The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Box Set

by GARY DARBY

  I can’t help myself and laugh out loud while thumping on the golden’s skull. “That was fantastic! Too bad Prince Aster and Daron weren’t on that wall.”

  “Yes,” Golden Wind answers, “but we’re not done yet.”

  “We’re not?” I mutter.

  “No,” she states. “We need to set Rover, Glory, and Song free.”

  We flash toward the battlements, and I see movement on the far wall. I point and yelp, “Golden Wind, more archers!”

  The golden dips her wings, we drop below the parapets, out of the bowmen’s sight, only to zoom up on the other side and surprise them before they can turn and unleash their arrows.

  This time, Golden Wind doesn’t use a blast of wind to scatter our foe, she releases a stream of dragon fire.

  Shrieks of pain and terror erupt from the battlement. I see several archers, their clothes afire, scream and stumble along the parapet, while those not caught in the hellfire make a wild dash for cover in the nearest turret house.

  We sky up and over the walls, and I peer down into the courtyard where the three sapphires are chained by the leg and their muzzles bound by thick rope. They raise their heads expectantly as we flash past and tug at the chains, but they can’t break free.

  Then, from the shadows, lope several drogs; something I didn’t expect to see. They shove their spears, as sharp as Proga lances at the sapphires, making the dragons stop pulling at their chains.

  I don’t have any idea if those drogs came from Draconstead, or not, all I know is that to free the sapphires, we’re going to have to deal with the brutes and their dragon spears.

  Suddenly, from the farthermost tower door, Phigby, Amil, and Helmar burst into view, followed by Cara and Master Boren. Phigby is clutching his bag, Amil has his ax while Helmar and Cara each have their bows in hand and quivers slung over their shoulders.

  I let out a whoosh of relief. I was afraid that they had been captured again. Instead, they managed to find their weapons. They rush along the stone paving, searching for a way to get off the keep’s walls and down to their dragons.

  The golden hovers and I shout out, “Helmar! Cara!” They spin around at my yell. I point down into the square. “Drogs, they’re holding the sapphires.”

  They take one look over the wall, notch an arrow, and let fly. I jerk my head around at a drog’s shriek. One beast lies crumpled on the courtyard with an arrow sticking out of its head, while another bulbous body totters for a moment, an arrow through and through the neck before it topples face forward onto the paving.

  Stunned, the other brutes stare at their comrades and then flee before another of set of arrows finds their mark.

  “Get me down there,” I shout at the golden. “Cara and the others can’t get to the dragons; we need to get the dragons to them.”

  She swoops down and lands next to Wind Song. Scamper starts to follow me. “Not this time,” I order. “You stay there and keep under cover.” I push him back onto the golden’s skull plate, slide off the golden’s neck and hurry over to Wind Song.

  I feel a gust of wind as the golden lifts off the paving, but I’m too busy trying to get the pin out of the clamp that holds the chain around Wind Song’s leg to wonder why she’s leaving me behind.

  I work at the thick metal peg with my fingers, before I give up, jerk my knife out and get the blade’s point under the pin’s flat cap. I push, and prod and slowly the spike starts to slip out from the clamp joint.

  A shriek causes me to whirl around with my knife pointed outward.

  A dozen drogs are lumbering at me with their spears lowered, only, the first one has paid the price for being in the lead. He’s thrashing on the ground with an arrow through his neck. Another arrow slices through the air, and another brute tumbles headfirst to skid along the pavement.

  I start to yell for Wind Song to unleash her dragon fire when abruptly I remember that she and the other dragons have their muzzles clamped shut by stout ropes.

  Suddenly there’s a blast of wind, and I glance up to see the golden carrying Amil by one arm. She swings down and drops him in the midst of the drogs.

  Being rather slow and stupid, the drogs don’t react fast enough, and before they can whip their spears around, Amil is among them, whirling and slashing at the monsters with his sharp blade.

  As Amil wades into the mob, the golden reaches out with her back talons and grabs several of the swine. She beats upward for several moments, higher than the towers before she drops the beasts. They land squarely on two drogs that are furiously charging at Amil.

