by GARY DARBY
Fotina coughs more blood before she can say, “Alonya, use it wisely for it is a gift given for the good of our people.”
A spittle of blood drools from the corner of her mouth. Phigby dabs it away with gentle strokes of a cloth. When he finishes, Fotina swallows and rasps, “As queen, you cannot live and believe in a lie as Gru did in the false notion that tomorrow would never come, and she would never have to pay the witch her due.”
She tries to reach up to caress Alonya’s face but is too weak; instead, Alonya grabs her hand, holds it tight. “Dream of tomorrow but live your life full of courageous and honorable todays.”
She shudders and then with a sigh as her final breath, whispers, “Be the queen your mother was . . . the queen you were meant to be . . .”
30
Alonya holds Fotina’s torn body tight to her. Great tears run down her cheeks to fall softly on Fotina’s forehead. Desma, Cara, Phigby, and I, even Scamper stay respectfully quiet, giving Alonya a moment to mourn.
Then Phigby reaches out, and lightly touches Alonya on the shoulder. “Your Majesty, I know you have need to grieve, but right now your people need their queen more, there is a battle to be won.”
He gently touches Fotina’s hair. “A victory to honor those who’ve sacrificed all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Desma quietly adds, “your people especially need you now.”
Alonya slowly raises her head, her hands still caressing Fotina’s face. “Our custom is an election wherein the families vote for the new queen. I would not usurp the throne as Gru did.”
“At a proper time,” Desma answers forcefully, “we shall observe custom. Now, we need someone to follow, to lead us against the Wilders. That someone is you.”
Alonya starts to answer but Desma quickly adds, “And not me. I will be honored to fight by your side but Fotina was right, this is your time. Take up your sword and shield Your Majesty, for Dronopolis burns.”
Queen Alonya draws in a shuddering breath and lowers Fotina’s dead body gently to the floor. She brushes back a strand of hair that’s fallen over Fotina’s pale face, tenderly kisses her brow and then stands.
To Desma she firmly says, “Where is the armory?”
Desma gestures toward the door. “This way.”
With Alonya and us following, Desma rushes through the door, dashes down the hallway and turns right. We pound down the corridor, with me carrying a freed-up Scamper in one hand, my glorious sword in the other.
We sweep through another door and then into a large side room. Row upon row of Golian-sized bows, arrows, swords, and shields fill the room, along with sets of light armor.
Desma points to another room. “We keep smaller bows, arrows, and swords to that side for our older children who are training. See what you can find that you will be able to wield.”
While Queen Alonya and Desma begin to outfit themselves with the implements of war, we three rush into the long rectangular room. One side has racks that hold bows and quivers full of arrows; the other contains broadswords and oblong shields. Farther on, I can see bronze helmets, chest armor, leg sheaths, knives, and sharply honed spears.
Phigby grunts and points to the armor. “They may be made for older Golian youngsters, but only Helmar or Amil could wear those.”
“True enough,” Cara answers, “but I can heft this bow and handle these arrows.”
“You won’t have to,” I call over and hold up a familiar-looking longbow.
“My bow!” Cara squeals and hurries over.
“And here’s Amil’s ax as well,” Phigby states.
Within a few moments, we’ve found Helmar’s bow and Master Boren’s sword. “These arrows,” Cara says as she notches a shaft, “they’re a bit large, but they fit well enough.”
“Then grab several full quivers,” Phigby orders, “and a sword for you and Helmar. And knives for all of us. I’ll carry a bow and quiver for your father as well as his sword. Don’t worry about shields or armor, they’re too bulky and you wouldn’t know how to fight in them anyway.”
He studies me for a moment, turns, and then comes back with a smallish scabbard. He belts it tightly around me, and I slide my emerald blade snug into the sheath.
Phigiby claps me on the shoulder. “A proper casing would be made out of emerald too, but this will have to do for now.”
