If A Dragon Cries (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 1)

by GARY DARBY

  I spin around. Sorg is leering at me and behind him are a half-dozen drogs, their lances lowered straight at me. Sorg’s face is in shadow, but his malicious expression is evident enough. I’m drog meat and before I can move a spear will run me through, just like Hakon and Arnie, who hang lifeless against the tree trunks.

  A loud whoosh sounds right next to my ear, so close that I instinctively jerk my head to one side. When I turn back, the eyes of the drog standing next to Sorg stare straight ahead, but with an arrow jutting out between its sightless orbs. The brute doesn’t move, just stands there.

  He’s dead, but he doesn’t realize it, yet.

  Like a great tree that topples over ever so slowly after a woodsman’s sharp ax has split it open, the beast tips over backward. Stunned, the drogs don’t move. Then, Sorg bellows but another arrow cuts the air and a drog shrieks in terror and spins to the ground.

  The brutes frantically scatter but not before a third brute falls to his knees, clutching at the arrow embedded in his throat.

  Ochre-colored blood spews from his mouth and he gurgles and gasps in his death throes. In the chaos and bedlam to get away from the unseen deadly archer, the drogs completely forget about me.

  Seemingly from out of nowhere, Cara dashes into the fray, grabs me by my shoulder and shoves me so hard that I stagger and almost fall. “Run!” she orders.

  She notches another arrow and lets it fly. A drog scream fills the night air in answer.

  It’s amazing what terror can do to a person. Sometimes it can make every thought leave your mind, leaving you numb and frozen, unable to act, do, or even think. And sometimes it can make your body and mind behave in ways they never have before.

  For once in my life, I’m able to run almost like an ordinary person. My bent leg is pumping right along with my good one. I scramble through the forest brambles, pushing aside branches and brush with both hands. I run hard and with a purpose.

  I’m running for my life.

  Head and stomach first, I roll over a long log that abruptly appears out of the darkness. I fall awkwardly to the hard earth and then scramble to one side where I push my back against the fallen tree’s rough bark. I swallow hard trying to quiet my heavy breathing and thumping heart.

  I sit for a moment, not moving, just listening. I hear drogs grunting and cursing in the distance but little else.

  I anxiously look in all directions. Where is Cara? Did she not follow me? I bite down on my lip and taste dirt and leaves. I start to push myself up when my hand presses up against a stout limb that’s come away from the fallen tree trunk.

  I begin to toss it aside but stop. I heft it in my hand. It’s not only solid, it’s twice as long as my arm. I think to myself that something this thick will surely crack open the stoutest of drog skulls if one of them tries to attack me again.

  I need to reach the woodpile as quickly as possible. I’m sure that’s where Cara headed after saving me from those crazed beasts. The question is whether she’s going to wait for me. I’m totally amazed and in awe of Cara. She’s like an avenging warrior, only instead of using a sword to wreak vengeance, she’s using her bow.

  I can’t hear the drogs anymore, but, that doesn’t matter, their nauseating smell will undoubtedly alert me that they’re nearby. I slip around the thick log’s gnarled end and hunched over, make for the woodpile.

  As I slide around a large tree trunk, like a viper’s sudden strike a hand reaches out, grabs my tunic, and all but slams me against the tree. “Just where do you think you’re going?” Cara whispers furiously in my ear.

  I take one look at her beautiful face and let out a long breath. “It’s you,” I sputter and then state, “the woodpile. You said to meet there if we got separated. Well, we got separated.”

  Cara shakes her head at me. “You’re going the wrong way, Hooper. The woodpile is in the other direction.” She glances down at the stout branch I’m carrying. “What’s that for?”

  I hold it up and shake it a bit. “A drog head if one gets too close.”

  Her short laugh is sharp, unflattering. She points at my branch and cocks her head to one side. “You’re going to take on a drog with that?”

  I grasp my skull basher a little tighter. “If one gets too close, yes.”

