by GARY DARBY
“Well?” Phigby rumbles. “What do you say? For me, I cannot see any reason not to accept his offer.”
“Nor I,” Amil replies, “yet, why do I feel uneasy as if I’ve just stuck my head in the chopping block and wait for the blade to fall?”
“Because,” Helmar growls, “this is all too easy after what we’ve experienced.”
“Aye, you’re right,” Amil agrees, “after having fought through the mountains coming and going, for someone to just pop up and say, ‘I’m here to help’ is a bit unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable or not,” Cara whispers, “how much choice do we have? You said it yourself, Phigby, Aster has this river blockaded from one end to the other.”
“Is there no other way,” I ask, “to get to the swamp than to cross the river?”
“Such as going all the way to the Lorell’s headwaters?” Phigby asks.
I nod in answer. “We could,” Phigby acknowledges, “but we would be hunted every step of the way and we’re not talking a trip of a few days, it would take close to a moons’ cycle.”
Phigby turns to Alonya, who has remained silent, listening. “Queen Sight?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing, I’m afraid, and I agree with Cara, what choice do we have but to take their offer.”
Her face turns hard. “However, I would add that we should sleep with our sword hands free and not far from the dragons.”
“To that,” Amil avows, “I would heartily agree.”
Phigby’s eyes rove the group and each of us, in turn, give him a nod. “Then, we are agreed. I’ll let Rollo know.”
Moments later, I hear a slap on the table and Rollo’s, “Good! We have places for you to sleep and—”
“No,” Phigby answers, “we’ll stay by the dragons. They grow nervous when we’re not near and an agitated dragon is the last thing you want below decks.”
“Are you sure?” Rollo asks. “We can even make room for Alonya, you know.”
“Quite sure,” Phigby answers. With that, he hurries out the door and we fall in behind to troop over to where the dragons lie.
“Should we set a guard?” Cara whispers.
“A good idea,” Amil agrees, “I’ll take the first watch.”
Phigby, sensing that Helmar is worried, perhaps by the way his hard eyes stares down at the floor, asks, “Something troubling you, Helmar?”
Helmar raises his head to us. “Yes. That island that Rollo mentioned—”
“Where they found all the greens?” Cara asks.
Nodding in reply, Helmar’s eyes narrow, “It would answer a question I’ve had brewing in my mind for a while.”
“Which is?” Phigby prompts.
“Have you not wondered why,” Helmar replies, “we haven’t seen a single wild dragon in all this time? We’ve traveled in dragon country, but not once have we either seen one, or found their leavings.”
“I hadn’t thought about it before,” Cara replies bringing her hand to her mouth, “but you’re absolutely right. Even around Draconstead, you could always find a wild dragon or two close by.”
“Yes,” Helmar affirms, “and now? In all our travels, except for the sprites who came to us, none to be seen. It’s as if they’ve disappeared.”
Phigby stands with fingers pinching at pursed lips, eyeing Helmar. “Decidedly odd,” he acknowledges. “It’s not that our own dragons would scare them away, but I don’t have an answer as to why, do you?”
Shaking his head, Helmar admits, “No, but there must be a reason.”
“Yes, well,” Phigby replies, “I’m sure there is, but for now, let’s worry about things close at hand, like getting across this river.”
With that, we bed down on the hard deck, me up against the golden and Scamper curled up in my lap.
That night and the next day pass easily enough; the ship’s rocking is gentle as it sails down the Lorell. Rollo forbids the opening of any windows so as to avert the fluke chance of someone seeing us.
Without any fresh air, the lower decks soon become stuffy. But as Amil puts it, better to be stuffy than to be dead and stuffed, sitting in Aster’s castle as a conversation piece at dinner.
I agree.
Without being able to see the sky, our sense of time is sketchy but we know it’s the second night when several Uhlan bring us our evening meal and light a few torches.
Neither we nor the Uhlan have spoken much during the voyage and Rollo has only appeared once, to assure us that everything was going to plan.