Just then, Alonya and Desma appear in the doorway. Both are girded in burnished armor chest plates, arm sheaths, leggings, and glittering helms. Strapped to their sides are gleaming scabbards that hold their great swords and over their shoulders are mighty longbows and quivers full of arrows.
Their eyes are full of regal light and fire.
Both are the picture of a warrior queen and princess, ready to lead the Golian nation in a desperate battle against the raging Wilders.
But then I notice something odd, and royalty or not, I point out, “Princess Desma, you’re not wearing your blood-red kilt.”
“No.” She runs a hand over the traditional gray skirt she now wears, “I will never wear the symbol of so much wrong, ever again, nor will any of our Amazos if I have my way.”
“That you shall,” Queen Alonya declares to her before turning to us. “Swiftly now, my friends, and may the Wilders taste agony and defeat such as they’ve never known before.”
We hurry down the grand hallway’s long expanse. Only Scamper is able to match Alonya’s and Desma’s giant strides, of course. When we finally catch up, the two are on the broad steps of Warrior Hall and shouting to the palace guard.
“Hold! Hold your arrows!” Desma repeatedly yells at the top of her voice to the Amazos, who are still trying to take down our sapphires and the golden.
Moments later, the guard warily lower their bows and gather at the foot of the steps with hard, but confused faces. Desma points upward to our dragons who now hover over the massive mall. “These are not our enemies, but are friends.”
The Golian warrior motions toward the distant outskirts of Dronopolis where the battle still rages. “Our enemies are there, laying siege to our city.”
Desma pauses and takes a deep breath, and her voice catches just for a moment before it firms up again. “Queen Gru Oden is dead, treacherously slain by that same vermin that infest our skies and spew dragon fire onto our people.”
She goes on in a firm tone. “But you also need to know this. More than seventeen seasons ago, Queen Leda Escher was murdered shortly after giving birth to twin daughters.”
Desma turns to Alonya. “We are those daughters. We are of the House of Escher.”
At the guards murmuring, she says, “I am Second Born.”
Desma turns to Alonya. “This is Alonya Escher, First Born of Queen Leda.”
Her voice grows even stronger, and her eyes flash. “The Wilders have broken through our outer defenses and even now threaten Dronopolis.
“We have no time to call the Grand Council into session and right the wrong that was done so long ago, but I will stand as witness that my sister is the rightful queen of the Golian Domain, and I give her my full allegiance and loyalty.”
At that, she takes several paces down the steps, turns and kneels before Alonya. She brings her sword out and bangs three times on her shield. Her voice rings loud and clear. “Hail, Queen Alonya.”
As one, the palace guards drop to one knee, bang their shields and roar, “Hail, Queen Alonya.”
Alonya straightens to stand tall and majestic, a queen, noble and strong. Then she reaches down and helps Desma to her feet. The two embrace and then Alonya turns and commands, “Rise, sisters.”
Peering upward, I see Master Boren bringing our dragons to a landing in the grand plaza, just a short distance away. I heave a sigh of relief when I see that no Golian arrow found its mark in either our compatriots or our dragons.
To myself I think that perhaps the Gaelian Fae not only helped us in the fight in the queen’s chambers but with the skirmish outside as well.
Just then, a runner covered in blac
kened soot and with red welts on her arms and legs from searing burns runs up to the base of the steps where she kneels before Desma. “My princess—”
Desma raises a hand to stop her and gestures to Alonya. “Runner, make your report to Queen Alonya.”
The runner appears momentarily startled before she swings herself around, still on bended knee. “Your Majesty, forgive me, I—”
“Forgiven,” Alonya swiftly replies, “deliver your message.”
In a rush of words, the runner says, “General Katus reports that we are falling back from the first precinct and requests that you send reinforcements immediately. She also says that we must have the ballistae, our arrows are not enough to slay the beasts, for they are too numerous.”
Desma turns to Alonya. “Gru ordered them taken to the thirteenth district, the farthest point in the city from the Wilders’ attack. I sent Mintis to bring them forward when I found out what she had done, but that was only a short while ago.”
