by GARY DARBY
Two Golian warriors close the massive doors behind us, and I find that the tunnel isn’t completely dark; there are a few smoky torches to light our way. Behind me, I hear three loud sounds, one after another, as if giant wooden blocks were being slammed together.
After the last noise dies away and we’re trudging along in the tunnel’s dim light, I can hear Phigby muttering as if to himself, “Three gate bars. Interesting. Even the strongest castle gates usually have only one.”
Cara asks, “Is that meaningful?”
“Absolutely,” Phigby answers. “It means the Golians understand that gates and doors are the weakest point of any fortress or castle, and they’re ensuring that their doors are as sturdy as the rest of the stronghold.
“Look ahead, a second set of doors is opening, no doubt with triple bars as well. All of this tells me the Golians know not only how to build, but to contruct well and shore up their weak points.”
He lets out a small sigh. “Lessons learned no doubt after Malonda Kur ravaged their domain.”
The massive doors swing wide, letting in sunlight, and we plod out of the passageway and into the garrison’s square stockade. Off to either side are two huge buildings made of rough-cut stone. But from what I can tell, the roofing seems to be a mix of timber and more stone.
Pennants flap atop long spires that jut from the front and rear of each structure. Each flag is purple in color and emblazoned with a silver shield and two crossed golden swords. On each side of the shield is a Golian warrior holding a bow with a notched arrow pointing skyward.
Etched at the pennants’ top, just above the shield are the words, “Duty—Honor—Courage.”
I stare at the nearest flag that curls and flaps in the mountain breeze as Golden Wind slowly plods along toward the center of the square. I know I’ve seen that emblem before, at least, the shield and crossed swords but I can’t quite remember where.
Two more enormous buildings made from similar stone blocks are set to the other side of the square. One seems to be an armory of some sort as I see several unarmed warriors hurrying into the building while others rush out fully armed with shields, swords, and bows.
I have no idea what the other building is for, as there doesn’t seem to be any movement in or around it other than a small swirl of smoke rising from a chimney set toward the rear of the building.
As Desma’s chair reaches midsquare, our column comes to a halt. A complement of warriors, perhaps two dozen or so, form ranks on each side of the princess.
Another leader decked out in shining armor, and with ornate plumage set high in her helmet, strides forward between the warriors and stops a few paces from the princess.
She salutes Desma with her sword and then barks, “Kneel!” at which, as one, all of the garrison warriors bang their swords on their ornately designed shields and go to one knee.
With a wave of her hand Desma orders, “Rise, warriors.”
As the officer rises, Desma motions her forward. Desma’s voice is hard, her tone sharp. “Commander, where are your other Amazos? Royal protocol requires a full assembly of the garrison.”
“Except for the guards atop the barrier, this is the entire complement, princess,” the leader returns. I can see her eyes flick toward the golden and widen noticeably, but she neither turns nor speaks out.
Desma swivels in her chair and surveys the buildings to the right. “There should be two full cohorts here—over two hundred Amazos. Explain, Lenor,” she commands sternly.
Lenor swiftly says, “It was by the queen’s command, princess. Two days ago, she ordered all but what you see before you out of the garrison and to Dronopolis.”
I can’t see Desma’s face, but by the astonished tone in her voice, I suspect that she is not entirely happy with her mother’s orders, nor was she told beforehand. “For what reason?”
“I do not know, princess,” the older Golian replies. “The written order came by runner under the royal seal and gave no reason other than I was not to delay sending the needed number of Amazos to Dronopolis.
“I received the order late midmorning, the required troop of warriors were marching to Dronopolis before midmeal.”
“But,” Desma sputters, “have you not been sending runners to Dronopolis with news of the Wilders’ incursions along the border?”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Lenor immediately answers. “Twice daily and as soon as I received word regarding you, I sent a runner to Dronopolis informing the queen.”
Desma hesitates, then rises from her chair and whispers in Lenor’s ear. Lenor instantly whirls and commands, “Swords, sheathed, bows, front!”
