by GARY DARBY
“We agreed that there are more important things than jealousy,” I answer and then ask, “Golden Wind, did the sprites tell you if there was more than one Wilder on our back trail? If there was, we may have to take a different path.”
She opens an eye, peers upward. “It would be wise if we did and soon.”
“That’s all I need to know,” I answer. “I’ve got to let Phigby know.”
“And how would you explain,” the golden asks, “what and how you know?”
“I—” begin and stop in midthought. “Uh, I’ll just say I think it’s better if we go a different way.”
“To which he’ll ask why,” she states, “and you’ll say . . .?”
“I’ll say . . .” I groan, “that I need to get some sleep and tell him later.”
“Good idea,” she acknowledges. “Now, rest. We’ll be on the trail all too soon.”
It is all too soon when there’s a soft tap on my shoulder accompanied by a gentle voice. “It’s time, Hooper. Up you go.”
Blinking my eyes awake, I stare up at a lovely, smiling face. “Hey,” I say and then suspiciously ask, “uh, you didn’t wake me up to just to get rid of some more of that mad of yours, did you?”
She smiles a bit wider. “No, Hooper. I’ll play fair and not hit someone who’s still half-asleep and lying on the ground. I’ll let you come fully awake before I thump you a good one.”
“Thanks,” I smile in return and pretend to go back to sleep.
She laughs and pulls me to my feet. Cocking her head to one side, she hooks a thumb toward where Phigby’s standing. “C’mon, Phigby is calling us together.”
I take a quick glance around, to which Cara points toward Golden Wind’s head. “Scamper and the sprogs are napping between her legs.”
Giving her a grateful smile, I say, “Thanks. He’s been avoiding me ever since I got gooped all over.”
“Who hasn’t?” she chuckles and makes her way over to the circle.
As I join in, I’m trying to decide what to offer that will convince the others that we need to make for a different trail when Phigby declares, “I believe we should not remain on this path. The risks are too high.”
He looks Alonya’s way. “If you had to decide between the Wilders finding us here or of us taking this other pathway of yours, which would you choose?”
Running fingers over her pursed lips, she replies, “There is no lesser of two evils here, Phigby, if that is what you are asking. They are both bad enough in their own way. But, like you, I too am convinced that we might see Wilders soon enough if we continue along this trailway, though I am loathe to take the path that leads to Woesome Woods.”
“Woesome Woods?” Helmar stammers. “What in the name of the four moons is that?”
Phigby turns to Amil. “Traveler?”
“A gloomy piece of forest,” Amil answers, “that I have had the good fortune of never passing through though near enough to know to stay away. The one Traveler that I know who journeyed there recently told me that she couldn’t find it within herself to go much beyond the first tree line before turning back.”
“Why?” Cara is quick to ask.
“She didn’t say,” Amil replies, “only that she felt there was an evil lurking within and one that she didn’t want to confront—alone.”
He shakes his head, frowning a bit. “And Jessa is one of the bravest Travelers that I know. Whatever caused her to turn back must be foul indeed.”
Phigby turns to Alonya. “I take it that your experience was similar?”
“Yes,” Alonya acknowledges. “But we waste time talking. If we’ve decided to forsake this trail and make for the woods, let us be off, for I doubt if the Wilders are standing around discussing such matters.”
“You’re right,” Phigby agrees, “to your dragons everyone, unless someone has a better plan?”
Our answer to Phigby is to spin away and head for our dragons. Moments later, Cara is helping me get the sprogs into Golden Wind’s saddlebags.
It feels so good to have her close and even better, the hard feelings once between us are like hot coals that have had a bucket of water dumped on them.
Cold and dead.
“You know,” I say in a reflective tone as I push Regal Wind back into the bag for the third time, “back at Draconstead, I slept on musty straw with one blanket. The straw scratched and stank. And my blanket barely went to my knees. But compared to those rocks I just slept on, it was a luxurious bed. I guess it’s true what they say.”