The evening passes and everyone tries to get some sleep as Rollo has said that he would land us at the darkest point, just before dawn and that we should be ready to move at his command.
I have the midwatch and stand near Golden Wind, my companions breathing softly around me in sleep when I hear quiet footsteps.
Coming alert, I grip Galondraig when from the gloom appears the young Uhlan, Marce. Seeing me, she puts a finger to lips, whispering, “I would speak with you.”
We move away so as to not disturb my slumbering comrades. She whips around to face me. “You’re in grave danger,” she hisses, “You must leave, now, before it’s too late.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” she returns, “that what Rollo told you is a lie.”
In the lone torchlight’s glare, I see tears stream down her face. “It’s all lies. We’re not taking you to safety, we’re taking you to Prince Aster. He waits at the fortress.”
My head jerks up as if she’d slapped me across the face. Before I can reply, she says, “I’ve waited for just this moment. Because of the currents, we’ve had to ease the ship close to the far bank. It won’t be far for your giantess to swim and it’s your only chance. If you wait, Aster will surround our ship and you’ll be taken prisoner . . . Or worse.”
Peering at the large doors that lead outside, I demand, “How do we get out?”
“I’ll open the doors—be ready or you’ll be lost as we only have this one opportunity.”
With that, she’s gone, blending into the gloom as if she were a shadow herself.
For a moment, I hesitate. Do I believe Marce, or not? Is she setting the real trap and if we bolt from here are we putting our heads into the noose?
Making up my mind, I hurry and wake Cara. Her eyes pop open at my touch. “Get up,” I whisper, “we’re in trouble.”
Together, we wake the others and in a rush of words, I repeat my conversation with Marce. Phigby doesn’t hesitate. “On your dragons,” he orders. “Alonya, to the doors.”
Cara, Helmar and I make short work of loading the sprogs and then we’re at the doors, waiting for them to open.
We stand there, anxious, ready to bolt from this place, but nothing happens. Phigby is straining to see over Cara’s shoulder and it’s evident that he’s about to order the dragons to bust through the wooden portal when there comes a muted clanking and the doors widen.
We hesitate only long enough until the two doors are broad enough for the dragons and we burst through. Alonya lopes along the deck, sword in hand, heading for the side railing when there comes a cry, “They’re escaping!”
“Sky!” Phigby roars and as one, the three dragons spring upward, snapping their wings out to capture the wind. I glance over my shoulder to see Alonya running for her life.
Behind her, dark figures, bows in hand swarm over the ship. “Golden Wind!” I shout. “We've got to keep those archers from shooting at Alonya!”
She swings around in a sharp arc and dives at the ship. Gaining speed, she sweeps just over the vessel and the rush of her passing bowls over the bowmen before they can unleash their arrows.
Just as we turn and sweep back toward the ship, Alonya dives into the water. I catch sight of a blue blur in the air and as we cross the ship on one side, Wind Song blasts across the boat from the other.
Together, our swift passing causes a windstorm against the main mast’s canvas, sending the boat rocking from side to side.
&
nbsp; Glancing back, I see Wind Glory flash across the ship, only, as she speeds past, Helmar has her reach out with her talons and grab the swaying mast.
With a sharp, resounding crack! The high, thick pole splits, and spar and canvas crash onto the main deck sending the archers scattering out of the way lest they’re flattened by the heavy boom.
Before we can turn, Wind Song speeds down the ship lengthwise, splintering the smaller masts and leaving canvas and spars a jumbled mess across the deck house.
Smiling, I say to Golden Wind, “Methinks they’re going to have a hard time leaving this evil realm anytime soon.”
Golden Wind swings in an arc and I search the water for Alonya. “There she is,” I point, “she’s already made it to shore.”
The golden slows as we cross over the riverbank to wait for the others to catch up. “Golden Wind,” I begin, “I have to ask, how was it that you didn’t feel that the Uhlan were leading us astray?”