  I can hear the snap and crack as their bones and necks break from the fall. The two that were running in full-throated rage at Amil now struggle under the load of lifeless bodies before Amil dispatches them with two vicious swings of his ax.

  Amil is a blur, never staying in one spot for more than an instant. If Amil were roaring floodwaters, the drogs would be a standing pool of water.

  Before one of the brutish thugs can swing his spear around in time, Amil’s double-bladed weapon buries itself in his chest. Before the beast has even begun to drop to the ground, Amil yanks his ax out of the thing’s chest.

  Another drog charges at Amil, but the big man viciously swings his ax up, slicing the monster’s spear point off its shaft. He grabs the spear and yanks it toward him. The drog hangs on, stumbles toward Amil, and doesn’t realize until Amil buries his ax in his head, how stupid he was not to let go.

  Two drogs come at Amil from opposite sides before he’s had time to rip his blade out from the dead drog’s skull. I jerk my knife out, but I know how foolish it would be to brandish my little knife in front of a brute that’s carrying a spear twice as long as I am high. So I do the only thing I can think of and have never done before.

  I throw it.

  And somehow the blade plants itself deep in the drog’s eye. His scream bounces off the keep’s wall, but that doesn’t stop his comrade from charging straight at Amil, ready to bury his spear point in Amil’s chest.

  He only takes one more step before the golden’s tail whips around, and her two tail spikes rip through his stomach. He stands there for a moment, a blank expression on his face, staring at his guts as they spill out onto the stone paving before his eyes go dull, and he falls over to lie motionless.

  The drogs try to get at Amil with their gaffs, but even with their long spears, they're afraid to get too close; afraid that his flashing blade will slice their lances in two.

  I hear a meaty thunk! And another drog spins with a screech, pulling at the arrow buried deep in his chest.

  Amil charges at the pack, a whirling dervish with an ax that never seems to stop slashing and slicing at thick, gray drog bodies. The remaining brutes have had enough, they turn and bolt away. Amil holds his bloody ax up to me in salute, and I pump my fist in acknowledgment.

  I hurry over to the drog that I killed and, though my stomach churns, do what I have to and yank my knife out of its sightless eye. I wipe it on his loin cloth just as Amil yells at me, “Hooper, get the pins out!”

  I hobble back to Wind Song’s leg chain and using my knife point, manage to wiggle out the metal pin that’s holding the clamp. As it drops to the paving with a clink, I turn to glance back at the turret walkway and mutter, “Uh-oh.”

  Daron and Prince Aster have reappeared, and Helmar is in a desperate sword battle with the two. Their swords flash in the torchlight, and I can hear the repeated clangs as their blades meet.

  How Helmar is holding the two off is beyond me. Even with the prince fighting with his left arm instead of his right, it’s obvious that he’s a master swordsman with either arm.

  From the other direction, I see a whole phalanx of men-at-arms, lances at the ready charging down the paved way. Cara and Phigby are racing to head them off, but it will be a dozen armed and angry soldiers against just the two. I’ve lost sight of Master Boren and don’t know where he’s gone.

  Amil has Wind Glory’s leg free and spurts over to Rover to furio
usly work at the leg clamp. I reach up and grab Song’s rope, pull her head down and start sawing through the bindings. I cut through the last strand, and she’s free.

  I dash over to Wind Glory and start slicing through her ropes. Almost finished, I turn my head and glance at the desperate battle on the walkway.

  Helmar is somehow still holding his own, but he’s having to give ground to his two assailants. Cara holds her bowstring taut, arrow notched but is holding back from loosing her arrow for some reason.

  Phigby is furiously digging into his haversack, for what I don’t know. Just as I slash through the last of Wind Glory’s ties, I hear Phigby call out loudly with words I don’t understand and from his bag he pulls forth a sparkling orb.

  The thing looks like it’s giving off a shower of sparks. He holds it aloft, still muttering, and then, of all things, lowers it and sends it rolling toward the charging guards, just as if he were bowling for ninepins on the Common back in Draconton.

  The ball of light whirls, spins, and hops as it rolls, faster and faster toward the men-at-arms. The front line of guards spots the thing coming toward them and slide to a halt. They bring their lances down as if they would skewer the sputtering sphere.

