The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Box Set

by GARY DARBY

  Alonya peers at Boren, her eyes wide and questioning before her face takes on a firm expression with a voice to match. “Then I hold you to your word, Dragon Master.”

  She scabbards her sword, notches an arrow, and then, almost faster than my eyes can follow, whips her bow up and pulls the cord tight.

  At that moment, what warned the pack leader, I do not know.

  Perhaps it is instinct or its own innate will to survive born of a dozen or more pack fights to maintain his supremacy. Or maybe he has seen warriors like Alonya draw their bows before and knows what it means.

  Before Alonya can let her arrow fly, the pack leader leaps away in a blur of speed. It dashes off to one side, melting into the pack of yelping, growling devil hounds.

  “They’re trying to circle us!” Amil shouts. “Get behind us!”

  The Vargs are racing through the nearby trees, a mass of shadows that break through the moonbeams like a flight of black darts.

  Alonya follows the pack and stretches her bowstring back even farther.

  I can hear the wood creak under the strain. The tip of her arrow swings to the left, I hear her suck in a breath, hold it, and then the arrow slices through the darkness.

  A heartbeat later, a shriek splits the air followed by a dull thud, and the Varg pack leader is pinned to a tree, Alonya’s arrow through its neck.

  The pack comes to a dead stop. Not a single Varg makes a sound.

  The Varg thrashes for a moment, and the light breeze carries a gurgling sound as the beast tries to draw in a breath. Then it slumps over, held aloft by the long shaft with only its back legs scraping the ground.

  The pack stays silent for several moments until they erupt in ear-splitting howls and guttural snarls as they mill about in confusion at the sudden death of their leader.

  Then, as if some unseen signal is given, they turn and race away into the night.

  We’re hushed too, perhaps stunned by the unexpected turn of events, or amazed at the incredible feat of archery we’ve just witnessed.

  Amil lets out a long-held breath before he pronounces to Alonya in a voice filled with admiration, “Only one other shot have I seen that would match yours.”

  Alonya sniffs and turns her head toward the big man. “Then you have not seen many arrow flights in your time, I would say. I was taught to make harder shots as a child.”

  Amil gives Alonya a crooked smile. “Then if that is the case, I will stay far, far away from Golian toddlers, especially those with a bow in hand.”

  As for me, I am beyond impressed. How she picked out a single wolf from among all those murderous beasts and threaded her arrow through the trees is beyond my understanding.

  From what I saw at the Colosseun Barrier and now, I understand why the Wilders and any others would choose to stay far away from this land.

  “Thank you, Mistress Alonya,” Boren expresses in heartfelt sincerity. “Now, let us be gone from this place, and hopefully, our nemesis will take a good deal of time in choosing a new leader before they give chase.”

  He turns and gives rapid commands, “Amil, pack up what meat is left and be quick about it. Helmar, Cara, ready the dragons, Phigby, don’t forget your bag.”

  Boren turns to me, but before he can speak, I mutter, “I know, the sprogs.”

  While the others go about their tasks, I try to tuck the sprogs into their carryall. They refuse to cooperate and keep running back and huddling under the golden’s feet.

  After watching me chase one bleating sprog down, Master Boren strides up and grabs a fistful of my tunic. “Hooper, everyone’s ready but you.”

  With Helmar’s help, he takes two sets of saddlebags and places them over Golden Wind’s neck. It doesn’t take them but a moment to lift the sprogs into the bags where they finally seem content.

  “There,” Master Boren declares, giving me the eye, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  I get it. My tongue fumbled and now my fingers fumble. I can’t even manage to take care of four small sprogs.

  A short while later the dragons file away from our temporary encampment. With her bow snugged over her shoulder and sword in hand, Alonya leads us into the far tree line.

  In my mind, I guess I’ve always pictured giants as being awkward and clumsy, like trolls. Not Alonya. She is as fleet of foot as any woodland deer and moves through the forest with grace and ease. In single file, we follow the giantess, with me and the golden at the tail end.

