by GARY DARBY
I’m lying belly down on the back of Wind Song with both hands gripped on the decorative edging of Cara’s saddle. Its thin lace and beadwork are not going to hold me long. As the sapphire beats her wings, her powerful back muscles throw me up and down as if I were on the back of a bucking horse.
“Hooper!” Cara shouts above the gale. “Hang on!”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” I gurgle in reply.
Wind Song crests at the top of her upward rush, and we flatten out for a moment before we’re speeding downward in a shallow dive. I can’t see a thing. My face is pressed against dragon scales, and my body streams behind like the House of Lorell’s pennant that flies on the flagpole above The Common back in Draconton.
I have no idea where we’re going or what happened to the Wilders. Are they still following us? Are we still trying to get away? Are we high in the sky or down low? I have no idea. What I do know is that as Wind Song twists one way and then the other, I can feel the decorative frill on Cara’s saddle fraying and ripping.
My weight is too much. At any instant, it’s going to tear loose, and I’ll go flying off Wind Song’s back. I desperately push my head up, looking for something else to grab ahold of, but there’s nothing to grasp.
“Cara! The lacing’s tearing!”
She looks back with real fear in her eyes as she realizes my precarious predicament. For a moment, she turns, does something with Wind Song, and then twists her body around and reaches out. “Grab my hand!” she shouts.
I loosen the grip of one hand and frantically try to catch her fingers. Just then, the lacing tears away. I have nothing to hold onto. I begin to slide backward from the wind’s powerful push. Somehow, my fingernails grip one of Wind Song’s scales and stop my slide, but only for an instant. I can’t hold onto the scale, I’m not strong enough.
Cara leans out farther and farther, stretching her arm toward me. She’s bent over almost backward with one hand just out of reach. I grip the tough dragon scale with every bit of strength I have with my right hand, take a deep breath and lunge with my left hand.
I touch Cara’s outstretched fingers just for a heartbeat and then I’m torn away.
I’m falling, tumbling through the air.
Ground and sky spin through my vision. In one of Phigby’s books, I once read where a maiden dipped her hand into the “gentle, soft waters of a lily pond.”
Gentle? Soft?
Pure fantasy.
When I hit the water, it felt like Sorg the drog had picked me up and thrown me against the wall beams of the birthing barn back at Draconstead.
The only good part was that the water wasn’t too deep, and the bottom was mud.
Gentle, soft mud.
I lay, dazed, my body half embedded in the brown, soupy goop which swirls up and over me. Little bubbles dribble out the side of my mouth. A demanding voice inside my head is yelling at me that I’m drowning, but I’m too shocked, too stunned to move. My mind keeps floating in and out of darkness.
With a swiftness that jerks me awake, I’m yanked from the bottom goo. Great blasts of wind beat at my body, and I can feel the sunlight on my face. I’m sputtering and spitting out gobs of water and sucking in huge drafts of air, trying to breathe again. Now I know what a fish feels like when an eagle snatches it out of a lake.
Then, there’s ground underneath me. I hear faint, running footsteps and then dimly, “Hooper! Hooper!”
Hands are on my face, cupping my chin. Someone rolls me over, pounding my chest as if they would beat the life back into me. “Hooper, spit the water out. C'mon, you can do it.”
I spit, sputter, and cough up more water, and then still more until no more water comes out and I’m sucking in huge drafts of air. Someone holds me so that I’m more on my side and my stomach until my breathing is almost normal.
Then I’m rolled on my back, and I open my eyes. An angel is floating above me, complete with halo and a serene, beautiful face. I can hear her delicate lacy wings rustling.
Wait, those are dragon wings and they are not delicate.
Two dark, solemn eyes, a button nose, and little paws that pull at my lips replace the angelic face. Gwaaaake? Scamper asks as he nips at my nose. Gwaaaake? he asks again in a very insistent manner.
“No, Scamper,” I gulp and sputter to my furry friend. My words sound muffled in my ears as if my mouth is full of hay. “I’m not awake, I’m dead, can’t you tell?”
