by GARY DARBY
I look around for Scamper as sometime in the night he left me. Golden Wind raises her head and as I take a look, I snort, “Of course, where else?”
Curled up between her legs and under her chin are Scamper, the sprogs, and the sprite dragons. They’re all huddled together, legs and feet tucked in against the cold.
“I’ll have to remember that tomorrow night,” I chuckle to myself, “if we have to sleep cold.”
I turn at a light touch to find Cara next to me, her arms wrapped tight around her body. “Me too,” she shivers, “I’ll gladly join in if there’s enough room.”
“We’ll make room,” I smile.
On an impulse, I reach out and pull her close and begin to rub her back with vigorous strokes. After a bit, she sighs, “That felt so good, thank you.”
Stepping back, I smile wide. “You’re welcome.” It’s then that my eyes flick past Cara to see a hard-faced Helmar staring at the two of us.
If his eyes could shoot ice arrows, I’d have ice shards sticking out on both sides of me. “Uh, morning, Helmar,” I call with a wave.
He doesn’t answer but stalks off in the direction of Wind Glory. One by one, the others rouse from their cold beds, stomping their feet and rubbing their arms to get warmth and feeling back into them.
I’m surprised to see Alonya stand with a long, purple robe that ties at the shoulder of her light armor.
She must have seen my expression for she admits, “I awoke in the night with this covering me. I have no idea where it came from.”
Amil comes up and holds out a thick, brown tunic. “And I found this at my side.”
He grins wide as he slips it over his jerkin. “Just my size, too.”
Cara and I glance at each other and as one we both turn to face Phigby. Meeting our knowing looks, he shrugs as if he doesn’t know where it came from either.
He brushes himself off, grabs his bag and heads for Wind Song. Cara murmurs out of the side of her mouth, “I’m glad he did that for both of them, I was really worried that they would get too cold. Now,” she grimaces, “if he would only do something about that awful Golian bread.”
“That,” I add, “and thick, wool blankets for each of us.”
“No,” she returns, “at least two, maybe three after last night. One to lie on, and two to curl up snug-tight.”
She gets a faraway look. “Or, better yet, a down feather comforter just like I had back home.”
“A down comforter,” I let out a sigh. “Sounds nice.” I turn away and walk over to Golden Wind.
“Sure would beat a threadbare blanket,” I mutter under my breath, “but after last night, I would take even that.”
With Cara’s help, we get the sprogs back into Golden Wind’s saddlebags. I take Galondraig and cut each of them and Scamper a small piece of my bread ration.
When I finish, there’s but a third left of the hard loaf. I say to Scamper, “Looks like we’re back on lean times, Scamp. I hope you’re more successful in your hunt today than yesterday.”
I don’t mention what I heard last night to anyone as I don’t know if I actually heard voices or just the wind keening through the narrow valley.
We once again take up the march even as the valley stays in darkness. The climb gets steeper, the air thinner, and much, much colder.
Even as the sun approaches its high point we’re still cold, especially I, and more so my feet. They always hurt but now it feels as if someone is poking a knife through my thin boots over and over. I’m just glad we aren’t walking as I’m not sure if I could beat my way up the rocky and rugged trail.
The valley begins to widen until we’re no longer in a sharp gorge but in a long, narrow, bowl-shaped dell that makes a noticeable turn to the east.
We round one shoulder in the mountain and before us in the far distance is the cliff-faced pass that is our goal. It becomes evident why it’s called Grim Heads.
Overlooking the gorge on one side is the profile of a leering face. Its sharp nose points down over a scowling mouth whose frown seems to run clear to the ground.
On the other side of the tapered pass are features that seem carved into the cliff. Only, this face is of a forbidding gargoyle complete with bat ears, squinty eyes, and a mouth full of sharp fangs.
Each has one eye that gives the impression that they’re staring straight down into the gorge. I can’t help but think that anyone passing under their glare would have the feeling that they were about to be snapped up by a troll face on one side or a hungry goblin on the other.
I bring Golden Wind up abreast of Wind Song where Cara and Phigby are staring at the two faces. “I guess that answers Amil’s question,” Phigby mutters, gesturing toward the distant pass.
Cara shudders and I can tell it’s not from the cold. “Phigby,” she asks in a small voice, “did someone actually carve those or—”
“Did the wind use its icy knife,” Phigby replies, “to whittle those out of solid granite?”
He swings his head to the right and left before pointing at the white boundary that marks the snow line ahead of us. “My guess is it was the constant and cold mountain gusts that did the trick. Though, I will admit, I have heard tell that the gods sometimes while away the time making just such sculptures here and there.”
Frowning a bit, I retort, “If that’s the case, I would say that the gods are bored and have too much time on their hands.”
Phigby gives me a tiny smile along with, “Hooper, when you’re a god, you have all the time that ever was or ever will be. Even the gods have to have something to do, you know.”
“Uh, huh,” I return, “as if making everyone’s lives miserable wasn’t enough.”
Phigby’s smile grows , lifting his cheek beard. “Perhaps, Hooper. But if true, then let us hope that someday they’ll stop making everyone miserable and try their hand at making everyone happy.”