  Alonya lopes through the darkness, and to keep up with her great strides, the dragons break into a lurching, rolling gait.

  To hold on, I grip two of the golden’s horns tightly. However, I soon think to myself that this must be how sailors feel when they’re on a wind-blown sloop in the middle of a heaving storm.

  My insides bounce and slosh, first up, then down, then side to side. I decide that this must be what they call being seasick even though we’re dozens of leagues from the sea, and I’ve never been on an ocean-going vessel.

  I also decide that if dragons didn’t have wings, we probably would never ride them unless it were at a slow, easy, plodding pace.

  After a while, in the forest’s gloom, I have no idea where we are or where we’re headed. Wherever it is, I hope it’s far away from the hungry Vargs for I believe Alonya was right when she said that the wolves wouldn’t take long to take up the chase.

  That means we’re in a race for our lives with the Vargs and their vicious fangs not far behind. After a bit, Alonya calls a halt. We bring our dragons up close to her.

  “Alonya,” Phigby says, “from what I can tell, we seem to be headed toward the mountains. Is it your intent to take us into the heights?”

  “Yes,” she answers, barely breathing hard even after her long run. “But our course holds its own form of danger to you and to your dragons.”

  My eyebrows raise at the sound of that. Anything that could be considered a danger to a dragon can only mean instant death to a puny Drach like me. I’m hoping that Master Boren or Phigby will challenge Alonya’s plan and set us in a different direction.

  Instead, Phigby gestures with a hand as if to beckon Alonya to explain further. “Danger seems to be our unwelcome, but constant companion these last few days. What is this threat and how serious is it?”

  “Judge for yourself,” Alonya answers. “Have you heard of Logath’s Grotto?”

  We glance at each other, and it’s clear that none of us have heard of Logath’s Grotto until Phigby pulls at his beard and murmurs, “Perchance, Alonya, are you referring to Logath the Gatekeeper?”

  “Is that what you call him?” Alonya answers. “The Gatekeeper? We call him the Sentinel of Shades.”

  “Gatekeeper, sentinel,” Boren mutters, “what are you two talking about?”

  Before either can answer, Alonya snaps a hand up. “Listen,” she murmurs and cocks an ear toward the forest behind us. “Do you hear?”

  I turn my head in several directions, but if there is something to hear other than the natural sounds of a night forest, I can’t make it out.

  Boren leans over to her. “I hear nothing, what is it?”

  “The wolves,” she answers, letting out an almost wolflike snarl of her own. “They’ve picked up our scent and trail us. They’re far behind, but they move faster than we.”

  “So soon?” Helmar asks with surprise evident in his voice.

  “I’m afraid it would appear so,” Phigby laments. “M’lady, can we make it to your camp before the Vargs catch up?”

  Alonya has been running for a good portion of the night, but she only needs to take a few deep breaths before she answers. “Where we need to go is still more than a day’s journey toward the mountains. Soon we’ll leave the flatlands and enter the foothills.”

  “Which will slow us down considerably,” Amil observes.

  “Yes,” Alonya answers, “and the wolves will be upon us long before then.”

  “Then we need a place from which to fight,” Helmar declares.

>   Alonya gives a curt nod to his comment. “Since dragons cannot climb trees to escape the wolves and you do not want to use dragon fire, there is a place near the grotto that may afford us the protection we need to make a stand.

  “But you must make your decision and speedily. Either sky away and leave me to fend for myself or we all go near the grotto and do battle with those wolf heads.”

  “Logath’s Cave,” Amil breathes out in a voice that speaks of apprehension. “Is there no other place, perhaps close to the foothills?”

  Alonya shakes her head forcefully. “The lower hills have little in the way of trees or foliage and no proper place in which to make a stand against a Varg pack of that size.”

  She glances upward at Osa, which is midway toward the far horizon. “Dawn is still some ways off, and the wolves will be upon us before we see daylight. Even at the grotto, this will be a night battle, and they will have the better of it with their keen eyes and sharp ears.”

  With that, she turns to Boren and neither her eyes nor face shows any expression. “So, Dragon Master, what is your choice?”

