by GARY DARBY
Golden Wind moves forward on her own, without any urging from me though I do walk alongside her as if I were leading her. She steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight. The moon’s radiance causes her scales to take on a gilded aura that seems to flow outward, covering us all in a golden brilliance.
The golden takes several more steps forward until she is just behind Alonya and Fotina. She stretches her neck out high so that her head is just over theirs so that she can stare down at Desma.
Desma is speechless at first but then mutters, “So—the rumors are true, there is a golden dragon.”
Just then, Scamper decides to make an appearance. He pops his head up, with his paws on Golden Wind’s carapace and starts chittering angrily. “Scamper,” I plead, “not now!”
“No,” Fotina softly says, “let him speak. If Desma won’t listen to us, maybe she’ll listen to him.”
Desma’s eyes flick from Alonya to Golden Wind, to Scamper and back. She runs a tongue over her lips, shakes her head from side to side before declaring coldly to Fotina and Alonya. “I know not what sorcery this is, that an Anarsi would be riding a golden dragon, in the company of Drachs and with you two, but I intend to find out.”
“By all means do so,” Fotina retorts, “while our enemies close in on us.”
Desma’s eyes narrow in anger but instead of lashing out she orders, “Krista, take half and guard them. If even one tries to escape, or they lay a finger on their weapons, kill them all.”
She pauses, her eyes hard on us as if to drive home her point. She then gestures down the valley. “We make for the steps. Move.”
Without a word, and with Desma’s threat hanging over us, we clamber up on our dragons. Scamper’s stopped his chittering tirade but hasn’t given up his place, his paws on the golden’s carapace and his nose up, sniffing the wind.
I knuckle his head and say, “I don’t know what you said, but you certainly got her attention.”
The sprogs are bundled asleep in their saddlebags, having not woken once in our trudge up the mountain nor in our confrontation with Desma. I shake my head at them. “Wish I could have slept through all of this, too.”
With Desma in the lead, we lumber down the gradual incline. The giants are setting a brisk pace though it doesn’t cause our dragons to break into a gallop. The valley is broad enough that the dragons can easily pace along two by two.
Wind Song ends up next to the golden with Phigby sitting behind Cara. I glance at Cara and softly call over, “Did you hear what Desma said about a dragon rider who’s not a Wilder?”
“I heard,” she answers without looking at me.
Phigby scowls at me. “Hooper, the less said about that particular subject, the better.” He lays a gentle hand on Cara’s shoulder. “After all, my dear, it may not be him.”
I grimace to myself. Me and my unchecked mouth. I’ve done it again. Spoken hurtful words. Unintentional, yes, but hurtful nevertheless. Will I ever learn?
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to Cara. “I wasn’t thinking.”
She still doesn’t answer so I lean toward Phigby, “Could it be true? If Alonya is Desma’s sister, then she’s the daughter of—”
“Hooper!” Phigby snaps. “You heard Fotina, now is not the time or place for that particular discussion.”
I settle back in my seat thinking to myself that someday I and my mouth will be one in purpose, thought, and action, but that day is probably a long, long way off, if it ever comes.
It’s not long before we pass by a small waterfall. Its wispy plume glows with a white radiance in the full moonlight, and the falling water sounds like raindrops splattering on rocks.
We hasten beside a narrow, rushing stream until we come around a sharp bend. A dragon is kneeling on all fours near the dark water. In Osa’s light, she shimmers like a blue star in the heavens. Wind Glory turns her head as we come closer, but doesn’t stand as if she’s unwilling to leave her spot.
Cara leaps from Wind Song before her dragon even has a chance to come to a full stop. She sprints up the small knoll where a Golian stands watch over a body that has a Wilder arrow stuck deep into its side.
It’s Helmar.
Phigby and Master Boren are close behind Cara, and I bring the golden over next to Helmar’s body. Phigby has his ear on Helmar’s chest, listening intensely.
A moment later, he gravely announces, “He lives, but barely.”
He whirls around and grabs his bag, but Desma declares, “Hold. It does not matter to me if he’s alive, for I do not intend to linger here while you tend to an injured Drach.”