“I hope it’s today,” I reply, “and they decide that we’ll be happiest with some warmth.”
Phigby nods, glancing at me sideways. “Yes, that would be nice but don’t you think, Hooper, that’s not what would really make you happy?”
Cara must have nudged her dragon, for with that, Wind Song breaks into a faster pace to catch up with Glory.
Golden Wind follows, but not so fast. Instead, she asks, “A good question, Hooper. What would the gods have to do to make you happy?”
Staring at my hands, I furrow my brow and think, Well, Hooper, what would make you the happiest you’ve ever been?
“Well?” she questions. “Wealth? A castle with servants? Lands filled with dragons? A crown?”
I glance ahead at where Cara sits swaying in time with Wind Song’s movement. “None of those things,” I whisper but say no more and she doesn’t press for my answer.
It’s not long before there are thin patches of snow here and there as if someone tossed a pile of white, fluffy blankets into the air and the wind scattered them over the gray rocks.
I’ve been in snow before, of course, but never mountain snow and I have a hard time keeping my eyes off the nearby peaks that appear to have snow as high as the birthing barn back in Draconstead.
Leaning over, I declare to Golden Wind, “If the snow down here gets as thick as it is up there, we might not have any choice but to sky over this.”
“What about Alonya?” she asks in reply. “Would you have her tunnel through snow higher than her head?”
“Uh, no,” I mumble. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Alonya brings us to a halt and motions for us to get off our dragons and join her. She gestures toward the high, windy, snow-capped peaks off to one side.
“It’s worse than I thought,” she all but growls. “See how the snow hangs over the edge like a wheat stalk whose head is too heavy for it to hold up? And those deep cracks below the overhang? I’ve seen that before and with it comes the danger of an avalanche that would bury us all.”
I stand peering at the towering wall of snow and ice that
covers the closest mountaintop. Having seen snow that only reached my knees at Draconstead, to see so much piled up in one place both awes me and brings a feeling of dread.
“Go back?” Amil asks his eyes on the high peaks.
“And lose two days?” Helmar replies.
“Closer to three,” Alonya offers.
“From here,” Phigby observes, “it seems that we would reach the gorge close to nightfall or shortly after.”
“My guess would be after,” Alonya returns and pushes at an irregular square of the thin snow, “for it won’t be long before this will surely deepen and slow our progress.”
She sweeps a hand upward, motioning at the heights. “That tells me that the snow ahead will be much deeper than I thought and we will have a hard time pushing through.”
“So, a night march,” Helmar states.
“Yes,” Alonya affirms, “and we dare not chance a light. From this high up, any fire—”
“Or dragon glow,” Cara adds.
“Or dragon glow,” Alonya acknowledges, “would be seen for many, many leagues. You just don’t have light high upon the barren mountains. It would raise suspicions in an instant.”
“And at morning light,” Amil breathes, “we could find a host of Wilders waiting for us.”
“Still,” Alonya muses, “passing through the gorge at night, slow though it would be, is not my greatest fear.”
She points up at the high, icy overhang, again. “That is my fear.”
“If,” Phigby questions, “we made it through the gorge unscathed what is the trail like on the other side?”
“From what Fotina told me,” Alonya answers, “much better. A fast path after we push past the Grim Heads, in another day and half, we would be out of the mountains and the hills and camping close to the Wolven Floden.”
“And if we turn around and go back?” Helmar asks.
Alonya works her mouth a moment, her eyes narrowed as if she’s in thought. “It would be another five, perhaps six days before we make the Wolven.”
“That long?” Cara questions.
“Another thing,” Alonya begins before having to breathe in the thin air deeply and motioning to the ice falls high above, “I wouldn’t suggest that you fly your dragons down this valley. I’m all but certain that their wingbeats would bring that down.”
“And,” Helmar notes, “we’re so far up, I’m not sure if the dragons could sky high and quickly enough to get over it if it did come crashing down.”
“Another decision,” I mutter, staring down at the whiteness at my feet.
“Yes,” Phigby replies, “and we must not lose sight of the fact that we are in a race with Vay, she to accomplish what she must, we to achieve what we must.”
“So,” Amil questions with narrowed eyebrows, “you’re saying that if we turn back the extra days would put us behind in our fight with her?”
“I’m saying that though our goal is clear,” Phigby replies, “our path to it is not, but we cannot stand here hemming and hawing over what to do.”
His face turns stern. “You can be confident that Vay is not wasting time.”
Hesitating for a moment, I push myself forward. “Alonya,” I begin in a halting voice, “I know you’re a queen and all that but with all due respect, I believe that Phigby is the wisest among us.”
I turn to Phigby. “I will follow you in whatever direction you say.”
Phigby glances at the others who nod the same. He peers right at the troll-like stone faces that rises over the Grim Heads pass. “As they say, the fastest way between two villages is a straight line.”
His voice becomes firm. “Let us put that to the test here.”
He starts to march toward Wind Song but then stops and turns back to us. “But let us do it as quietly as we can and pray that the ice gods will favor us with a safe passage.”
Walking our dragons as if there were crisp fall leaves under our feet and we didn’t want to crush a single one, we tread forward, all eyes turned upward at the icy overhang.
