by GARY DARBY
Alonya doesn’t answer right away, but stands peering down at the giant vessel as if sizing up the idea one more time. With a sigh, she turns while unlimbering her bow to say, “You’re right, I don’t like it but unless someone else has a better idea . . .?”
She glances around but no one answers. Like me, I can only see the two courses. Neither of which offers a sound solution to our problem, but for the moment, they’re all we have to get across the river.
“If we do get in trouble,” Amil begins, “let’s not use the dragons unless we must. Once they light up, everyone in sight is going to know it’s us. We’ll have every Wilder, Sung Dar, corvette, sloop—”
“We get the idea, Amil,” Phigby replies and glances around. “Everyone set?”
With no further discussion, he sighs, “Then, let’s get on with it.”
In haste, we trudge back to where the dragons lie curled in sleep. As we approach, they awaken and raise their heads. A shaft of moonlight catches their catlike eyes, highlighting the bright blues in Glory and Wind Song, the striking gold of Golden Wind.
Without warning, Alonya whirls, her sword up and out in a flash. She goes into a fighting stance, her eyes centered on a dark patch of woodland to our left.
Cara and Helmar have arrows notched and aimed in the same direction while I unsheathe Galondraig and join Phigby and Amil, who stand next to Alonya.
“Our skulkers?” Phigby whispers.
“Yes,” Alonya whispers back.
“Can you see them?” Amil asks.
Alonya shakes her head. “Like before, no. I have no idea what or who they are but I swear they can turn themselves into a tree or a bush in an instant and disappear from sight.”
Twice before on the trail to the Lorell River, Alonya’s sharp eyes and keen hearing sensed someone following us, keeping just out of sight. Once, we tried to set an ambush, but whoever or whatever trailed us didn’t fall for the bait.
“How many?” Phigby questions.
“I’m not sure,” Alonya answers in a frustrated tone. “There might be a whole company or just one, for all I know.”
“And we’re sure they’re not carrion ghouls?” Amil asks in a nervous voice.
“I’m sure,” Alonya returns. “These have a different . . . Feel about them. Besides, look at the dragons. Their heads are up but they’re not growling or snorting as they would if they felt threatened.”
She’s right. The dragons have their heads turned in the same direction that we stare but that’s the only indication that they sense something in the nearby woods.
Alonya straightens, takes in a breath, and relaxes. “They’re gone.”
“Then let us do as they,” Phigby orders, “and swiftly.”
It's not long before Amil and Alonya are leading us behind the ridgeline, keeping us out of sight of those who prowl the river valley below.
We carefully weave around the trees, taking care not to have the dragons brush up against a tree trunk and set the tree to swaying. As there is little wind, a tree, or several, that start rocking back and forth when they shouldn’t is a sure sign that a dragon is nearby.
We hear the rushing, gurgling stream long before we come out on its steep banks. The water, bouncing against the rocks, has a faint luminance as if it were soaking up the moonlight.
With hurried steps, we scramble down into the sharp ravine, which is barely wide enough to fit one dragon. The dragons’ passing sends rocks bouncing and rattling down the channel where they splash into the rushing water.
While Scamper, the sprogs, and the sprites ride, I walk ahead of Golden Wind and behind Wind Song’s weaving tail.
Try as I may, I’m unable to keep the inside of my boots from filling up with water and it’s not long before I’m sloshing along in cold, soggy sheepskin boots.
The way is a bit steep coming down off the hillside and we must move slowly, carefully. The babbling brook is so noisy that I can hear little except the swishing water and dragon steps.
If an enemy were to sneak up on us, I’m afraid that they would have an easy time of it so we divide our time watching where we place our next step and the high banks on each side.
After a bit, the incline starts to flatten and the banks lower until we come to a point where the stream’s shoulders are too low to keep the dragons concealed. Ahead of me, Wind Song stops and I can hear Cara murmuring, “Down, girl.”
I turn to Golden Wind. “You need to get down and crawl so you won’t be seen.”