“What is it they say?” Cara returns. I notice that she’s keeping her eyes focused on tying the saddlebag’s knots and not looking at me.
“That one man’s musty straw bed is better than another man’s bed of rocks.”
She dimples at me. “You made that up.”
“And here I was trying to impress you with my eloquence and wit.”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she slows her tightening and then stops in midknot. Staring at the leather straps for a long moment, she bites down on her lip.
Turning to face me, her voice falters for an instant. “I’m . . . so sorry, Hooper.”
I frown at her. “Sorry? What are you sorry about? You mean about what happened after Dunadain? That’s all over, you don’t need—”
“No,” she answers, “it’s not about that.”
Lowering her eyes, she again stares at the thin leather straps in her fingers. “Because of your boots, your socks, where you had to sleep, where and how you had to live.”
Drawing in a breath, she glances my way. “I always thought you slept—”
“In the sleep house,” I answer for her, “with the others? On a real bed? Straw mattress, good blanket, warm fireplace at night?”
She nods in answer.
I give her a little shrug in reply. “No need to apologize, that’s just how it was.”
“That’s not what I was apologizing for, Hooper. I’m saying I’m sorry because I never did anything about it, never tried to make things better for you.”
This time, it’s my turn to stop tying my knot. “Could you? I mean, could you have actually changed things?”
She stares at her hands and twists the leather straps between her fingers. “I don’t know, Hooper, I really don’t. The point is . . .” her voice trails off before she murmurs, “I never tried.”
In silence, we finish tucking in the sprogs. I whistle for Scamper and he comes darting out from among the boulders and bounds to the top of Golden Wind’s head where I join him.
Knuckling his head, I ask, “So, do I meet your smell test, now?”
He shakes his little rump at me and settles on Golden Wind’s carapace, face forward, ready to go. “I take that as a yes,” I smile and turn as Alonya calls out, “From here, as you can see, the path is not nearly as steep as our other climbs. We move swiftly, so keep up. We go north before turning to the east.”
“North,” Helmar utters in a grim voice and I understand why. North brings us closer to the Wilder lairs so his next question is not unexpected. “Just how far north before it bends eastward?”
“A dozen leagues or so,” Alonya answers. “If nothing slows our pace, then by tomorrow’s nightfall we will begin passing out of the high Denalians and through the lower peaks.”
“One more night in these accursed mountains,” Amil grumbles.
“Accursed to you, Traveler,” Alonya replies, “but they are part of my home and a bulwark against invaders.”
Amil bows low on Wind Glory. “My apologies, m’lady, I did not mean to offend.”
Alonya waves a dismissive hand. “And no offense taken, Amil.”
“These smaller peaks which lie beyond the high Denalians,” Phigby asks, “I suppose that they’re low enough that the Wilders will be able to sky across?”
“Yes,” Alonya replies. “Once out of the high mountains, the farther east we go, the lower the mountains become.”
“At which point,” I say, “it won’t be too hard
to spot a large, moving glint of gold on the ground.”
“Perhaps,” Amil suggests, “we should find a giant pig sty for the dragons. Have them roll in the mud until they’re good and covered with muck, then from the air they’ll look like huge, filthy mountain hogs.”
“That would work,” Alonya replies with a crinkle of her mouth, “if we Golians had huge, dirty mountain pigs.”
“Or,” Phigby growls, “until the first good rainstorm.”
Amil offers, “If not hogs, then maybe we can find large pieces of wood and carve out enormous oxen horns, tie them to the dragon’s heads and hope the Wilders mistake them for Elepho Oxen.”
“That would work,” Phigby scoffs, “until the first flight of Wilders got hungry and decided that the oxen were little more than walking roasts ready for the fire pit.”
Amil throws his hands up, shaking his head, “I’m out of ideas, anybody have a better one?”
Phigby glances around but when no one speaks up, says, “Let us be at it then, at least, the weather favors us today, so it should be a pleasant but fast walk down the mountainside.”
Alonya turns and strides away, followed by Wind Glory and then Wind Song. I let them get ahead before I prod Golden Wind and she pushes onward.