Almost faster than the eye can follow, with a loud hissing sound, the Amazos slam their swords into their scabbards, whip their bows out, notch an arrow and aim straight at us.
Desma then says, “Take their weapons.”
Lenor snaps a finger at a nearby squad of Amazos who swiftly swarm us and take every bow, sword, shield, and knife we carry.
Of course, we don’t fight back, though I can see from both Fotina's and Alonya's expression that this is a humiliating experience.
The Amazos must not have counted Phigby’s bag as a weapon for he’s still clutching it tightly once the warriors move away with our armaments.
Desma gazes at us and says in a cold tone, “So that we’re clear, I allowed you to have your weapons only because of the Wilder threat but now that we’re in the fortress, you have no further need of them.”
She points to Fotina and says, “Give me your word that the dragons will neither fly away nor bring dragon fire or I will slay them all on the spot except for the golden.”
Fotina doesn’t hesitate. “Princess Desma, you have my oath and my word. These Drachs come in peace and unlike the Wilders have no desire to bring bloodshed to Golian.”
“Perhaps,” Desma responds briskly, “but I intend to take no chances. Remember this, you are my prisoners and any attempt to escape with or without your dragons will end in your quick death.”
She turns to Lenor. “Dismiss your warriors.”
“Yes, princess,” Lenor replies, and over her shoulder, calls out to the assembled warriors, “Dismissed, return to your duties.”
For a moment, a look of weariness crosses Desma’s face. No doubt, the Wilders’ poison has weakened her but still she says, “We will continue to Dronopolis. I will discuss the matter of the garrison’s unsuitable complement of warriors with my mother once I reach Warrior Hall.”
Lenor gives her a grateful nod and mutters, “Thank you, princess, but please, take the time to eat, and allow us to tend to your wounds before going farther.”
Desma shakes her head firmly. “No, we press on.”
She starts to give the order to march when Phigby calls out to her. “Your Highness, I am not a warrior such as you, but it would seem that both Amazos and dragons would go farther and faster on full stomachs than on empty ones. We would reach Dronopolis that much sooner.”
At his loud voice, Desma turns to glower at him from her chair, but Phigby ignores her glare and gestures toward her injured shoulder. “Besides, I think it would be wise if I had the opportunity to check your bandages after that bouncing you took. They most likely have slipped and perhaps now chafe Your Highness when they should not.
“It would be my honor to place more of my healing potion on the shoulder and redo the dressing so that you are more comfortable on the remaining part of our journey.”
Krista steps close and whispers in Desma’s ear. Desma hesitates before grumbling loudly, “All right, we eat and rest but only for a short while.”
She points a finger at Phigby. “And be quick about my wounds. We have little time to waste.”
Phigby bows his head. “Yes, princess.”
Desma gives a curt gesture toward ourselves and our dragons. “Feed them all, including their beasts.”
Lenor bows and snaps her fingers at two warriors standing nearby. “Bring food and drink for Princess Desma
.”
She motions to our dragons. “A goat apiece for the dragons,” she commands, “and take the others to the meal hall.”
Just as Lenor begins to turn away, she lifts her eyes to take in our entire company. She falters in her step, and I see why.
Alonya and Fotina have stepped out from behind the golden and come into full view. Lenor’s eyes go wide for an instant before she recovers her footing and moves off.
However, I notice that she doesn’t go far before she shoots another glance over her shoulder as if to confirm what she’s seen.
As our dragons settle to all fours, and we clamber down, I whisper to Phigby, “It’s got to be a good sign that they’re willing to feed us, isn’t it? I mean they fed us last night and now today. If they were going to kill us right off when we got to wherever it is we’re going, they wouldn’t waste food on us.”
Amil joins in and whispers, “Aye, the lad has a point, Phigby. Methinks Princess Desma doesn’t know quite what to make of us or do with us, not to mention you saved her life.”