She doesn’t speak but she does give me a bit of an indignant stare. I murmur, “I take it, dragons don’t crawl?”
In answer, she lowers herself but the vexed look never leaves her face. “I’ll apologize later,” I whisper.
Just as I turn, ahead of me, Wind Song stops. Cara turns and motions me forward. I hurry past Cara’s dragon and then Wind Glory and join the others who kneel at the stream’s mouth where it spreads out a bit and in a tiny, burbling waterfall joins the Lorell.
Just ahead are the upward slanting rocks and the large ship. “It’s farther than I thought,” Amil says, judging the distance from the stream’s outlet to the fissure. “We’ll be in the open longer than I would like.”
“Sometimes the moonlight fouls the eyesight,” Phigby declares. “Let us hope that is the case with those who fly overhead or skim across the water.”
“We can leave the dragons here,” Cara whispers. “If they stay on their bellies, the banks and darkness should prevent anyone from seeing them.”
“Except,” a voice states from above us, “if you were standing on the bank looking down.”
27
Whirling at the sound, we swing our swords and bows up but it’s too late. Standing on the stream’s banks above and on each side, is a whole company of mysterious figures with longbows in hand.
In the moonlight, they are but shadows without faces but it's obvious that we are surrounded by a dark host.
We’ve walked into a trap. We have been so intent on thinking if there is a snare it will close on us once we got aboard the ship, that we have forgotten what lies around us.
They have the high-ground and we stand helpless, caught in the arroyo’s narrow confines with no place to run or a good fighting position from which to defend ourselves.
What’s more, the dragons don’t rise and paw, or snort through their nostrils as if they feel threatened. I glance back and manage to catch Golden Wind’s eyes.
She shakes her head but her eyes hold a puzzled expression. On the one hand, it’s as if she’s telling me that we may be surrounded but we’re in no immediate danger, on the other, she’s not certain if that’s the case.
Still, none of us dare move, knowing that those above us could take our slightest act as a threat and in an instant bring down a hail of arrows.
Phigby is the first to speak, “You have us at your advantage, sir, what is your intention?”
“Well,” the man replies, his voice gruff, “if I were going to kill you, I would have done it sooner, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” Phigby rumbles. “So what now, dark stranger?”
“What now?” the unseen archer answers. “For now, stay where you are and don’t move. We but want to talk with you.”
At that, he whirls away and disappears behind the knoll. I let my breath out, having held it this whole time.
After a few moments, from behind the hummock to our right, the dark figure reappears and strides over to confront us.
He takes a few steps forward to where he’s but a few paces from our small company and pulls the hood down from his head.
Before this, I’ve never heard Phigby truly gasp. Ever.
I’ve heard him huff, puff, and wheeze for breath, but never have I heard him suck in a breath from sheer surprise. In fact, his breath is more of a gurgling, raspy sort of snort as if he tries to pull in a breath through both nose and mouth at the same time. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought that we had a pig snorting and rooting a
round in the ravine from the sound that Phigby makes.
As for me, I stand statue still, not moving. Well, I admit, my mouth does sag open but that’s the only part of me that does move.
On our journey, I’ve seen some unbelievable things, but the person standing before us ranks very close to the top. In the moonlight’s glow, it’s easy to see that he appears to be a tall Drach—only his skin is . . .
Have you ever seen a black and white mottled moth? It’s like someone dipped them in white dye and then speckled them with black dots and streaks. Against the white trunk of a birchen tree with its dark spots and ebony knots they’re almost invisible to the eye until you get right up to them and they take flight. Only then do you see them.
That’s the way it is with this fellow, only instead of black and white, he’s dappled with mottled green, tan, and brown colors as if he’d plastered leaves and dirt all over his face.
His clothing is dark and I can’t quite make it out as clearly as his face but I have the impression that it matches his skin coloration. In fact, except for a wrinkle and a crease at his hood’s opening, it seems as if his outer clothing is like a second skin in coloration.