“A pleasant walk,” I mumble, “let’s hope our ‘pleasant walk’ isn’t a repeat of yesterday.”
The golden gazes toward where the vale slopes down before it curves out of sight around a distant bend. “No,” she rumbles deep in her throat, “I’m afraid that there will be no ‘pleasant walks’ on this trek, Hooper.”
She raises her head a bit higher as if she’s seeing further than just the immediate trail ahead of us. “None whatsoever.”
With a frown, I ask, “How did I know that’s what you were going to say?”
“You wouldn’t want me to lie, would you?”
“No,” I answer, “but sometimes I just wish we didn’t start off on a trail as if it were our last.”
I let out a sigh and gaze down the bleak valley with its sparse shrubs that grow like upside-down crowns at the base of a few boulders.
“It’d be nice if, for once, you’d say something like, ‘it’s going to be a beautiful day, Hooper. You’re going for a lovely picnic with Cara and eat so much yummy food that your belly button will feel like it’s going to pop right out.’”
Golden Wind curls her neck around so that she can look at me with one sad eye. “Hooper, someday I would like nothing better than to say exactly that.”
I meet her stare. “I know, but today is not that day, right?”
“No, Hooper, it’s not, and each of us must always remember and act as if today were indeed our very last day.”
She swings her head around just as the sprites flutter up to land on her back. I swivel around to peer at them. I shake my head to myself. “You know, for being so little, you four have done some amazing things. Thank you for all you’ve done. I owe you my life several times over, you know.”
They flutter their wings and sort of jostle each other before they settle themselves in on the golden’s scales. As they do, I smile at them. “Make sure you get a good rest back there, it may be that we’ll need you again tonight. You and your nice, toasty fire or night glow.”
After watching them snuggle together, I turn to ask Golden Wind, “So, what is it that I still have to learn about dragons?”
Without turning to look at me, Golden Wind replies, “That we dragons are very patient and have learned that sometimes it is better to wait for the answer before you ask the question.”
“Oh,” I respond with a little grin. Her meaning is clear, pay attention, for each day may bring a new lesson to learn.
In single file, Alonya leads us down the trail, and we manage to set a brisk pace. Though the mountains still tower over us to each side, the pathway is wide, grass-filled with a gentle slope.
At sun-high, Alonya turns us north through another valley; this one is not as wide and the mountains are a bit lower, though still snow capped. We halt at the base of one mountain where the water rushes down to spatter in sparkling drops into a small pool. Over the pond is a tiny, arching rainbow that shimmers in the watery sprinkles.
As my eyes catch sight of the rainbow, on the wind, it seems, I hear the Gaelian Fae from far away, Ride the Rainbow, Hooper, Ride the Rainbow.
Shaking my head, I mutter to myself, “Someday, I guess I’ll know what that means.”
“Yes, Hooper,” the golden replies softly, “someday you will.”
After everyone has drunk their fill, we’re back on the trail. Cara has Wind Song stop long enough to let Golden Wind come abreast.
The golden and her sapphire plod along together as Cara leans over and with a little smile gestures at the napping sprites and feisty sprogs. “You know, Hooper, that’s quite an entourage you have there. I have only one dragon, and you have nine.”
Glancing at the sprogs who are growing restless and starting to make little screep and chub noises, I reach over and pluck at the leather straps that hold the saddlebags. “You want more dragons? Take these four.”
I hook a thumb at the yellow and orange sprites who’ve slept the whole time on the golden’s back during our day’s journey. “I’ll keep these, at least they’re quiet.”
Phigby chuckles at my remarks. “Hooper, you just don’t have the right attitude toward those dragon babies.”
“That’s right, Hooper,” Cara chimes in to say. “Soon, they’ll be all grown up, and you’ll miss the days when they were so tiny and playful.”
Frowning a bit, I reply, “Really? I sort of doubt that’s going to happen.”
Cara smiles again while looking over my own little caravan. “Who knew?” she muses. “Hooper’s dragons.”