“Perhaps,” Phigby mutters under his breath. “But it may as well be that she hasn’t made up her mind what to do to us. So don’t take a bit of Golian food in your stomach as all’s well. I have the feeling that she’s providing food only to keep us alive and to let her mother have the last word on our fate.”
At a gesture from a nearby warrior, except for Cara, who stays with Helmar, and Phigby, who tends to Desma, the rest of us troop into the large structure with the chimney. Once inside, I immediately recognize the sight and smells of a meal house.
The Golian tables and benches are much too high for us Drachs to sit comfortably upon, so, Master Boren, Amil, and I carry great bowls of thick, meaty soup out for the others to sup on.
Along with the soup, we’re also given more brick-hard bread, which I immediately dunk into my soup to soften it up. I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll crack a tooth or two trying to chew through the thick wafer.
Scamper gets a whole biscuit to himself and the warriors who bring the goat’s meat to the dragons smile when they see him, and offer him a half leg of tender, cooked goat’s meat.
He goes after the goat leg as if he’s totally famished and hasn’t eaten in days. I notice that he lies on top of his trail ration as he’s eating, no doubt protecting it from Regal though the sprogs get a goat leg apiece.
Naturally, that’s not enough for Regal, who promptly tries to drag his and Sparkle’s off while she’s still hanging on and furiously trying to backpedal. As usual, I have to separate those two before I can get back to my own meal.
Helmar is alert enough that Cara is able to ladle some soup into him. After Phigby finishes with Desma, he checks Helmar’s injury and nods in satisfaction at what he finds.
He then turns to Alonya and though her bandages show a little red stain, Phigby’s salve has caused fresh healing.
The wooden bowl that I’m eating out of may be shallow to a Golian, but to me, it appears almost as big around as a rain barrel and filled to the brim with soup.
The spoon is so big that I have to stretch my lips all out of shape, first spreading them wide one way and then the other to try and get the ladle inside my mouth, but I just can’t open my mouth wide enough.
I end up slurping the soup off the spoon quite noisily, but I’m not the only one. Phigby does the same, only his swigging is even louder than mine, and he keeps getting strands of beard sucked in with his soup.
I’m not complaining. I’ve never had so much food in my whole life and eat with as much, if not more enthusiasm than Scamper.
Some warriors pass by, their eyes peering intently first at the golden and then at Scamper. I can tell by their murmurings that Golden Wind intrigues them whereas Scamper’s antics bring a smile even to the most hardened Amazos face. They seem fascinated by him, while to me, he's just Scamper, a walking four-legged stomach.
However, the Amazos’ smiles instantly drop, and their expressions turn to deep puzzlement, almost disbelief when they see Alonya sitting cross-legged next to Fotina while both spoon up their soup. Several almost stumble in their footsteps as they stare at her. Both Alonya and Scamper ignore them and eat with gusto.
I go back to my soup and biscuit. My stomach soon feels so full that I worry that I’ll pop my belly button right out. But I slurp all of my soup down and swallow the last bite of softened biscuit, anyway. You never know when a meal like this will come your way again.
I lean back with a satisfied expression and glance down at Scamper. He’s licking the last of the goat grease from his face, and as I set down my bowl, he trundles over and sticks his head into the empty dish.
He peers up at me with an accusing expression. Gwwonn? he says.
I poke him in his bulging belly. “Yes, and you had your fair share. I was hungry, too, you know.”
Once we’re finished eating and our dishes returned, we gather close to Golden Wind and to where Helmar lies on the ground, eyes closed, his head in Cara’s lap.
Amil murmurs to Master Boren and Phigby, “I don’t think that the princess liked the idea that most of the garrison warriors were sent to Dronopolis.”
“No,” Phigby mutters back, “and neither would I, considering the deep incursions the Wilders have made into the domain.”
“And I most of all,” Fotina declares in low tones. “There are only a few places in the mountains that Wilder dragons can easily fly through in numbers and which gets them into the heart of the domain, and this pass is one of them.
