toward Wind Rover before turning to Helmar, “And I want to know what you can tell me about how she found her way back here — without father or Daron.”
I sit back down and almost tripping over my words, say, “And I want to hear how Master Phigby escaped the dragon fire in Draconton, how you two escaped the Wilders, how you found Scamper, what happened to — ”
“Hooper,” Phigby growls in an exasperated tone, “I’ve never known anyone to get so many words out in one breath as you.”
I smile sheepishly. “Sorry, sometimes they just come flying out.”
I glance over at Helmar. “I guess I need to put rivets and chains on my tongue.”
Phigby strokes his beard before asking Helmar, “It appears we have several things to talk over, but first, are we safe from the Wilders here, or do we need to move on?”
Helmar considers Phigby’s question, and I can see by his contorted expression that he’s wrestling with several thoughts. “Safe enough for the moment,” he answers. “But if we had the choice, I’d say we need to sky farther away. However, the sapphires are tired, and we’d have to ride double on one of them.”
He takes a deep breath. “If we were caught by Wilder reds, especially fresh ones, while skying, they’d be able to quickly bring us down.”
His hard eyes circle the group. “We need to give the sapphires rest, at least part of the night. Otherwise, everything we’ve done, everything we’ve fought for would be for naught.”
Safe enough for the moment, I think.
Have you ever seen a storm brewing, with the dark clouds swirling and becoming darker as time passes? The lightning flashing as if the gods were throwing spears at the hapless beings below, the thunder rolling as if a thousand dragons growled in the swirling clouds?
You know the storm is coming, that it will unleash its roaring fury upon you, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the oncoming tempest.
That’s us, the storm is coming, and it’s headed right at us with all its might and power. And like a fly caught in the raging winds, there’s nothing we can do to stop from being engulfed in the ferocity and carried away to our doom.
12
After Phigby puts his medicines and utensils back in his bag, he turns to somberly say, “We must have a plan for safeguarding the golden. And I suggest that hiding her in the forest only works for the near future, particularly since the Wilders will be searching every bit of the countryside to find her.”
He glances sharply at me. “And it goes without saying that they’ll be more than eager to get their hands on those who were the instruments of her escape.”
I can’t help myself and swallow hard as a small tremor runs through my body. Phigby doesn’t have to say it; his meaning is clear. If the Wilders capture us, our lives will be short, but the torture long.
“What about Lord Lorell?” I mutter. “After all, it’s his dragon we’re protecting. Let’s get her to him — and quickly. Let him deal with the Wilders.”
Helmar hangs his head down, and I can barely hear him say, “I don’t think Lord Lorell will be able to provide any help. He may well have already had dealings with the Wilders.”
No one speaks, waiting for Helmar to continue. He raises his head, and the firelight catches the shadows under his somber eyes. “It is my belief that Lord Lorell and his lady are dead. The Wilders have shattered House Lorell this night, and it has joined House Dornmuir as little more than ashes and painful memories.”
Cara sucks in a breath. “Helmar, no,” she all but moans.
Helmar stirs the fire with a little branch, sending embers upward that dance on the air like fireflies before their glow dims and dies. He remains silent a few moments more before turning sad eyes on Cara. “I’m sorry, but I think the attack on the stead and Draconton was only part of the Wilders’ plan. I believe they struck the Manor House, too.”
Cara’s hand flies to her mouth. The firelight catches the tears welling in her eyes. “Are you sure?” she sobs, her voice sounding both desperate and hopeful that Helmar is wrong.
Helmar lifts the thin branch to stare at the glowing end. “For certain?”
He turns his eyes to the dragons and motions with the limb toward Wind Rover. “No, but it would answer why she returned on her own. She would not have if your father were . . . ” his voice trails off, leaving the dire, unspoken thought hanging in the air.
I glance over at Cara. I can see in her eyes that she’s thinking the same as Helmar. It’s a painful, terrible idea, but it makes the most sense. Lost without her rider, Wind Rover would have returned to that which she was most familiar with; the stead and Draconton.
