The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Box Set

by GARY DARBY

  Stopping the golden and with Cara’s help, we take out all the sprogs from the saddlebags and lower them to the ground.

  I don’t try putting them on the golden’s back as I’m afraid that they’ll fall off, which means that they’re going to have to walk until we reach a place where I can put them back in the golden’s overhanging bags.

  The farther we march, the more anxious I grow that the trail might give way under one of the dragons, or that one of them might fall off and plunge to the ground.

  Worse, the early-morning clouds are lowering and it’s not long before we’re pacing inside a soupy fog that’s so thick we can barely see where to place our next step. The clouds roil and stir in gray eddies though there’s little wind. It’s as if some Titan high above is using an enormous mixing spoon to churn the clouds into a froth.

  The golden stops, her face turned up into the clouds. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a dragon overhead,” she whispers. “In the clouds.”

  I suck in a breath. “Wilders!”

  “Yes,” she answers in a soft voice. “It senses that we’re here, but it can’t see us.”

  I scurry ahead, slip past Wind Song to mumble low to Cara and Phigby, “A Wilder dragon, just above, trying to find us in this fog.”

  Cara gives a quick nod and hurries to squeeze by Glory and whisper the warning to Alonya and the others.

  Helmar turns and has Glory lie down on her belly. Wind Song and the golden follow suit. “As long as it’s above us,” Phigby whispers, “we don’t dare move.”

  Cara tiptoes back to join Phigby and me. All three of us turn our heads and eyes up to the leaden sky, listening, watching, but no scarlet wing breaks the gray curtain.

  As quietly as I can, I tread back to the golden to point my finger up with questioning eyes.

  She gives a little nod, and I turn to look where she’s staring.

  I can hear the soft hiss of wings slicing through cloud and then, a scarlet wingtip splits the dark tapestry. I read somewhere that’s what a shark fin looks like when it slices seawater.

  If so, it’s enough to cause your heart to add a couple of hard, quick thumps.

  The wingtip is there for an instant and then disappears.

  The golden whispers, “It comes closer each time.”

  I stand, and though it’s hard to see Phigby, I pantomime that those who carry bows should stand ready with an arrow notched. He waves back and turns to pass the message to the forward three.

  Whispering, I ask, “Is there more than one?”

  The golden doesn’t reply, but I can tell that she’s searching the sky as if she can either somehow see or hear the other dragon.

  She shakes her head. “I cannot tell.”

  I bite on my lip for a moment. If there’s more than one, how many more? If there’s only one, it’s most likely a scout, and once it knows we’re here, will return and bring others—many, many others.

  Golden Wind gives a start and whispers, “He comes again.”

  Just then, I hear a rustling and whip around to find Regal and Sparkle in a tussle over what looks like a small stick. Sparkle is getting the better of it and the purple opens his snout in a snarl.

  I just know he’s going to let loose a loud screep in protest so I do the only thing I can think of and dive toward the sprogs.

  Whipping an arm out, I manage to wrap a hand around Regal’s muzzle just before he lets loose with one of his thunderous, well, for a sprog anyway, screeps.

  The other sprogs spring back in surprise by my sudden move, but I raise a quick finger to my lips and hold onto Regal so tight that the little dragon can’t move.

  With wide eyes, the other sprogs stay silent and seem a little cowed by my actions. I mouth, Not a sound!

  Grabbing Scamper, I set him in front of the sprogs. I don’t have to say a word. Scamper stands on his two hind legs, juts his little nose out at the sprogs and glares.

  The sprogs cluster together and without a sound, plop down on their hindquarters just in front of Scamper.

  He hunkers down and keeps them from moving even a talon, like a sheepdog keeping a herd of sheep in one place. What none of us can do with the sprogs, Scamper seems to be able to accomplish with just one fierce glower on his face.

  Scrambling to my feet, I motion to Cara and Phigby that the Wilder dragon is returning and for everyone to get ready to unleash their arrows.

  I strain with everything I have to hear dragon wings through the swirling mist, hoping to give the others a warning of where it might appear.