  They scowl at the crackling orb, but there’s a hint of fear in their eyes, too. After all, they’re used to fighting other men armed like they are, and not being attacked by a ball that spits out tiny flames and sparkles like sunlight off water.

  The ball rolls up, stops, and for a moment, just sits there, fizzing. The guards take a step forward, their lance points lowered at the sphere. Suddenly, the globe explodes, sending tiny flashing streaks of light everywhere.

  The little blazes swarm upward in a sparkling cloud and then dive toward the guards. My eyes bulge at the sight. The little sparkles are dragons, miniature versions of Golden Wind! They flash in and around the soldiers who swat at them as if a cloud of mosquitoes had descended.

  Only these “mosquitoes” squirt flame and fire.

  The miniature dragons spew little flames of fire on exposed faces, hands, arms, and posteriors. They flit in and out so fast that it’s all the guards can do to dance around trying to swat at them with a hand or swing a lance to try and knock one out of the air.

  All to no avail.

  The little things are streaks of light, buzzing through the air almost too fast for the eye to see. It’s as though dozens of children with sparklers were waving them furiously in the air all at once.

  My eyes flash back to Helmar. It’s not good. Aster and Daron have him pinned against a parapet. Their slicing, stabbing thrusts are too much. I can see the desperation in his face. He can’t hold out much longer.

  Then, from out of a tower turret, Master Boren appears. In his hand is a broadsword, and he marches purposefully toward his son and Prince Aster. Now I understand where he disappeared to, he went in search of a weapon.

  I catch movement coming from the far tower’s door, it’s several swordsmen, and they dash toward the parapet battle.

  Master Boren and the sword-wielding soldiers arrive practically at the same time. Master Boren takes his place alongside Helmar, while the guards close ranks next to Prince Aster.

  It’s quickly evident that Master Boren may be a master at one-on-one swordplay, but against that many adversaries, he’s outclassed.

  With a last vicious yank of my knife, I cut through Glory’s rope. The dragons are growling, roaring, stomping their feet, but the pin in Rover’s clamp seems to be melded into the chain.

  Amil snaps, “Your knife!” I toss it to him and turn back to the battle on the wall.

  Both Helmar and Master Boren are in desperate straits while Cara and Phigby are still holding at bay the other lancers. Those guards are still swatting at the buzzing tiny dragons but the moment Phigby’s dragons fizz out, they’ll be back in the fight.

  I’ve got to go help Master Boren and Helmar, neither can last much longer. “Golden Wind!” I yell out. “Helmar, Master Boren — they need help!” She quickly sets down, and I rush over to clamber up to her neck.

  “On the wall!” I shout to Amil. “They’re in trouble, I’m going up there.” He doesn’t answer but redoubles his efforts to get the pesky pin out of Rover’s leg chain.

  “Sky!” I command and the golden bolts upward, heels over, and we speed right at Aster and Daron. Maybe something in Helmar’s or Boren’s eyes warned them, as at the last instant, they lunge down and to the side. Not so for the guards. Golden Wind’s appearance scatters them every which way.

  We wheel around to try again for Aster and Daron but just then, I spot a company of archers running across the far walkway. Their eyes are on Amil and they have a clear shot at the big man.

  Phigby’s dragon swarm is petering out, but not before they’ve backed the men-at-arms down the pavement and into the turret. “Phigby! Cara!” I shout, pointing. “Master Boren and Helmar!”

  They both spin but while Phigby charges down the crosswalk, Cara lets her arrow fly. It flashes across the courtyard and buries itself in the back of one of Boren’s opponents. The man jerks, staggers, drops his sword and crumples to the ground.

  Phigby bolts through the corner turret and reappears. It’s as if he’d pulled a sword out of thin air, waving it wildly over his head. He rushes down the walkway, his bag bouncing over his shoulder, his foil held high.

  “The archers!” I shout to the golden. “Get them before they skewer Amil.”

  She beats her wings furiously, and we rush through the air. She catches the archers from behind, her back talons knocking archers left and right off the wall. Their screams fill the air as they plummet to their death.