The flames light Cara’s face. She’s trying to be brave, but the tears, the quivering lower lip betray her anguish. I can’t stand to see her like this but what can I do? Tell her to be brave, that not all is lost — that she still has Helmar?
I say none of those things. Instead, I stay quiet, watching the tears streak her cheeks, listening to her soft sobs and feeling my own insides wrench in torment at watching her agony.
Only the fire’s sharp crackle breaks the silence that follows until Helmar says, “When your father, Daron, and I reached the Manor House, we found not only the captain of our knights’ guard there but a good number of his knights as well. He told us that he was ordered to bring them as they might be escorting Prince Aster to Draconstead.”
“That would explain,” Cara murmurs, “why the king’s knights weren’t around when the Wilders attacked.”
“Yes,” Helmar replies. “When your father saw how many were absent from patrolling around the stead, he became uneasy and ordered me to return. That’s why I came back early.”
He pauses to shift his weight as if he’s uncomfortable with his next words. “When I went to leave, I don’t know why, but Master Boren and Daron got in an argument about me returning.”
He turns slightly toward Cara. “For some reason, your brother argued against my going back, which I found a bit surprising.”
“How so?” Phigby questions.
Helmar hesitates, gives Cara a quick glance before saying, “Well, it’s no secret that Daron and I have not exactly been on good terms since I became Master Boren’s apprentice. In all honesty, we’ve avoided each other’s company whenever possible.”
“Yet Daron wanted you to stay,” Phigby muses.
“Yes,” Helmar replies, “but Master Boren ordered me to leave, so I did.”
His eyes never leave the flickering flames. “I arrived just in time to see the fires raging in Draconton.”
He straightens and meets Cara’s eyes. “Like you, I immediately knew that the Wilders were after the golden, and that’s how I came to find you and Hooper.”
Cara buries her hands in her face. It’s obvious that she’s tried to be brave and hold back the grief, the torment, but now the sobs rack her body as Helmar finishes his explanation. Her father and brother are most likely dead. Like so many others tonight, slain by merciless Wilders and their evil dragons.
I dare to slip closer to her, our bodies barely touching. It’s the only way I know to comfort her, to let her know how badly I feel for her. Master Boren was practically a stranger, and what I knew of Daron, I thoroughly disliked. But Cara mourns for both of them, and I can’t bear to see her pain and suffering; the sobs that now shake her body.
She hurts and that makes me hurt.
“Cara, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
For long moments, the grief flows over and through her, before she finally raises her head, wipes away the tears and sniffs deeply. “Thank you, Hooper,” she murmurs.
A somber silence falls over our makeshift campsite until Helmar states, “The attack on Dornmuir was a ruse meant to get as many of the knights chasing them eastward, away from Draconstead. That’s why they actually only needed a small contingent to take Draconstead, especially as they had the drogs helping them, the scum.”
“So what do we do?” I ask.
Helmar is quick to answer. “King Leo. We have to get the golden to him as swiftly as possible. There’s no one strong enough to stand against the Wilders but he and his Dragon Legion at Wynsur Castle. It’s the only answer.”
“It would have to be a long and circuitous journey, Helmar,” Phigby observes. “We simply cannot sky straight from here to there as the Wilders are most certainly between us and the castle. I suspect the clouds will be filled with their crimsons and the reward to the Wilder who brings in the golden will be literally her weight in gold.”
I blink hard several times and my jaw drops. “Wait, that’s just not a saying? There’s really that much gold in the world?” I sputter.
Before Phigby can answer, Cara declares, “We can’t take the golden to Wynsur.”
“Cara,” Helmar explains, “I realize it’s a long and dangerous sky road, but it’s the only choice we have. There’s no one else that — ”
“No,” Cara replies in such a determined manner that both Helmar and Phigby cock their heads toward her with a puzzled expression.
I’m as baffled as they for I agree with Helmar, if Lord Lorell is indeed dead, then it makes the most sense to take the golden to the king and be done with her.
Let King Leo worry about her safety, after all, he has a whole Dragon Legion at his command plus cohorts of men-at-arms and archers, not to mention that he can call on the Great Houses to supply fighters as well.