She’s silent for a long moment. “Just as they’re able to hide themselves from us in the forest due to their natural camouflage, the Uhlan seemed able to mask their true feelings as well. As it is with too many, they hide their real frame of mind, their thoughts hidden to all but themselves. Lies upon lies.”
“But,” I respond, “isn’t that true of most of us? I know that’s the way it is with me. There are things that I would never share with Cara, for instance.”
“With the intention of hurting or harming her?”
“Oh, no,” I’m quick to answer. “More to save myself from my own embarrassment, really.”
“Embarrassment does not equal an intent to harm others, Hooper. There is a difference.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I agree.
“However,” she cautions, “be careful in that what you hide does not harm you, Hooper. Do not overly dwell on the mistakes in life, but rather on the good things that you have wrought, however small they may seem to you.”
At a dark meadow, she dips her wings and we settle to the ground. Moments later, Wind Glory and Wind Song land nearby.
We wait, peering into the dark thickets with worried faces until Alonya pushes through a last stand of thick bushes and steps out into the glade.
“I could have sworn,” she growls, her indignation evident, “that I said that my next swim would be in the marbled baths of Dronopolis and not in this swill.”
“Better this swill,” Phigby replies, “than in the hands of Aster, don’t you agree?”
“True,” she acknowledges, wringing out her soggy kilt and twisting her head from side to side, sending droplets spraying everywhere from her braids.
“We best be going,” Amil encourages, “before we have those Uhlan on our trail.”
“I wouldn’t worry about them anytime soon,” Alonya replies.
“And why is that?” Helmar asks.
“Because,” Alonya answers with a slight smile, “once I gained the shore, I got a good look at their craft. Your dragons ruined the ship’s wheel and the current has the vessel firmly in its grasp. My guess is that they will be several leagues down the river before they’re able to gain control and beach her.”
She smiles wide. “And Rollo must spin yet another tale before Aster or something tells me that he and his comrades have done their last exploring.”
“Good,” Cara snaps. “Serves them right. Serving up that tall tale and making us feel sorry for them. Something tells me that the truth is that they’re all Umriah.”
She all but spits, “Truth is honor!”
“Yes,” I reply, “but let’s not forget that it was one of their own who warned us. If Marce hadn’t told the truth, we’d have walked right into Aster’s hands.”
“Indeed,” Phigby replies and lays a hand on my shoulder. “A good thought, Hooper, and one that we shouldn’t forget. However, I’m afraid that in this case, the truth-teller will share in the foul rewards of the liar.”
He turns to Amil. “Well, Traveler? Where does our path lead from here?”
“Away from the river,” Amil answers, “until I can get my bearings.”
“Then lead on,” Phigby urges, “and we shall follow close behind.”
For the next two days, we move steadily through forest and meadow with the rising sun at our left shoulders and with its setting at our right. The land becomes flatter, broken here and there by a few rolling hills.
The air turns warmer, and the foliage changes from the birchen trees and spruces that I’ve known all my life to tall, broad oaken-like trees. Long, stringy moss hangs from their limbs, along with tiny white flowers that punctuate the grayness.
At dusk on the second day, we climb to the tallest hill in sight and set our camp in the midst of an oaken tree stand. The covering overhead is not as thick as I would prefer but it is the best we can do with what is at hand.
Cara and Alonya, continuing their string of luck, bring in two deer and now as darkness closes about us, we roast the meat, saving a small portion for ourselves while the dragons get the greater share.
Pointing to one long, gray moss strand that falls from a high branch and almost touches the ground, I say to Phigby, “Put some flowers in that scruffy beard of yours, and it would look just like that, even to the gray hairs.”
“Humph,” Phigby rejoins. “You are just jealous of my impressive growth, youngster.”
I scratch at the three tiny hairs on my chin and give him a lop-sided smile. “Maybe so.”
As Dazzle lets his flames go out, Phigby asks Amil, “How much farther, Traveler?”
“Tomorrow,” Amil sighs. “Tomorrow, we’ll hit the marsh’s edge and the day after we should sight the Tormented Swamp.”