“Hooper!” Cara yelps and gently pushes Scamper to one side. Her eyes are actually genuinely concerned. “I’m so sorry, Hooper, I tried to reach you, but I just couldn’t.”
Somehow, I manage to wave a weak hand at her. “I know,” I answer. “If I could have held on just a little longer . . . ”
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “in a way it was good that you fell off when you did.”
“Really? It was good that I fell?”
“No, silly,” she answers with the hint of a giggle. “It wasn’t good that you fell off Wind Song, but if you had held on much longer and then fallen, you would have hit the trees. I think that might have been far worse than landing in a shallow, marshy pond.”
I take a deep breath. “Let’s see, dying by drowning versus being impaled on a tree limb. Yes, I guess there is a slight difference there.”
Cara just shakes her head and with her help, I manage to sit up and look around. I see the golden and Wind Song, but not the others. “Helmar? Phigby?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she answers anxiously. “I lost sight of them while I was trying to help you stay on Wind Song.”
“The Wilders?”
She glances upward. “They may have followed Helmar and Phigby. I think they lost track of us.”
I glance at the small pond. A few dark green lily pads float near the shore. Some of them appear to be mangled and torn, courtesy of my back-flopper entrance, no doubt. “Thanks for pulling me out,” I say gratefully. “I don’t think I would have lasted much longer.”
“Don’t thank me, “Cara replies. “I didn’t get you out of the drink.”
She gestures toward the golden. “Thank her. I think you’ve got a guardian dragon, Hooper.”
The golden is sitting on her haunches, staring off into the distance, seemingly unconcerned as if nothing unpleasant had happened. “Just what I need,” I mutter, “a guardian dragon.”
“Actually, Hooper,” Cara answers, “it seems that lately that’s just what you need. For whatever reason, she appears to be watching over you, and you should be very grateful. Who wouldn’t want a guardian dragon? Especially, if it’s a golden.”
I turn away and mumble to myself, “Me, for one.”
Abruptly, both the golden and Wind Song come to all fours and stare toward the mountains on the horizon. Cara quickly glances up and peers at the two dragons. “They’re not acting uneasy as if they’re hearing Wilder dragons,” Cara murmurs, “but let’s not take a chance.”
She nods toward the woodlands behind us. “Let’s all get in those trees, just in case.”
“Why not sky out of here?” I question.
“Because,” she says, “if it is Wilders, Wind Song is too tired to try and outsky them with the two of us, and you’re in no shape to ride a dragon right now.”
I can’t argue with her reasoning as when I stand, the ground wants to slide away and my legs feel like they’re made of mush melons. Cara pushes me toward a nearby forest of tall pine trees. “You, in there,” she orders, “while I get the dragons.”
I hobble toward the thick woodland. It’s a good thing I’m not in a race with a snail. The slug would win handily. I’m still a good two rods’ lengths away from the greenery when Wind Song and the golden lumber past me, with Scamper right behind.
Cara comes up, grabs my arm and pulls. “Move, Hooper, we don’t have much time.”
I do my best to pick up the pace, but I’m still woozy and weak from almost drowning. As it is, Cara is all but carrying me the last little distan
ce into the trees. We stumble into the tree line, and while Scamper and the dragons go deeper into the woods, Cara and I slide behind a thick trunk and peer toward the meadow we just left.
Faintly, I hear dragon wings. I listen intently and whisper to Cara, “They’re skying low and pretty slow.” I cock an ear toward the sound of beating wings, listen, and then say, “They’re getting closer, and they’re hardly moving as if they’re searching the ground below them.”
Cara grimaces. “It’s Wilders, looking for us. They must have seen us land, but they don’t know the exact spot.”
She jumps to her feet and reaches down to pull me to mine. “C’mon, Hooper, we need to get farther into the forest, where there’s more overhead. The tree branches are too thin here, they’ll spot us.”
I start to turn with her but stop. She takes several steps, turns, and hisses, “Hooper, move! They’ll be over us in no time!”
I raise a hand to quiet her, listen some more and then turn. Wind Song and the golden have stopped too, turned with their heads up, gazing at the treetops in an expectant posture. That only confirms what I’m hearing. “Wait, Cara, look at our dragons, see how they’re acting?”