  Then, I do hear dragon wings and jerk upright. It’s not Wilder wings but the fluttering of our little sprites.

  With abruptness, yellow and orange lights flash bright and high in the fog. They bounce and dance as if they were fireflies in the night. They flit and float, zig and zag this way and that.

  Then, I hear larger, more powerful dragon wings rushing through the air, straight at our sprites. The little dragons dart away and an instant later, I listen to the furious thumping of Wilder wings giving chase.

  In moments, the sounds die away, and I stand there knowing that just as the sprites saved me back in Logath’s Cave, they’re now trying to ward off the Wilder dragon.

  This time, though, my heavy heart tells me that they won’t be able to escape the monster that pursues and we’ve seen the last of our little rescuers.

  Feeling a presence behind me, I turn to find Cara staring aghast at the murky clouds. “The sprites . . .” she gasps, unable to finish her sentence.

  “Led the Wilder off,” I mutter, my voice hard but my feelings soft and pained. “Let’s get out of here while we have the chance.”

  “But the sprites—”

  “Are gone,” I snarl and push at her. “Move!”

  For just an instant, I fix my eyes on where I last heard the Wilder dragon swish by, hoping that the next sounds that I hear will be the fluttering of little wings, signaling the safe return of our pumpkin-sized heroes.

  But no such welcome noise comes to my ears. Instead, a pebble comes whizzing by my head, so close that it almost nicks my ear.

  Spinning around, I see Phigby jabbing his finger up the trail. The clouds have lifted just a bit, and Alonya is waving an arm, telling us that now’s the time to make our escape.

  “Is the Wilder gone?” I whisper to Golden Wind.

  “Yes,” she replies, “and there was just the one.”

  “What about the sprites?”

  She shakes her head in answer. “I don’t hear their wings anymore, I’m afraid.”

  I hang my head, my jaw tightening in anger and sorrow. “Then let’s get out of here while we have the chance.”

  Golden Wind rises, and I shepherd the sprogs and Scamper behind her as we once again take up the march. Soon our trek is little more than concentrating on taking the next step and the next.

  None of us speaks; none of us dares to make any noise for fear that it might betray our presence to the Wilder dragon.

  The thick fog seems to muffle all sound, our footsteps, the soft swishing of clothing, the ever-present rustling of dragons’ scales.

  An endless time later, or so it seems, the swirling fog begins to thin, and we catch glimpses of the mountaintops, but only for a moment before the fog rolls across our sight, again.

  Then we trudge up a steep incline, round a bend in the trail and break through the clouds. The cliff that we hugged for so long on our right is turning into more of a natural slope.

  Though we don’t feel quite so hemmed in, the sheer drop-off to our left remains, and we still must step with care. We round another curve, the trail widens just a bit, and Alonya calls a halt for a much-needed rest. She points ahead and gestures as if she were eating with a fork.

  Far ahead, lying between snow-tipped peaks that do look like fork tines is the valley pass. The sun is lowering behind the mountaintops, but I, at least, have the sense that we’re making progress toward our goal.

  Peering beh
ind at the cloud-shrouded trail, my shoulders slump, thinking about the little dragons. If we hadn’t lost the sprites, the sight of our destination would raise my spirits, but now I can only cringe when I think of what might have happened to them.

  A soft voice at my ear asks, “Do you think they escaped?”

  I shake my head in reply to Cara. “I don’t know. They’re so little, and the Wilder dragon was so big. I’m not sure how they could.”

  “Aster’s dragon was enormous, too,” she replies, “and in comparison, you were pretty small, but you got away from that monster. I’m not going to stop hoping.”

  “Yes,” I nod, “but I had help, the little sprites only have themselves.”

  Staring back down the trail, I sigh, “I think it would take a miracle for them to escape.”

  Cara takes a step to stand beside me, her own eyes gazing on the faint wisps that cover our back trail. “My father always said that if we want miracles in our lives, then we have to work hard to give the miracle every opportunity to occur.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, her tone is crisp, hopeful. “I’m going to believe that the sprites are working hard to let their own miracle happen, and it won’t be long before they catch up with us.”