“But he’s hurt! We need to tend to his wound!” Cara’s voice is shrill, unmindful that she’s addressing a Golian princess.
“Not if he’s dead,” Desma growls and draws her sword.
“Wait!” Alonya cries. She strides over and picks up Helmar gently. “I will carry him, and we shall not slow you down one step.”
Desma’s eyes flick between Alonya and Helmar’s limp body before she finally shrugs and slides her sword back into its scabbard. Without another word, she turns and lopes away.
Master Boren pulls Cara to her feet. “Come, child. At least this way he has a chance of living.”
The small stream that we follow flows through a narrow mountain vale. The dark peaks on each side seem to tower almost to the heavens. There are no trees along the stream or in the valley.
Instead, there are dense clumps of knee-high bushes that push up against the craggy boulders that have come crashing down from the heights above.
Cara has Wind Song pace Alonya the whole time, her misty eyes rarely leaving Helmar’s limp body.
The valley’s twists and turns take us from dark shadows when the mountains block the moon’s glow, and then into a hazy light when they reappear. The pale moonbeams seem to soften the boulders’ hard edges and craggy peaks, lessening the bleak landscape’s harshness.
No one speaks, the only sounds are the constant rustling of dragon scales and the shuffling of leather sandals. After a bit, Fotina takes Helmar in her arms without missing a stride.
The Golians scan the skies, their bows at the ready, as if even here, this deep into their domain, the Wilders may still reach us.
Soon, the valley widens noticeably. Ahead, and to one side, are four enormous gray-white ledges that ascend upward as if some Titan had terraced the mountainside into a stairway that leads to the mountaintops. I could almost imagine such a being using the massive, rocky shelves as stairs to climb his way to the heavens.
The lowest ledge has a broad overhang with a black opening that splits the massif for a short distance lengthwise. A cave—and from the way that the Golians act, I assume that they’re either going to try and hide inside or it’s the spot from which they’ve chosen to fight their oncoming enemies.
From a distance, I peer into the cavern’s entrance but the moonlight doesn’t penetrate the darkness, and I cannot tell what is beyond the immediate opening.
However, Desma leads us confidently toward the grotto’s darkness, so I assume that no unwelcome surprises await us inside.
Desma shouldn’t have been so confident.
Out of the darkness, like black midges swarming off dragon dung, boil a host of truncheon-waving mountain trolls.
They pound up the gradual incline, their slobbering mouths dripping foam and spittle down their chests. Their red eyes gleam in the moonlight, and their guttural bellowing fills the little dell.
Our dragons snort and growl, but not at the trolls, for just then, over the high hills to our right comes the thumping of Wilder dragon wings. Seeing the sky threat, Desma’s archers swing around and unleash a hail of arrows.
Screeches fill the air and flailing helplessly, several Wilder dragons tumble out of the night air. Dragons and riders hit the mountainside and careen over jagged, barren rocks and boulders.
Fotina swings Helmar up to Amil and shouts, “Take him!” She spins away and joins Alonya and several other Golian warri
ors as they charge into battle with the trolls, sharp, gleaming sword versus giant, blunt club.
Fotina and Alonya swing their great blades, and two trolls teeter for an instant, headless, before they topple over.
Master Boren’s voice thunders across the vale, “Sky!” Almost as one, our dragons leap into the air. I push Scamper under the golden’s skull plate and yell, “Stay down!”
For an instant, I think we’re going to try and make our escape out of Desma’s grasp, but instead, Master Boren yells while pointing, “The trolls! Use dragon fire!”
We swoop around, away from the Wilders, who are exchanging arrows with the Golian archers and dive toward the trolls. Master Boren roars, “Fotina! Alonya! Get everyone away!”
All of the Amazos turn, see the plunging dragons and spring away from the maddened trolls. Just as they do, I yell out, “Golden Wind, dragon fire!”
I can feel the golden’s muscles scrunch up underneath me and then she spews out a massive spear of scalding flame that engulfs the lead trolls. Her dragon breath is joined by the sapphires and a curtain of fire catches the brutes head-on.