It’s not long before we’re into deeper snow and it crunches under the dragons’ talon pads. It sounds terribly loud though I’m sure that any little sound would seem tenfold as loud since Alonya pointed out the icy overhangs.
As the snow deepens, I push Golden Wind out front as she is the biggest and heaviest and will make the widest path for the rest.
The snow gets deeper and deeper until it is up to her chest and each step starts to become a struggle just to push through to the next step.
Her breathing becomes hard, labored.
There comes a point where she must put her head down to fight for the next stride. I can tell that every step gained is a struggle and quickly becoming a punishing strain on her.
Her great chest heaves as she pulls in a raspy breath and lets it out in a great whoosh of air that’s like a fountain of white vapor. Glancing ahead at the Grim Heads it seems that we’re no nearer to the pass than when we started.
I can hear Golden Wind grunting, growling with every pace as she shoves through the thickening snow.
No, I think to myself, this is too much for her. I’m not going to let her carry me through this stuff. This time, I’m too much of a load.
With that, I slide off and the golden stops. “Hooper, what’s wrong?” she wheezes.
“Nothing,” I answer. “I just need to stretch my legs. I was getting too cold and cramped up there.”
She swings her head around and eyes me but just then, from behind, Cara calls, “Hooper, is there something wrong?”
“No,” I answer, “I was giving the golden a breather. Want to be the snow pusher for a while?”
“Sure,” she answers. Golden Wind steps to one side to let Wind Song move ahead, followed by Wind Rover and Alonya.
“There,” I murmur to Golden Wind, “let’s let you catch your breath.”
After a short bit, her breathing become more even and she gives me a nod. “Thank you, Hooper, I’m ready to go on.”
“Good,” I reply with a smile. “I was about to tell you that your breather is over. I’ll walk alongside for a bit and then I’ll climb up.”
She eyes me again before moving forward and trailing behind Alonya.
Walking behind her, I hold onto one of her tail spikes to pull me along as I stumble and slip through the snow.
We haven’t gone very far when I feel the cold start to grip my feet, even worse than before. My threadbare socks along with the thin leather of my boots do little to protect my toes against the freezing snow. I might as well be walking barefoot for all the good my feet coverings do for me.
I’m not sure how far we’ve gone as I’ve kept my head down, holding to one of the golden’s tail spikes when I feel a burning in the soles of my feet.
Shaking my head, I wonder how that can be? Warmth that spreads to my toes and then further up to my ankles?
Even as my feet become leaden and I can barely put one in front of the other, I keep thinking to myself how odd it is that I’m walking in ice and snow and yet my feet feel like they’re on fire.
Then, quite slowly, the fire goes away and I feel like I’m walking on knifepoints sticking up from the ground.
Mercifully, the knives go away but I lose all feeling in my feet. Each step becomes a labor of pain and trying to remain upright is as if I were ice-skating on the Mill Pond back in Draconton. I dare not lose my concentration on placing one step followed by a second as I’m afraid that I’ll fall and not be able to get up again.
Following Golden Wind, I keep my eyes down but every so often, I chance a quick glance up at the danger that looms over us.
Even with the dragons plowing through the snow and pushing most of it aside, the icy crystals rise to my knees. Trying to raise first one leg and then the next drains my strength and it’s all I can do to hold on and move one foot and then the other.
Raising one leg and kicking it forward, the snow flies outward, sparkling, glittering in the low light. Thin
king, how can something so beautiful be so deadly, I plow ahead, my breath a long, thin, white vapor.
Stumbling alongside the golden, every so often I look up hoping to see the granite blocks that mark the entrance to the narrow gap but all I can see is Golden Wind’s huge body in front and the snow-covered peaks above. Even worse, we’re now passing close to the ominous, dangerous precipice of icy snow that hangs like a tilting wall high above us.
The deep snow muffles our footsteps, and even the rustling of dragon scales seems to be softened somehow by the fluffy snowflakes. Still, we are in a precarious position and the only thing we can do is to keep going forward.
We stop once, to let Wind Glory move to the front and relieve Wind Song. As they change places, I straighten and take in a deep breath. We’re over halfway to the gorge.
That’s the good news.
The bad news is that I can’t feel my feet. From my ankles down it’s as if I’m walking on two stumps of ice. My hands aren’t much better though I’ve taken turns tucking one, then the other, inside my tunic for some warmth while still holding onto one of the golden’s tail spikes.
We stop again and I can see ahead that the others are in a huddle, discussing something but I’m too tired to care what it’s all about. I stand with my hands under my armpits and stamp around trying to keep warm.
Then a large shadow falls on me and Alonya’s voice is gruff, “We have to turn back. The snow has gotten so deep that it would take us another day, maybe more to push through, even with the dragons.”
“But we’ll lose time,” I chatter.
Her face hardens and I can see, not defeat, but anger and bitterness as she too knows that our hard fight up the mountain has been in vain.
“Better, Master Hooper,” she retorts, “to lose some time, than to freeze, which is what we will all do if we don’t get out of this and soon.”
She gestures ahead. “Helmar says that he will take the lead with Wind Glory.”