  She gestures upward at the night stars. “Sky your dragons and leave me behind to face the wolves; unleash dragon fire in the open on those who race to kill us, or chance Logath’s Grotto? That is all that I can offer you.”

  I have no idea who or what Logath is or why he has a cave named after him, but I sense a feeling of dread among the others. And that can only mean that the grotto is not the safe haven that we seek.

  Amil, in particular, seems distressed by the idea for his voice is on edge as he speaks, “Perhaps we are far enough away from the border that the Wilders will not see the dragon fire. We should head for the foothills and make our stand there, using the dragons to our advantage.”

  “And if we are not far enough away?” Boren snaps. “The Wilders would be upon us in practically no time, and their numbers would make that wolf pack look puny in comparison.”

  He turns to Phigby. “You know more of these things than anyone, what say you?”

  Phigby pulls at his beard as if he’s carefully considering his response. “Do I believe,” he begins in a low rumble, “that Logath is one of the lesser gods sent to guard the Gates of Dreadfell?”

  I lean over and whisper quietly to Amil, “Dreadfell?”

  My whisper must not have been low enough, for Phigby turns to me. “The underworld, Hooper, where the gods send shadowy and evil creatures from time to time. Logath is the gatekeeper to keep these vile creatures in Dreadfell until the gods choose to unleash them.”

  “If that’s true,” Cara asserts, “and I’m not granting that it is, then why would Logath mind our entering his grotto? We’re certainly not going to let his pets loose.”

  “Careful how you speak of Logath,” Amil answers. “He does not take kindly to those who would make jest of him. He is an angry deity for having to live in the underworld, and he takes no pity on those who enter his realm.”

  “Still,” Master Boren answers, “this is merely a myth. Has anyone seen this Logath?”

  He swings around to face Alonya. “Have you?”

  She shakes her head, causing her braids to bounce on her shoulders. “No, and I freely admit that what I know is based on an old warning to steer well clear of the grotto.”

  Master Boren huffs at Phigby, “The question is, as you’ve said so often, is there an element of truth in the lore? Or is this some make-believe story intended to frighten misbehaving young children?”

  “I cannot answer your question, Boren,” Phigby asserts. “Other than to repeat what you’ve already said; there may well be some truth in all legend and lore.”

  We wait for Master Boren to make a decision. I can see by the deep furrows in his face that he is struggling with the choices.

  However, indecision is not in the makeup of a Dragon Master, especially when in the far distance comes the baying of giant wolves, hot on the trail of meat for their stomachs.

  He straightens himself in his saddle. “Alonya, I gave you my word that we wouldn’t desert you, and we’re not. For now, we make for this place near the cave. If the wolves catch up with us before we reach the grotto, and we have no other choice, we will turn the dragons loose on them.”

  “Then,” Alonya voices in a hard tone, settling her jerkin and scabbard about her waist, “let us see just how swiftly dragons can run.” She spins on her heels and races away with the dragons pounding behind her.

  If I thought that the earlier unceasing jostling was akin to a sloop caught in a gale, what comes next is a Sea Trader’s vessel trapped in a raging tempest with waves higher than Dragonheart trees.

  It’s as though I’m astride a giant boulder that is bouncing, rolling and crashing down a steep mountainside.

  With each lunge of the golden my neck snaps and pops as if my head is about to be twisted off and hurled by the wayside.

  Even Scamper lets out a plaintiff, Nrrrrow, as if the wild ride is too much even for him.

  One thought occupies my mind; to hang on with every bit of strength I possess.

  I’ve wrapped my fingers around the golden’s horns in a death grip, but I have to keep pawing at her for a better hold.

  I have no idea how long the constant jolting lasts before the golden leaps over a large, fallen tree trunk that spans our trail like a wooden dam. The jar from the landing is too much, and my tight clutch is broken loose.

  Flying through the air, my arms and legs windmill in every direction as if I’m a human bird trying to learn how to fly.

  Then, I hit, a rock? A tree? Whatever it is, my head smacks against the hard, unseen barrier with a vicious blow.