She looks over her shoulder at our dragons. “It’s not Wilders,” I state with a relieved grin. “It’s Wind Rover and Glory. I recognize their wings and so do Wind Song and the golden.”
“Helmar!” Cara cries and darts past me.
I push around the tree to hobble after her, but she’s already to the open field. Moments later, I hear the rush of dragon wings overhead and at the same time, I hear Cara shout, “Helmar!”
The beating of wings slows, and through the thin line of trees that stand between the meadows and me watch a sapphire hover above the sawgrass for an instant before putting talons to the ground, followed by a second sapphire. Cara is pumping her legs as fast as she can go toward Wind Glory and Helmar.
I turn and hobble back to the golden and Wind Song. “Let’s go,” I mutter to the golden. “Cara has her Helmar back.”
“And Phigby, too,” the golden answers.
“Uh, huh,” I answer as I gaze toward the meadow. “And she’s certainly paying a lot of attention to Phigby, now isn’t she?”
Scamper chatters at me and I say with a wistful smile, “Yes, I know, why would I want Cara when I have you.”
I lead the golden and Wind Song toward the meadow, where Cara, Helmar, and Phigby are guiding their two dragons toward me. “Hooper,” Phigby calls out with a wave of his hand, “it’s good to see you, lad. We thought we’d lost the two of you.”
Helmar ignores me and goes over to the golden to give her a quick inspection. Once he’s finished, he gives the golden a gentle pat on the neck. “She appears unharmed,” he mutters in a relieved tone.
“Well,” Phigby smiles wide, “by some miracle we all appear none the worse.”
“But we could have been,” Helmar states. He slides his hand over the golden’s scales and says, “I don’t know how she knew to lead us to those giants, but if she hadn’t — ”
He doesn’t have to say more as we each share a quick glance, knowing how fortunate we are that not only is the golden safe, but we’re alive.
Phigby steps closer, his eyebrows furrowed as if he’s just noticed that I’m dripping wet. “Hooper,” he asks gruffly, pulling at my tunic, “have you been swimming?”
I let out a long sigh. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“You should have seen it, Phigby,” Cara gushes. “Hooper fell off Wind Song. Fortunately, we weren’t too high, and he landed in the pond with a huge splat.”
She shakes her head, her eyes wide. “Before I could get Wind Song turned to get to him, the golden came along and scooped him off the bottom, just like an eagle plucks a trout from a lake. She set him down, and it took a while for him to cough up all the water, but I think he’s all right now.”
“Is that right, lad?” Phigby asks. “Are you all right?”
I nod and say, “A little water-logged, but I’m good.”
“He’s lucky to be alive,” Cara goes on, “he sank clear to the bottom.”
I shrug and say, “So I swim about as good as a rock, what of it?”
“And the golden pulled you out . . . ” Phigby murmurs while giving me an odd look. “Very interesting, indeed.”
Helmar quickly steps in and says to Cara, “Interesting or not, we sighted a woodsman’s hut, not far from here and almost due south.” He motions to the dragons. “The dragons are tired, and I don’t want to chance skying during daylight, so we’ll walk from here.”
He turns to Glory and commands, “Leg, girl.” His dragon thrusts out her leg and like the skilled rider, he is, Helmar quickly clambers to his saddle. Phigby turns to Wind Rover, and Cara nods to me. “Let’s go, Hooper.”
Before I’ve even gone a step, the golden is next to me and thrusts out her leg. Cara gives a little laugh and points. “Would you look at that, she’s imitating Glory.”
I just stand there, unable to move, staring at the golden’s leg. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Phigby turn, his face showing marked surprise. I raise my eyes to Helmar. The expression on my face and the golden’s extended leg says it all.
Helmar literally jumps off Glory and in three steps he towers over me. I can’t help but cringe. He stares at the golden and then turns to me, his face hard and sharp as if made from cut granite. “You — rode — Golden Wind!”
His words are so piercing, so cutting, that if they were a sword, I would be lying in several pieces on the ground, now.
Then comes the hiss of his blade from his scabbard, seemingly louder than Phigby’s smoke snake back at Fairy Falls. And like the goblin, I know I should run, but I’m frozen in place.