“Unless she has an absolutely critical need elsewhere, Gru should not have weakened this garrison. Instead, with the Wilders’ intrusions becoming bolder, she should have done the opposite and strengthened the fort.”
Phigby’s face has a grave expression as he asks, “And what would constitute a critical need that she would be forced to take such an action?”
Fotina is quiet for some time as she ponders Phigby’s question. She glances around to make sure that no one is within earshot. Our guard is still with us, but since we are inside the fortress proper, they are taking turns eating and stand close to the meal house, watching us from a distance.
Desma and Krista disappeared with Lenor inside a small stone building that’s set off to one side, and haven’t reappeared. Most of the other Amazos are standing guard high on the barrier while two are at the entrance gate.
While it appears that we are practically alone in the center of the great fortress, there would be no escaping from here, as the warriors and their mighty bows would swiftly end such a foolish attempt on our part.
Still, for now, we have a few moments to speak in private, and Fotina turns and says, “I can think of two, Phigby. You talked of unholy alliances last eve and from what Alonya has told us both, does one come to mind that would cause Gru to draw her forces away from the mountain posts? If you cannot think of one, I can.”
Phigby strokes his beard and his eyes narrow. “I’ve heard that Dronopolis is not on the sea, but a few leagues inland from the ocean.”
He pauses before saying, “Alonya stated that she spotted a Sung Dar ship in the Wolven Floden. What if the Wilders and Sung Dar have allied and even now the Sung Dar mount an invasion from the sea?”
Phigby eyes Fotina. “Would Gru consider that such a grave threat that she would pull a goodly number of her Amazos from her mountain fortresses to meet the threat from the sea?”
“The Amazos have no fleet?” Master Boren questions.
Fotina shakes her head. “We’ve never had need or desire. The sea is not our way, though we have a small port at the head of the Bay of Gath—some five or so leagues from the outskirts of Dronopolis.
“A few fishing vessels from the sea-people farther down the coast occasionally come to the port to trade their fish for our goods, mostly foodstuffs, but that is the extent of our dealings with the ocean.”
“So,” Master Boren muses, “you would have to fight the Sung Dar once they land and not at sea, hence the re
ason the queen would pull forces from here to strengthen your defenses protecting those parts of Dronopolis closest to the port.”
Fotina nods slowly as if considering her words before speaking. “Yes, that is one possible explanation. However, if . . .” her voice trails off as though another thought has caught and held her.
Phigby eyes her. “If?” he prompts. “You’re suggesting there is another possibility?”
Fotina again glances to make sure we can’t be heard. Her voice becomes so small that we all have to lean a little closer to hear, and I get squashed between Amil on one side and Alonya on the other. Any movement to the right or left by either of them, and I’ll squirt out as one spits a seed from a grape.
“What if,” Fotina continues, her voice quiet but hard, “she faces what she fears most—a rebellion against her reign.”
“Civil war in Golian?” Phigby questions, his eyebrows raised like two steep arches over his eyes.
“We are a warrior race, Master Phigby,” Fotina answers before raising her head and gesturing slightly towards the waving pennants above the stone buildings.
“Our warrior tradition is based on those three words and has been for generations since the founding of Golian. It is ingrained in our youth, soaks into every aspect of our society like a waterfall cascading off a mountainside that drenches anyone standing underneath.”
Fotina continues, murmuring, “But those three words are far from the mind and actions of this queen. I cannot help but think that there are many in the domain who have come to realize how far we have drifted from our traditions, from what we are as a people, and in so doing what we have become.”
She draws in a breath and says, “If that is so, then it may well be that there is more than just unrest in Dronopolis or elsewhere—”
“And Her Majesty,” Master Boren rumbles, “is pulling her warriors to herself—”
“At the expense of weakening our outer defenses!” Fotina snaps.
“As if she is aware of the coiled serpent,” Amil mutters, “that lies at her feet but cannot see the pack of Vargs that are encircling her, making ready for the kill, then she may kill the snake but die under the Varg’s fangs.”