“And how do we find this Ukur’s Gate?” Alonya questions.
“We don’t,” Phigby states, “it will find us.”
As darkness creeps across the land and Night’s Curtain chases the last of the light away, we set the watch and retire to our moss beds. It seems that I’ve just closed my eyes when a rough hand pushes at my shoulder, shaking me awake.
“Uhh—” I begin before the same hand clamps itself over my mouth. “Quiet!” Amil hisses in my ear. “Get up, something is moving in the trees at the hill’s base.”
I jerk myself awake and pull myself to my feet as Amil darts away. It’s still dark though I can see a very faint graying in the east through small sliver-like openings in the surrounding trees.
Stumbling a bit at still being half-asleep, I make my way over to stand next to Helmar, who’s peering downslope with an arrow notched in his longbow.
All the dragons are on their feet though none is showing alarm. Instead, they too gaze down at the hill’s base and to the murky woodlands that stretch out beyond our small hilltop.
“What is it?” I whisper.
Helmar shakes his head. “Not sure. Cara was on watch when she thought she heard something moving in those trees down there.”
“Something big,” Cara asserts in a hushed tone. “Really big.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t some oversized squirrel?” I ask. “This is about the time that they become awake and move around. Besides, the dragons don’t seem anxious.”
“I’m very sure,” Cara retorts. “It was no squirrel, oversized or not, prowling around down there. Besides, I saw only tiny nuts on those trees, not big enough to feed a giant squirrel.”
I look around and then ask, “Where’s Alonya?”
Helmar motions with the tip of his arrow down toward the darkness. “There.”
“What?” I sputter. “By herself? How long has she been gone?”
“Just a short time,” Cara explains. “She was the first I woke, and as soon as she was on her feet, she disappeared into the trees.”
“In that case,” Phigby orders, “Helmar, you and Cara make sure of your target if you have to unleash your arrows. I don’t want to have to pull one of your bolts out of our Golian friend.”
As if she had heard us talking about her, from the gloom, a rock co
mes sailing to thud at our feet along with a sharp, “Psst! It’s Alonya, don’t shoot, I’m coming in.”
The giantess strides from the darkness and as soon as she’s in our little encampment slides her sword into its sheath. “Nothing,” she announces. “I circled the whole hill, but whatever it was, it’s gone.”
Amil eyes Cara and asks in a curt tone, “Are you sure you heard something down there? Maybe Hooper was right and it was a bunch of frisky squirrels.”
Alonya is quick to respond as she lays a hand on Cara’s shoulder. “I heard it too, Traveler, though faint. There was something moving about and it was quite large.”
We eye each other a bit before Phigby observes, “Well, whatever it was has gone, and judging by the dragon’s reaction, it may not have been a foe.”
“Maybe the equivalent of an Akos Hawk,” I mumble to Phigby.
“Perhaps,” Phigby replies as he runs his hand over his beard in a thoughtful fashion.
He shakes himself and motions toward the east. “The dawn comes so there’s no reason to go back to sleep, let’s make ready to be on our way.”
“What about our night prowler?” Amil questions.
“If it was a night creature,” Phigby declares, “then with the coming of daylight we should have nothing to fear from it, wouldn’t you think?”
We’re soon on our way and as the day wears on, the air becomes warm and sticky. The oaken trees grow closer together to the point that we must push through the overhanging moss as if we were parting gray curtain after gray curtain.
Being unable to see much beyond the next wall of moss causes us to slow and be on edge. My unease grows from the feeling of not only being hemmed in, even if it’s only by flimsy moss, but the fact that I’m sure something or someone is trailing us.
After a bit, I lean over and ask, “Golden Wind, we’re being followed, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she replies.
“It’s the Uhlan, isn’t it? They’ve caught up with us.”
“No, Hooper, it’s not the Uhlan.”
“Then who? Or what?” I demand.
She doesn’t answer, which only makes my unease grow. Who knows what we face in the swamp and now, who knows what follows behind.