“My dear,” Phigby says in a soft tone, “the way you answered Helmar tells me that there is more behind your reply than the mere fact that it’s a perilous journey to Wynsur.”
He leans toward Cara, the fire catching the gleam in his eyes. “You know something.”
Cara hesitates, lets out a deep breath and says, “I’m not sure what I know but even if it weren’t a long journey, I don’t believe that we should try to get Golden Wind to King Leo — not just yet anyway.”
I can see her biting down on her lip before she murmurs, “Not until we know for sure.”
Phigby and Helmar exchange quick, puzzled glances. “Know what for sure?” Helmar questions.
Cara is staring deeply into the dancing flames as if she’s drawing up some distant memory. “Of whether or not it’s just the Wilders who are after Golden Wind,” she answers.
At her reply, Helmar’s eyebrows furrow together so deeply that his skin makes a big bulge over the bridge of his nose. “Cara,” he stammers, puzzled. “You’re making no sense whatsoever. Who else would be after Golden Wind but the Wilders?”
He points at his wounded arm. “That was a scarlet arrow that Phigby pulled out of my shoulder, remember?”
“I know, Helmar,” she murmurs, “believe me, I know but you’re just going to have to trust me on this.”
Phigby mutters, “Cara, you’re not thinking that another House was part of what happened tonight?”
“But the Forbidden Law,” I protest, “it — ”
Phigby cuts me off by saying, “Means nothing in the eyes of some if the risk is worth the prize. And the golden could well be worth the risk. Think of it, if the world faces some calamity that only Golden Wind’s sprog can stave off, what price would we pay to whoever controls that very special dragon to save us?”
“Anything and everything,” Helmar bluntly states.
Phigby strokes his beard, and his long sigh blows the fire’s flames sharply to one side. “And as far as the Great Houses or King Leo are concerned, after all, it’s well known that kings and lords make, change, or ignore the laws, even their own, at their whim.”
He smiles grimly. “Even good kings seldom let laws stand in their way to achieve their goal, even if it’s dastardly in nature.”
Cara remains mute, nor does she raise her eyes to even acknowledge Phigby. My head is reeling from Phigby’s remarks. A Great House in league with the Wilders?
Unthinkable.
Or is it?
Phigby’s voice is cold, toneless as he goes on. “After all, Golden Wind is the greatest treasure in all the land and the House or whoever controlled her could dictate terms to every kingdom, nation, or dominion that exists on Erdron.”
His eyes narrow and he turns to Helmar. “Which brings up a question that I’ve had in mind for some time but felt it wasn’t my place to challenge Boren. Why wasn’t Golden Wind taken to Wynsur Castle sooner? After all, she’s been fully grown for some time now.”
Helmar looks decidedly uncomfortable, and his answer is hesitant, halting. “It is not in my nature to speak evil of my former master.”
Phigby leans closer, his eyes boring into Helmar. “Ah, you too know something.”
Helmar takes a breath and gives a little shrug with his good shoulder. “Like Cara, I’m not sure what I know, but I will say that you’re right, the House that has a golden dragon could indeed dictate terms even to a king.”
He draws in a breath. “Which is why I suspect there was more than one reason that Prince Aster was at the Manor House.”
Phigby leans back, and his face holds a triumphant expression. “I knew it. Just as I suspected. That wily fox of a Lorell was negotiating with King Leo over Golden Wind. Looking, no doubt, to add to his already fat purse.”
He slaps his knee and points at Helmar. “And Prince Aster was there to seal the deal on behalf of the king, no doubt. And if he were bearing a chest full of gold nuggets, or perhaps royal jewels, then yes, a company of knights would indeed be required.”
His eyes are alight for a few moments more before his shoulders slump and his mouth skews to one side. “Though it would appear that Lorell’s greed earned him nothing but death and for his lady as well.”
“Not to mention,” Cara chokes, “that it cost so many innocent lives at Draconton and Draconstead.”
Phigby turns sad eyes on Cara. “Yes, and those most of all for they truly were innocent in the games that kings and lords play in their cold marble halls.”