His drawn sword gleams in the sunlight, a deadly blade ready to cut cleanly through weak flesh. My flesh.
The golden may have saved me from death by drowning, but in the next instant, the sheen of Helmar’s blade will be dulled by my blood dripping off its knife-sharp edge, and I shall be lying dead at his feet.
16
“Helmar! Hold!” Phigby roars.
“Helmar, what are you doing?” Cara’s voice is close to a scream. Scamper appears out of nowhere, putting himself between the big man and me, furiously chattering at Helmar with his little lips curled in a snarl.
Me? I stand mute, unable to raise a single word in my own defense. I cower before Helmar and his sword. The man seems to be a giant in his own right. He looms over me but it’s more than his height, there’s a power, a force about him that is riveting and holds me in place.
Have you ever been caught in a raging storm? You know that the tempest could easily kill you; still, you are awed by the sheer power of the thundering storm. That’s how I felt about Helmar just at that moment.
Cowed and afraid, yes, but awed by his towering strength and commanding presence. Then, Phigby’s hand slaps hard against Helmar’s wrist, holding his sword arm in place.
Helmar growls at Phigby and Cara, “He broke Lord Lorell’s decree, he rode the golden. You know the penalty.”
“So?” Phigby bristles. “You said it yourself, Helmar, Lord Lorell is dead, and the House of Lorell is no more. Would you slay him over a dead man’s declaration? I remind you, sir, that the King’s Law says that such pronouncements are null at the death of the issuer, in this case, Lord Lorell.”
“But we don’t know — ” Helmar begins, his lips curled back and fierce eyes never leaving my face.
“You were pretty confident last night of his death,” Cara breaks in before she says with a catch in her voice, “and my father’s.”
Helmar swallows and glances from Cara to Phigby and back. I can see in his eyes what he’s thinking, his own words have trapped him. To kill me while Lord Lorell lived would have been expected, but now? Now, under the King’s Law, it would be murder.
Helmar is no murderer, of that I am sure. But, in his eyes, I have broken the law and his trust.
I
finally find my voice. “Helmar,” I whisper, “I’m sorry, but it was dark, I was lost, and the golden seemed to know where she was going. Just like she did when she led us to the giants to escape the Wilders. My leg was hurting terribly, I was slowing us down, and I could hear the howls of Dreadwolves in the distance.”
I take a breath. “She offered,” I all but whimper, “like now,” pointing at the golden as if that made my decision and actions acceptable.
Helmar glares at me for a moment more, his face still stone hard before he gives a curt nod to Phigby, lowers his arm, and scabbards his sword. “Lord Lorell may or may not be dead,” he spits out, “but until we know for a certainty, no one, especially you, Hooper, is to ride the golden.”
He jabs a finger in my face. “Is that clear?”
I swallow and nod. My legs, none too strong before, now feel as if they’ll give out and I’ll sink into the ground, never to rise again.
Helmar spins away and stomps back to Glory. Cara slips next to me, and our eyes meet. The angelic, concerned face is gone, replaced with a hard, cold expression. She opens her mouth as if to speak but then brushes on by and heads for Wind Song, leaving me with Phigby.
He stands eyeing me for a moment before he turns to gaze at Cara’s rigid back and murmurs, “I suggest you ride with me, Hooper. It would appear that you are persona non grata, at the moment.”
“I’m what?” I mumble.
“Persona non grata,” Phigby finishes. “It means that you’ve just fallen into a barrel of rotten fish, and no one wants to be near your stink.”
“Oh, well,” I sigh. “That’s nothing new.”
He leads me over to Wind Rover, and we clamber aboard. Helmar and Cara are already pacing their dragons away, leaving Phigby and me behind. I whistle for Scamper, and he flashes up Rover’s leg and settles behind Rover’s carapace.
Phigby prods Rover and we slowly trundle off, the golden following behind. We plod along for some time in silence, with only the fluttering of morning birds to break the quiet. I’m deep in thought, thinking of Helmar standing there with his raised sword, his eyes flashing like lightning bolts, his face set and stiff.