With that, she speeds Wind Song up, and they draw in line behind Wind Glory.
I glance back at the sprites, cast an eye toward the sprogs and snort, “Hooper’s dragons, indeed.”
“Indeed, Hooper,” the golden murmurs, “indeed.”
The day passes, and we plod down what seems to be an endless trail with only the occasional bend or slight incline to break the monotony. The mountains are like massive stone sentinels, silent and cold, their tops garnished in icy white that turns to a barren dull gray halfway down.
The only sounds breaking the stillness are the dragons’ talons thumping the hard ground, the rustling of their scales, and the occasional breeze that ruffles our clothing.
On occasion, we halt for short rest stops but never for long and by the time Night’s Curtain stretches over the mountaintops we’ve reached a point where two valleys join and a tiny streamlet, not much more than two hands wide runs down the center.
Alonya points to a pile of jagged boulders off to one side. “We’ll make camp here. After your dragons drink, hide them as best you can among the rocks.”
Peering down the valley, she motions with one hand, “I’ll scout farther ahead, but I won’t be long.”
She turns to study the high, sharp slopes around us. “You might want to set a watch with an eye on these cliffs, I’ve seen mountain goats in similar settings. If we’re lucky, and Cara still has her arm and eye about her, we might sup on roasted goat tonight.”
Smiling, she asks Amil. “Would a leg of roasted goat change your mind about these ‘accursed mountains,’ Traveler?”
“Aye, it would,” Amil answers, “if that goat leg didn’t come with mountain wraiths trying to share my meat.”
With the others, I chuckle at Amil’s reply and glance at the mountainsides. Phigby leans toward me and whispers, “He has a point. Just in case, have the sprites stay close, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” I reply.
Alonya strides off down the valley while we lead the dragons to drink what they can of the shallow, but clear water.
I head a bit farther upstream to fill the water flasks because after the dragons drink all that will be left of the creek downstream is a muddy soup.
Scamper,
as usual, along with the sprogs, prowls the rivulet’s grass-lined bank searching for any tasty morsel that might pop up.
Cara and Helmar stand back to back, one facing one side of the small valley while the other faces the other side. Both have arrows notched, and their eyes survey the cliffs looking for a moving white patch that would mark a grazing mountain goat.
Alas, Night’s Curtain blankets us before either Helmar or Cara spots supper and we all retreat into the boulders to gnaw on what’s left of our trail rations. A small bite apiece, if that.
After a bit, Amil states, “She’s been gone too long.”
“I’m worried about her,” Cara declares, “she should have been back by now.”
Helmar scoops up his bow and calls over his shoulder, “I’m going to look. She could be in trouble.”
Amil stands and hefts his big ax. “I’ll go with you; two sets of eyes are better than one.”
“And three are even better than two,” Cara states as she rises with bow in hand.
Just then, the dragons are on their feet, staring up the valley in the direction where Alonya disappeared. “None of you need go,” Phigby orders, “listen.”
Straining to hear, my head jerks up. Footsteps. Giant, pounding footsteps. “She’s running,” I state.
“And hard,” Helmar adds. “Something’s wrong.”
Without another word between us, Phigby and I jump to our feet, draw our swords and join the others.
Moments later, Alonya rushes into our makeshift camp, breathing hard. “Trolls and ogres,” she grunts between hard breaths, “lying in ambush farther up the valley.”
“How did you see them in the darkness?” Cara questions.
“Didn’t have to see them,” Alonya responds. “Stupid creatures were upwind, I could smell them long before I spotted the first one.”
“Wilders?” Helmar questions.
“None that I could see,” Alonya answers, “I think it’s just those slime worms that wait for us.”
“More of your unholy alliances, Phigby?” I ask.
He shakes his head and mumbles, “I’m afraid so.”
“You could smell them?” Cara questions.
“Oh yes,” Alonya returns. “Trolls smell like fresh vomit whereas ogres have a putrid odor like days-old rotten fish.”