Desma hesitates before saying, “Gru emptied South Pass of its garrison and sent all the reserve cohorts to other points far from Dronopolis. What is left is the city guard and your personal guard, I’m afraid.”
“Your Majesty,” the runner hastily adds, “the city guard has formed up under General Katus, but we are few in number compared to the Wilders. They come at us, wave after wave. We’ve killed many, but it seems the sky fills with even more.”
She draws in a breath. “General Katus fears that if we do not have reinforcements soon, they will break through, even to here.”
Alonya’s shoulders sag just for an instant, then her head is upright, and she crisply orders, “Tell Katus she will have the help she needs and speedily.”
She pauses and then in a clear, imperious tone declares, “And inform General Katus that Queen Alonya Escher shall soon be at her side as well.”
The runner’s eyes grow wide in understanding before she mutters, “Yes . . . my queen.” She jumps to her feet and dashes away.
“Desma,” Alonya questions, “are there any cohorts nearby that we can send for?”
Desma shakes her head. “None that would arrive in time.”
Alonya seems to take that in and then orders, “Find Mintis and those catapults and bring them swiftly.”
She motions towards the assembled warriors. “Take as many as you need, just get those dragon slayers to Katus.”
Desma nods and starts to turn, before she stops and lays a hand on Alonya’s forearm. “When this is over, I would have us sit and laugh together as sisters do.”
Alonya grasps Desma’s hand. “When this is over,” she murmurs, “we shall sit and laugh as sisters do.”
Then Desma is flying down the stairs, taking roughly a third of the palace guard with her. Alonya calls out, “Captain of the guard.”
A figure comes bounding up the stairs and kneels. “Anori reports to Her Majesty.”
“Rise, Anori,” Alonya commands. “Send four warriors into the city, inform the people of what has happened this night and who now sits on the throne. All those who have weapons are to report to General Katus immediately.”
She then points to the roof. “Sound the trumps, sound them long and hard. Let the Wilder scum know that Alonya has heard the cry of her people and will answer with rage and ruin upon the Wilders’ traitorous and vile heads.”
Anori whirls and swiftly points to four Amazos, who dash away into the night to bring Alonya’s message of hope to the citizens of Dronopolis. Anori then gestures to four more who dart up the stairs and into the massive edifice.
With his eyes, Master Boren gathers us Drachs together and as one, we kneel before Queen Alonya.
Master Boren speaks in a firm voice. “Your Majesty, we swore to Princess Desma that we would stand with the Golians in their fight against the Wilders. We would make that same pledge to you if you would have us.”
He motions toward our dragons. “We are few in number, but what we have we freely offer to you. Our sapphires are not crimson war dragons, but none sky faster, and you won’t find more capable riders than we. Our sword, ax, and bow arms are yours to command.”
Alonya reaches down and pulls Master Boren to his feet. “Rise, my friends, and on behalf of my people, I thank you.”
She motions toward the crimson glow that marks her burning city. “We shall be grateful for whatever help you can offer.”
The queen turns to Anori. “Run ahead, and personally inform General Katus that we will have our own dragons and that our warriors are not to mistake them for our enemies’.”
Anori spins on her sandaled feet and sprints across the grand plaza, headed toward the Denalian Way and the battle. Alonya turns to us. “Now I must swiftly go as well and join in the fight before all is lost.”
She leans over and speaks low to me, Cara, and Phigby. “To you, I owe my life, and this queen shall never forget your gallant deed on my behalf.”
With that, she bounds down the broad steps, her palace guard forming ranks on each side. They rush across the square and are soon lost to sight.
Just then, from high above, the Trumps of War sound.
The gigantic horns blow in unison, and I can feel the air vibrate from their long, deep bass notes. They blare once, twice, three times, the last note rolling over the grand plaza calling every Golian able to bear arms to the terrible struggle.
Master Boren glances up, lets out a long breath, and mutters, “It would appear that we are called to war.”