He holds a formidable bow in one hand, quiver over one shoulder, and scabbarded at his side appears to be a short sword with its hilt looking bronze in the moonlight.
His face is expressionless and his dark eyes gaze upon us with an alert stare. He holds up an empty hand in the universal sign of greeting. “I’m called Rollo and I would have words with you. Very important words.”
Phigby finds his voice and asks, “Is it permissible that my companions come forward to hear these imperative words of yours?”
“Better yet,” Rollo replies and motions toward the large ship, “why not come aboard? We have food and drink both for you and your fire-beasts. It would be a much more comfortable setting than standing outside where you chance discovery.”
Phigby doesn’t have to speak, I can almost hear his thoughts—do we trust this stranger or not? His hesitation is evident to Rollo for he gestures up at the silent strangers who stand staring at us from from the high bank. “My company all carry longbows as do I. We could have easily cut you down from above. But that we didn’t should earn us some measure of trust, don’t you think?”
Phigby nods a few times in answer. “I suppose so,” and turns to call softly, “we’re to join them inside their boat.”
Rollo then says, just loud enough for all of us to hear, “We’ll wait for you aboard our craft and I suggest that when the nearest Wilder turns away from our vessel, be swift in joining us. Even then, you chance being seen so do not tarry or you will find a Wilder dragon bearing down on you.”
With that, he turns and darts across the rocks and onto the vessel’s main deck, followed by his dark-clad company. Moments later, they’ve disappeared from view.
We ease forward to gauge the distance between the ravine’s opening and the ship. “It’s farther across than I thought,” I grunt as I blow out a breath.
“The dragons are going to be seen,” Cara states, “before they ever make it to the ship.”
I glance up and to one side where a stand of unfamiliar but tall, slender trees stand like sentinels on the rounded knob of a nearby knoll. “Phigby,” I ask, “what sort of trees are those?”
“Eh?” he replies. “Hooper, now’s not the time to be talking about Carrot Top trees.”
“Carrot Top trees,” I murmur to myself. “They look very limber, no branches, just those long, drooping leaves at their very top.”
“Hooper,” Phigby growls, growing vexed at me, “now’s not the time to talk about—”
“Phigby,” Cara interrupts softly to stop him and turns to me. “Hooper, you have an idea?”
“Perhaps.” I glance once again at the trees, my eyes squinting in thought. “Be ready with the dragons, you’ll know when to move them.”
I scramble up and over the bank and push through a thicket at the top until I reach the cluster of trees. I poke my head out and jerk it back as just then, a Wilder dragon passes near the riverbank.
The Wilder and its rider are close enough that I hold my breath, waiting for the alarm’s sounding but the scarlet and its rider sky past the ship before it turns in a slow arc and moves downriver.
I decide that the best course would be to get down on my belly to wiggle and squirm across to the cluster of trees.
Reaching the first tree trunk, I find that it is about as big around as my skinny waist. I put my hand out against the smooth bark and discover that when the wind catches the tree’s thick top, it sets the trunk to a gentle rocking back and forth.
“This just might work,” I nod to myself. “They seem limber enough.”
I bring out the Voxtyrmen, its soft emerald glow lighting my cupped hand, reach out with my other hand to touch the tree trunk and whisper, Vald Hatta Sasi Ein, Power to this One.
At first, I think nothing is happening but then I hear a little creaking noise and I glance upward.
The Carrot Top trees on this side of the rounded knoll are beginning to bend, ever so slow, toward the ship.
I’m not sure how long it takes but at last, they’ve bent over far enough that there’s a thick, fluttering leaf wall between the boat and the ravine. It and the darkness are just sufficient to hide from view anyone looking, or skying, on the downstream side.
I turn my head toward the ship just in time to see Helmar lead a blob of blue followed by another as the sapphires race across the open space and onto the ship. A moment later, they disappear inside the vessel.
A glint of gold breaks the moonlight as the golden gallops across. “Still looks like a gold nugget with legs and a tail,” I grouse.