  She pushes her face close to mine. “You’ll see I’m right.”

  I give her a tentative smile in reply. “I hope you’re right, I really do.”

  A bit later, as the sun drops behind the mountains and darkness closes on us I notice that we are no longer trudging uphill. The ground flattens and instead of walking stooped over, I can finally walk upright.

  We’re at the beginnings of the long, narrow pass, which means from this point on, for the most part, our trail is level until it starts to drop and takes us down out of the heights, past the lower peaks to the lowlands beyond.

  It’s not long before the rising moons cast a soft glow into the steep-sided pass, and Alonya stops to point at a slight overhang that juts out from the craggy mountainside. “That is most likely the best shelter we’ll find for the night.”

  She glances around at the ground. “Even if we dared to chance a fire, there’s no wood to be had.”

  “Aye,” Amil answers as he too squints at the rocky ground in the pale moonlight. “There’s not a twig to be found here.”

  “What do you call this?” Helmar teases as he holds up a tiny bit of wood.

  “A sliver, not even a twig,” Amil growls, “and certainly not enough to start even a puny fire.”

  Even so, we scour the ground looking for anything that will burn. When we’re finished, Amil scowls at our meager pile of twigs, dry leaves and grass.

  “Humph!” he snorts. “That’s not enough to broil a worm.”

  “I would say,” Phigby returns as he strokes his beard, “not even sufficient for that.”

  He draws his bag close as if to open it but then shakes his head and sets it aside. “Besides, as you’ve said Alonya, a fire high in the mountains would draw suspicious eyes.”

  Pulling his cloak tight about him, he sniffs, “We’ll sleep cold tonight and hope for a quick dawn and warmth.”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” I state.

  “And I’ll take the second,” Cara follows.

  “No!” Helmar barks and rises to meet both my and Cara’s startled eyes. “For the camp’s sake, I will take the second watch.”

  Cara opens her mouth as if to make a sharp rebuke to Helmar but I step in front of her, facing Helmar. “You’re right, Helmar. Cara hasn’t been getting enough sleep at night. Let’s give her as good a night’s rest as we can. She can take up guard duties tomorrow night.”

  Helmar and I stand staring at each other but before he can respond, Amil stands, yawns, and scratches at his tunic. “Seeing as how that’s settled, I’ll greet dawn’s warmth, then.”

  Glancing sideways at Phigby, he implores, “And may it be a hot day beginning with the first rays of light.”

  Helmar turns away and as he does, Cara pulls me from the others and demands in a low voice, “What was that all about? I can fight my own fights, Hooper.”

  “Yes, you most certainly can,” I whisper, meeting her glare. “And when it’s your fight, I’ll let you have at it, only this was between Helmar and me, not you and him.”

  We stare at each other for a moment more, her eyes turning from hard to perplexed.

  Me, I’m not bewildered at all by Jealous, I mean, Helmar.

  We bring the dragons in close to form a windbreak of sorts and while the others settle in, Scamper herds the sprogs into the little niche, leaving me outside in the darkness.

  I tread past the sleeping dragons, limping just a bit from the pain in my feet. Surveying the trail behind and in front, as well as the mountain slopes above, everything is still, quiet.

  There’s little wind and the air is sharp, clear, cold and the stars twinkle bright against Night’s Curtain. Shivering a little, I hug my tunic a bit closer as the mountain air seems to suck away all my body warmth.

  Though my feet hurt, I’m a little awed by how toasty they are as opposed to the rest of me. They’re snug inside my sheepskin boots and having warm feet is a very new and pleasant experience.

  Stopping often in my pacing, I’m intent on looking and listening for anything that might pose danger. The night remains quiet, which gives me time to often gaze down our back trail hoping to see or hear the fluttering of tiny dragon wings.

  Only, no sprites come bouncing through the night air, and all I see and hear are the dark mountainsides and the thick sounds of silence.

  I decide to make one last round before I go and wake Helmar for his watch. As I turn back toward the dragons, a shadow crosses in front of Osa, blotting out her light for a moment.