I turn my eyes from the red and black that marks where Dronopolis is being consumed by dragon fire. To Phigby, I murmur, “How did it ever come to this, Phigby? Is this horror our fault?”
Phigby’s eyes take in the distant line of roaring, spewing flames where once lovely and spacious Golian homes are now blackened hulks.
“No, Hooper. We did not do this. Those that lust for dominion in this world or the next, they who would enslave and ensnare those of this world with promises of riches or power beyond belief or whatever else it is that they covet; they are responsible.”
I cringe as I see more dragon fire spew down like a flaming vortex. Cara takes a breath and in a forlorn voice asks, “How do we fight this? There are so many.”
Phigby straightens and answers firmly, “As evil begets evil, bravery begets bravery. No, my friends, we did not come this far to die at the hands of these foul ones.”
He gestures toward the mountains where the snow-capped peaks have taken on a pink luminance. “Dragon Glow,” he pronounces. “A new day, and with the dawning always comes new hope and new courage to face what the day may bring.”
The six of us gather in a tight circle. “Then,” Master Boren utters, his voice full and measured, “let us face this new day together, for I, too, believe as Phigby. Today is not our day to die, but rather to let our courage shine forth as brightly as the new dawn.”
Master Boren holds out his hand and lets his eyes move from face to face. “To courage.”
We lay our hands upon his and as if we were taking a vow, say, “To courage.”
With that, we rush toward our dragons. As I near Golden Wind, a hand catches me by the elbow and pulls me around.
It’s Master Boren and Phigby. “Hooper,” Boren speaks in a gruff voice, “this battle is not for you or the golden.”
He gestures toward Golden Wind. “Take the golden and the sprogs,” he orders, “out of the city. When you are far enough away, sky Golden Wind into the mountains, find a safe place to hide and stay there. When this is over, we’ll find you.”
“But—” I begin, but Master Boren lays his hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Hooper, even if Dronopolis is lost, but we’re able to keep Golden Wind from Wilder hands, then we will have won.”
Phigby moves close, his voice and face gentle. “Lad, this isn’t about you—you’ve proven your courage when you faced Vay in Gru’s chambers. No, this is for the task that we set out to accomplish, to keep the golden safe and away from the Wilders.”
He squeezes my shoulder in a fatherly fashion. “We will join with the Golians, and keep the Wilders at bay for as long as we can while you spirit the golden to safety.”
There is no faulting his reasoning or his logic, but still, the conversation leaves me empty, forlorn, and with the taste of bile in my mouth. I feel as if he’s asking me, and not just the golden, to flee to safety, leaving my companions behind to face the ferocious Wilder onslaught.
I glance over at Cara, but she and Helmar are in an earnest conversation, testing their bows, notching a Golian arrow to get the feel of the bowstring.
From somewhere, Amil produces a sandstone, and with a satisfied smile on his face is sharpening both blades of his mighty ax, readying it and himself to do battle with the Wilders.
Soon, they, along with Master Boren and Phigby will be in a fight for their lives, while I will be skulking through the city streets, my tail tucked like a cowardly cur.
I peer at the golden, but she’s turned her head away, her eyes on the distant fire and smoke that marks the battle’s edge. She, of course, is the centerpiece of all this, the reason we strove so hard to reach Golian and what we supposed, what we hoped, would be a safe haven, for her and for us.
Now that is not to be, and Master Boren is right, if the Wilders capture her, then not only will Dronopolis be lost, but so will everything else.
I let out a disappointed sigh. “I understand. I will do as you wish.”
“Good lad!” Boren answers and claps me on the shoulder. “I know you will do your best, and that is all I can ask.”
With that, he walks away. I peer at Phigby, who gives me a little smile and starts to speak but stops and merely nods before he, too, turns away.
Moments later, the three sapphires are aloft and winging toward the raging battle. I glance around. The grand plaza is empty, deserted except for the golden, the sprogs, Scamper, and me.
From their saddlebags, the sprogs pop their heads up and screep at me, no doubt asking for release from their carry-all.