Golden Wind is followed by Alonya and everyone else except Cara. “Time to go,” I whisper and push myself back into the thicket.
As fast as I can hobble, I make my way back to the stream. Running toward the ravine’s mouth, I stub my toe and tumble, with a splash, to my knees.
A pair of hands picks me up and with a melodious laugh, Cara says, “You still sound like a rooting boar in the woods, Hooper. But that was an excellent idea. Now come on, we’re losing our cover.”
Squinting my eyes in the direction of the bent-over Carrot Tops, I see a quivering movement. They trees are unlimbering, rising back into place.
“Thanks,” I grunt and together, we scurry to the break in the ravine’s banks, peering upstream. A Wilder dragon is just beginning to make its turn to come back toward us.
Cara grabs my hand, pulling at me. “Run, Hooper before that Wilder sees us!” she snaps. We rush across the flat rocks and hit the deck running.
There’s a big deckhouse sitting amidships with large doors open, revealing a black maw as if a beast with a square mouth had spread its jaws wide. Cara and I dart inside, into complete darkness. “Can’t see a thing,” I grumble as we come to an abrupt stop.
“Stand still,” Cara directs, “let your eyes adjust.”
To one side, I hear movement and then Rollo’s gruff voice. “Close the door! They’re the last ones.”
I hear a mechanical creaking and grinding as the doors swing shut with a muffled thud. Rollo orders in a commanding tone, “Olaf, Ana, portside. See if that Wilder spotted them. No lights!”
I was about to order the sprites to glow and provide us light but at his sharp command of “No lights!” I hold my tongue and wait.
A few moments later, out of the darkness a female voice calls back, “All clear, Rollo. No Wilder turning this way.”
“Portholes?” Rollo demands.
There is the sound of wooden slats sliding shut and then the sliding of dowels into place, securing the porthole coverings. Someone calls out, “Sealed, Rollo.”
“Torches,” Rollo orders and after a moment, bright lights flare up on either side of us.
We’re surrounded. But surrounded by what?
The archers who encircle us are dappled just like Rollo, as if they wor
e a forest layer; dirt brown, leafy tans, and green cover their faces and hands and their clothing seems to match their skin color.
In the torches’ glare, Rollo steps forward. “I know it is hard to trust when there is so much danger but I assure you we mean no harm to you or your fire-beasts.”
Phigby takes a step forward and we join in a half-circle behind him. Phigby motions to those who face us. “May I ask, you are of the Uhlan, are you not?”
He leans forward and declares, “A people long thought to be dead.”
Rollo’s lips part in an amused smile. He glances down at his front as if he were searching for an arrow sticking out of his middle before his mouth turns up at one corner.
“I believe you are mistaken,” he returns, “as it would appear that my companions and I are very much alive.”
Phigby shakes his head again. “No, not you personally, your people; supposedly they died out ages ago.”
The man nods and cocks his head to one side. “Yes, we are of the Uhlan and no, we have not died out as you seem to think.”
Phigby takes a breath and gushes, “This is amazing. From all the accounts I’ve studied, it was said that you withdrew from the world epochs ago, never to be seen again . . .”
He shakes his head, muttering as if to himself, “But here you stand, The Trailblazers, The Wayfaring Wanderers, The Eternal Explorers, The—”
“Roving Rangers,” Rollo takes up. “Nomads, pathfinders, roamers, and pilgrims passing in the night.”
His laugh holds little mirth. “Some even called us vagabonds, tramps, and drifters.”
Rollo sweeps a hand out at his companions. “We’ve been called many names, but we prefer to call ourselves, and think of ourselves as you named us, the Uhlan or in your language, the Seekers.”
“The Seekers . . .” Phigby breathes, “yes, of course. Legendary explorers who were known to wander from one end of Erdron to another. Seekers, as you say, of what lies beyond the next river bend, the next inviting valley, or the high craggy crown of a mountaintop.
“Why, some of the maps we use today are based on what’s left of your chronologies, though there is argument as to whether they’re still valid or imaginations from another time and place.