  I jerk my head up and what I see causes me to slap my hand against Galondraig’s hilt. Before I can yank my blade from her scabbard, a hand flashes out of the darkness and grips my wrist.

  “Easy, Hooper,” Phigby whispers, “The less noise and movement, the better.”

  With his hand grasping my wrist, he pulls me back into the deepest shadows. “Be quiet,” he orders.

  I glance over at the dragons. Their eyes are wide open but they haven’t moved a single claw but remain still and quiet.

  As the winged beast floats high above, Phigby pulls me even further into the shadows until we’re both against the rough rock facing.

  Moments later, the creature sails behind the high mountains and out of sight. Phigby lets out a long breath that matches my own. “What was that?” I demand.

  Nahesa Daimon, Phigby answers.

  “What?

  “Sorry,” he replies, “It means ‘snake-demons’ in the Old Tongue, or as some simply call them the Nahl.”

  Phigby’s eyes stare heavenward and he begins to chant, his voice soft and low,

  From the darkest pits where all wail and weep

  Spews forth the Nahl to fly and creep

  On wings, as black as ebon night

  Full of terror, full of blight

  Beware its voice, beware its call

  Come too close and you will fall.

  “Phigby,” I growl, “can’t you just tell me what that thing was instead of spouting another ode that I don’t understand?”

  “Yes, Phigby,” Cara’s voice comes from the darkness next to me, “just tell us.”

  At the sound of her voice, I jump. “Cara, don’t go sneaking up on people like that! I still have the jitters from that thing.”

  “Sorry, Hoop,” she replies. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Now Phigby, just what was that creature? That was no dragon. It looked like some sort of skying snake.”

  “An apt description, I suppose,” Phigby answers.

  “A flying snake?” a gruff voice demands. “Phigby, you can’t be serious.”

  Phigby turns to the big man. “Yes, Helmar, I am most serious.”

  He pauses and then leans forward as if to see better. “Are all of you awake?”

  “Aye,
professor,” Amil answers, “your dread ode woke us, though if the rest were like me, my slumber was troubled enough and spotty so it didn’t take much for my eyes to open.”

  “Go on, Phigby,” Alonya urges, “what is this creature that ripples through the air like some poisonous asp wriggling through the leaves?”

  “Better to meet your asp,” Phigby returns, “than a Nahl.”

  From the shadows, he walks out to stare at the distant mountain peaks behind which the Nahl disappeared.

  “Some would call the Nahl a sky spirit, others a sky demon. Either way, the gods created the foul beast long ago and then cast into the underworld’s deepest pits.”

  Tugging at his beard, his voice turns low. “Supposedly never to come forth again on the face of Erdron.”

  “Well,” Amil spits, “it would seem that someone forgot that ‘never’ part and unleashed the thing.”

  “So it would seem . . .” Phigby’s voice trails off and in the waning moonlight I can see his eyebrows furrow before he shakes himself and says, “It comes out only in darkness, most oft in the night—”

  “I think,” Helmar says to Amil, “that means your sleep just became even more troubled.”

  Before Amil can answer, Phigby says, “And unlike dragons who spew fire, it has the vexing ability of immobilizing its prey with a single hiss.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Amil offers, “when it comes to vexing.”

  “After which,” Phigby replies, “it sprays the victim with a liquid that slowly melts the flesh. As the body dissolves, the Nahl slurps up the vestiges of the still living quarry.”

  As one, we turn to look at Amil. “That sounds really, really bad,” he groans, “and quite vexing.”

  12

  “No need to embellish that,” Alonya voices grimly, glancing sideways at Amil. “Besides, Traveler, I’m not sure that even you could add more to that menace.”

  “Well, actually,” Amil offers, “if I put my mind to it, I—”

  “Never mind,” Alonya is quick to reply. “Let’s just leave it where it is for now.”

  She glances up at the sky where the King and Queen Stars are almost straight overhead. “The night is but half over,” she declares and turns to Phigby, “and you say that thing comes out only at night.”