In an instant, they’re blazing towers of burning skin, stumbling, staggering, and beating at their bodies to put out the fire. Their roars overshadow the guttural bellows of their fellow trolls.
One by one they topple to the ground, nothing but mounds of blackened, charred flesh. Behind them, those few that escaped the initial onslaught, stop for an instant, their beady little eyes now wide at the sight of their dead companions.
They break and run, their warty legs carrying them swiftly across the dale. Phigby yells, “Make for the other trolls, but hold your dragon fire!”
He holds up his bag, meaningfully.
We begin our turn for the side valley. Just as we do, a flight of Wilders breaks away from the main body and streaks toward us. What they don’t realize is that their run at us puts them directly in front of the giant archers.
Huge bolts swoosh through the sky, and all but one Wilder dragon drops from the air as if a Titan slashed down with a massive mace and broke their necks.
Seeing the one lone Wilder still pursuing us, Cara swivels on Wind Song, bow in hand and unleashes a deadly arrow. The Wilder’s death scream fills the air, and his dragon sweeps away, riderless, into the night.
We swoop down the valley and moments later, spot the onrushing trolls. This band is even larger than the one that waited in the grotto.
Phigby leads us a bit higher, where we hover. He fumbles around in his bag and in an anxious, irritated voice, Master Boren calls, “We don’t have all night. Those trolls will be upon the Amazos in no time.”
Phigby calls over in a growl, “Patience, Boren, good works sometimes take a little extra time and thought, you know. But in the end, it’s always worth the effort.”
“Stop thinking,” Master Boren yells back, “and start doing or I’m unleashing dragon fire.”
In answer, Phigby lifts from his bag what looks like a long, skinny whip. He has Cara skim Wind Song level over the thundering trolls. As she does, Phigby brings the whip back and starts cracking the tip. Each time he does, a string of light shoots out the end and starts to slowly float down.
Faster and faster Phigby cracks the whip until the air is full of shimmering floaters. Slowly they drift down until they’re like a bright haze over the monster’s heads. The trolls stop their rush and with open slobbering mouths that drool spittle, stare upward at the gleaming cloud.
Phigby holds his whip high, straightens, and in a loud voice cries out, “Slithern cascadees!”
The cloud shimmers brightly for a moment, and then like falling stars, little drops of light start sprinkling downward. They land on troll heads, shoulders, and protruding bellies with a little pop!
With each pop! trolls start bellowing and stomping their feet. I gape in astonishment. The little drops of light are now squirming, wriggly, glowing snakes. They squiggle over troll heads, shoulders, feet and toes.
The trolls start clubbing each other, trying to kill the glowing snakes, but where a club lands, the shimmering serpent bursts into a ray of light and disappears, leaving a troll head split apart and oozing blood and gray flesh.
Abruptly, the trolls stop fighting among themselves and stampede in the opposite direction, away from the battle between Amazos and Wilders.
I can’t help myself and laugh for a moment at the sight of little squiggly glow-snakes streaking along the ground, chasing giant trolls back down the valley and over a crest until they disappear.
“Back to the fight!” roars Master Boren and we wheel our dragons around to speed back to where the Amazos still battle the Wilders. Master Boren takes us high over the battlefield where we hover for a moment and scan below.
The Wilders, in their rage, are so intent on the Amazos, that they don’t see us floating high above. In the pale moonlight, the Wilders and their dragons are dark streaks as they rush in, unleash a hail of arrows and then speed away. Each time they do, however, fewer leave than attacked, as the Amazos’ bows are deadly accurate.
Watching the scene, I notice something peculiar and point. “Three Wilder dragons standing off and not attacking.”
“Good eyes, Hooper,” Phigby answers, “that must be the leader and his personal guard.”
“We go after him,” Master Boren commands. “We won’t chance missing him with an arrow. One pass with dragon fire everyone!”
I nod in appreciation of Master Boren’s plan. If we can sever the head of the Wilder beast, then there’s just a chance that the others will call off their attack, for now.