  The few that do escape dart away in disarray making for the closest turret tower and safety. I glance down into the quad just in time to see Amil pull Rover’s leg pin out and throw it away. The three sapphires are free.

  I turn the golden back toward Helmar, Boren, and Phigby. Master Boren has finished his man off and for a moment, father and son face each other, sword point to sword point. Boren stands staring at his son, expressionless, but then he lowers his sword.

  He cannot — he will not kill his son.

  But Daron has no such qualms toward his father. His bellow is pure rage, and he charges at Master Boren. At the last instant, Phigby leaps between the two, his sword slashing downward, driving Daron’s point into the paving blocks.

  Helmar and Aster are in a battle royal. Their ringing blows resound in the courtyard. They lunge and slash, back and forth, sparks flying off the edges of their swords as if a blacksmith hammered at their blades in a forge. I’m caught by their furious fight until I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I groan, “No.”

  A dozen swordsmen rush from the tower to join with Aster and Daron. Their blades flash in the moonlight, slowly, but surely driving Phigby, Helmar and Boren back.

  “Do you have any fire left?” I call.

  “Yes,” the golden answers. “But Master Boren and the others are too close, my fire would catch them, too.”

  “Not if we can get them to move out of range,” I answer.

  Still, I think, even if the three can’t get out of the way, the appearance of four dragons might ward off Aster and his thugs. I glance down into the courtyard to see Amil scrambling up on Wind Rover. I cup my mouth and shout, “Amil, up here!”

  He jerks his head up, sees me, and waves. A moment later, the sapphires are in the air. I point at the dueling swordsmen and Amil nods in understanding. The golden rises over the battlement, and I yell, “Master Boren, Helmar, Phigby! Look out!”

  In answer, they give a quick glance upward, see the sapphires and turn to run. Aster and his swordsmen stand upright for an instant, startled, but then they too see the oncoming dragons. In complete disarray, they sprint down the walkway, toward the safety of the keep tower.

  Abruptly, they stop and are tossed aside by an ebony wedge, darker than night blackness.

  Vay floats through the darkness and across th
e walkway. As she glides over the paving, I hear a scraping noise as if someone is dragging chains. She’s slithering toward Boren, Helmar, and Phigby, her eyes glowing an angry red inside her hood.

  She sweeps across the stone pavement. Even from a distance, just like her smoke tendrils in the keep tower, her evil reaches out, touches me, and I recoil in disgust at the touch.

  But her eyes do not flash toward me. Instead, they’re centered on Helmar — she thirsts for the Gem Guardian.

  Phigby turns and steps in front of Helmar as if to protect him. He straightens to his full height and faces Vay. The fairy glides up to him and her voice is like the hiss of a giant snake. I see you, she rasps. Why do you fight? You know that you and your weak ones cannot stand against me.

  “We shall not only fight you,” Phigby grinds out, “the right shall win the day, and you and all your wickedness shall be once and for all time, cast out.”

  Her laugh is both a cackle and a shriek. It shall be you that is cast out. You’ve chosen wrongly, and the price will be that you shall never return.

  She raises her arms high as she would unleash her powers and threatens, Now move aside, that one is mine, him and what he carries.

  Neither Phigby, nor Boren, nor Helmar run but stand firm against the evil hag. When they don’t stand aside, she brings her hands together with the clap of thunder. A black wave explodes outward, blasting the three backward.

  They tumble and roll on the hard paving, slamming against the parapet wall. Helmar and Boren don’t move, but Phigby struggles to rise to face Vay again.

  The golden sets down on the walkway, placing her body between Vay and the barely standing Phigby as well as Helmar and Master Boren.

  As I clamber off Golden Wind’s neck, the golden roars defiantly at Vay. Vay laughs and points at her. You are mine, too, and you shall ever be mine to command and to rule over a whole world.

  I hurry to Phigby, who’s wheezing for breath and goes to one knee. He waves me on to Helmar, choking, “The jewel, Hooper, get the jewel.”

  “It won’t do any good,” I cry. “Helmar’s out cold, he can’t utter the power words.”