  I remember sliding down something that’s rough and raspy before I land on my back and then nothing after that.

  After a bit, I rouse from my unexpected nap. My head feels like a pumpkin that two drogs are sitting on and about to burst wide open.

  It hurts. There’s a ringing in my ears, and I can feel a stickiness in my hair.

  It’s blood. My blood. It’s not much, but when you’re as small as I am, every drop counts.

  Rolling over onto my back, I manage to sit up. Muttering to myself, I say, “Next time I go flying, it will be on the back of a dragon. They at least know how to land without hitting a tree headfirst.”

  I look around. It’s dark. Really dark. Thick clouds shield the moons, deepening the shadows.

  In the gloom, the trees and bushes seem to blend together as if I’m hemmed in by a black wall in every direction.

  And I’m alone. All alone. I don’t know how long I’ve lain on the forest floor, but it’s obvious that the others have sped on without me. At first, I’m furious, almost indignant that they would leave me.

  After all, I’m the Gem Guardian, am I not?

  After a bit, I reason that either they didn’t see me fly off the golden or more likely they chose not to halt and take the time to go back and look for me. Either way, I resign myself to the fact that they haven’t stopped to search.

  Most likely because they weren’t willing to risk the time it would take to look for someone as unimportant to the cause as I.

  To Alonya, what’s important is getting away from the Varg pack and living another day. A delay could mean her death.

  Master Boren and the others are focused on keeping the golden out of the Wilders’ clutches and more immediately, away from the Vargs’ slashing fangs.

  A hindrance to those goals would be unacceptable to their thinking. In the grand scheme of things, I’m of no consequence to any of their plans.

  My only hope is that when they find that I’m missing, someone will take care of Scamper.

  In my little world, he’s the one thing of consequence to me, and I’m hoping that that will be significant to at least one of them. Cara, most likely.

  Standing, I take stock. I have my short knife, held tight against my tunic by my waist belt. The emerald dragon jewel is still a hard lump in my inside pocket.

 
I draw it out and turn it over in my hand. When I first held the tear gem after Pengillstorr had given it to me, it felt icy, like a stone that’s lain on the bottom of a cold mountain stream.

  When I used it before, there was a warmth to it as if it drew heat or energy from my body, or perhaps from somewhere else entirely.

  Now, it’s cold to the touch as if there’s no life left in the crystal. Still, I wonder if there’s some way I can use it to help me out of my predicament.

  In the darkness, I hold it up and mutter, “Vald Hitta Sasi Ein, Power Comes to this One.”

  I look around, half-expecting to see—what?

  In answer, absolutely nothing happens.

  Surrounding me is just gloomier forest and little else. I heft the gem in my hand and wonder if I’ve used all the power it once possessed.

  If so, I should toss it aside as it’s just a weight to carry. I think about it for a moment, but instead of throwing it away, I tuck it snug and secure in my inside pocket.

  I turn in a tight circle, trying to get some sense of my bearings, but it’s hopeless. I have no idea which way to go.

  For a brief moment, I consider yelling out in the faint hope that perhaps, the others have come back to look for me and will hear my calls for help.

  Cupping my hands around my mouth to shout, I stop before I make the tiniest of sounds. What did Alonya say about the Vargs?

  That this will be a night battle, and they will have the better of it with their keen eyes and sharp ears.

  Sharp ears. Just how good is the hearing of a Varg? I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. I look up at the sky and for an instant; I catch sight of a faint glow in the clouds. The four moons!

  Just before I flew off the golden, I noticed that the moons were above and to the right quarter of our travels. Now at least, I have a sense of direction. I’ll keep them off my right shoulder, and that should guide me close to the same course that we were traveling.

  Of course, I have no idea how far Logath’s Grotto is from this place, but just the idea that I’m heading on the right course is a small victory for me.

  The blood has started to dry and cake in my hair, which is a good sign that my gash is neither deep nor severe. The pain in my head is subsiding, and the loud ringing in my ears is but tiny chimes now.