At Master Boren’s slashing hand, we dive our dragons almost straight down, gaining speed as our dragons tuck their wings. We dart down and just behind the three unsuspecting Wilders, level off. Master Boren bellows, “Dragon fire!”
A curtain of flames engulfs the three Wilders and an instant later, we flash by. The rush of our wings topples their flaming corpses off their dragons, sending them tumbling end over end to crash on the ground below.
Their dragons, unscathed by the firestorm, speed away. As the three riderless dragons cross in front of the attacking Wilder pack, the Wilders jerk their dragons to a standstill in the air. They hesitate for a moment before they turn and with their dragons’ wings beating furiously, disappear over the hills and into the dark.
We bring our dragons to land near where the Amazos are clustered around a writhing form on the ground.
It’s Desma.
A Wilder arrow protrudes between neck and shoulder. Alonya comes striding up to Wind Rover where she and Amil gently lower Helmar to the ground.
With his bag in hand, Phigby trundles up and says to Alonya, “You’re wounded.”
“Much less than what the Vargs did,” Alonya replies, though she winces as she straightens.
“Fotina?” Master Boren asks.
Alonya nods toward to the group of Amazos and Desma. “There. Desma was hit by a Wilder arrow. I’m not sure why, but Fotina went to offer her help.”
“Tell them,” Phigby directs, “that as soon as I’m through with Helmar, I’ll be right over.”
“Any others hurt?” Amil asks.
“Three with arrow wounds,” Alonya returns. She points over to where two bodies slump against a craggy boulder. “Two dead.”
“Hooper,” Phigby orders, “I need water.”
I scoop up the water flasks and hurry to the tiny, meandering stream. I rush back and hand them to Cara, who’s holding Helmar’s head in her lap.
To my surprise, his eyes are open, though his breathing is rapid and uneven. Phigby is feverishly working at his wound and already has the arrow out. I see it lying nearby, lean closer and ask pointedly, “Phigby, the arrow point—”
“I checked it!” Phigby growls. “It was clean. Do you think I would make the same mistake twice?”
“No . . . I was just asking,” I murmur and shudder as, unbidden, terrible memories of the Worm Wraith fill my mind.
/> I lean over and lay a hand on Helmar’s shoulder. “Helmar, it’s good to see you with your eyes open. We were quite worried about you.”
Helmar grimaces and gives a little nod. “Thanks,” he answers in a rasp, “I’ve been a bit worried about me too.”
I turn at heavy footsteps. It’s Fotina and Krista. Both are bloodied, but not seriously wounded. Krista reaches down and roughly grabs Phigby’s shoulder, stopping him from tending to Helmar.
“Fotina says that you are a healer. You will stop and attend to Princess Desma, now.”
“I’m almost done here,” Phigby murmurs, ignoring her hand on his shoulder and turns back to Helmar.
Krista draws her sword. “I said you will stop now, or you die.”
Phigby continues working on Helmar’s wound, but softly says, “If you kill me, Princess Desma will not receive the healing that she needs, will she?”
Before I can move, Krista’s sword slices through the air and stops just at my neck, the blade’s edge kissing my skin. “Then the puny one dies first, and then the others.”
“If you kill my friends,” Phigby replies without looking up, “I most certainly will not treat your princess, and if she then dies, it will be your fault.”
My eyes are on the sword at my neck, which seems to me to be as big as a dragon’s tail and Phigby’s answer is much too nonchalant. “Won’t it?” Phigby murmurs as he turns back to Helmar.
I can see the hesitation in Krista’s eyes, but I don’t move a muscle, thinking that if I do, she just might call Phigby’s bluff, and my head will soon be rolling in the dust.
Krista slowly lowers her blade. Phigby puts a last knot in Helmar’s bandage and says, “Cara, keep him down. If he moves, that wound may reopen, and he’ll start pouring out his life-fluid.”
He stands and without so much as a glance at Krista marches over to where Desma lies. Krista glares at me before she whips her sword away from my neck to follow Phigby.
With hands on knees, I bend over and take a deep breath.
Amil lays a hand on my back and says, “Staring death in the face always takes my breath away too, lad. Take a few more deep ones—from the looks of it, you could use them.”