  Cara shakes her head and slaps at my knobby branch, sending it tumbling from my grasp. “Don’t be a fool, Hooper. You wouldn’t get within two arm’s lengths with that before they’d run you through like they did with Hakon and Arnie.”

  She reaches down and holds up a longbow and a quiver of arrows. She shoves them hard into my chest. “You want to kill drogs? Then learn to use this.”

  I stare wide-eyed at the bow. Me? Use a longbow? I peer at my supposed skull basher where she’d knocked it down into the crushed grass. She’s right. If I tried to club a drog, I wouldn’t get within five steps of one before they’d gut me with a lance, leaving my lifeblood to pool and redden the ground under my dead body.

  “Where’d this come from?” I ask, holding the bow and quiver out.

  “From a Wilder who won’t need it anymore,” she curtly replies.

  “You killed a Wilder?” I sputter.

  “Yes,” she replies and leans in close to mutter, “and I’m going to kill more.” She taps on the bow. “You might want to be more alert than its previous owner.”

  “So there are Wilders here,” I say breathlessly.

  Cara pulls me close, her eyes are centered on mine. “Listen Hooper, and listen well. We’ve been betrayed.” She glances around to make sure that we’ve not been spotted. “The Wilders and the drogs are working together.”

  “No . . . ” I breathe out.

  I can see her bite down hard on her lip. Then she says with a catch in her voice, “And most likely the message for my father to meet at the Manor House was a ruse, to get him, my brother, and Helmar away from here.”

  I quickly grasp her meaning. “They were lured away on purpose?”

  She gives me a quick nod and in the starlight, I can see the anxiety in her eyes. “Do you know if . . . ” I start.

  “No,” she quickly replies, “and I’m not going to assume the worst until I know for sure.”

  I hang my head for a moment, my stomach is in a knot, but I have to ask, “The other workers?”

  She shakes her head sadly. “From what I can tell, all dead.”

  It’s what I feared. The Wilders and drogs have killed everyone. “Where are the knights? They should be here by now.”

  Cara shakes her head and mutters, “I don’t know, Hooper. Maybe they’re all dead too.”

  I draw in a deep breath and mumble, “So what do we do?”

  She hesitates before saying, “We can’t do anything for the dead. It’s time for those who still live, to live still.”

  She places her hand on my shoulder. “The drogs know we’re here and more than likely Sorg went to get reinforcements for a bigger hunting party — with us as the quarry. Are you still willing to help me save the golden, Hooper?”

  My eyes meet hers. I’m trembling, shaking at the sudden realization that at any moment either a party of murderous drogs or Wilders could show up and kill both of us. Her face seems to first grow large and then shrink, and I’m none too steady on my feet.

  Cara grips the front of my tunic, shakes me and hisses, “Hooper, are you still with me?”

  I swallow and squeak, “I want to find Scamper.”

  “And the golden?” she presses.

  I take a breath and though it pains me, I say, “You saved my life, I’ll help you.”

  She gives me a grateful smile and turns away. “What now?” I murmur.

  “We need to get a look at the barn,” she answers. Her voice is harsh, guttural. “For all I know, they may have taken the golden already.”

  She points off to one side. “The woodpile is in that direction. It’s the only place that we can see the barn from this side without being seen ourselves.” She glances around first to make sure no o
ne is nearby before whispering, “Let’s go, and this time try to stay with me.”

  I nod, and just for an instant, glance back in the direction where Hakon and Arnie met their death. From here, I can’t see them hanging lifeless, pinned to the trees, but I know I’ll never forget the gruesome scene.

  I can’t stop the trembling that shakes my body. Is that how Cara and I will end our lives tonight? Our bodies splintered by drog lances and left to droop from a tree like some spent fall leaf about to drop to the ground, dead and forgotten?

  I can’t help but think that with only the two of us against a pack of savage drogs and the Wilder horde, that’s the only way this night can end.

  Thoughts of Golden Wind

  Dreaded wings overhead.

  Wings that I long feared to hear but knew that this night, this day would inevitably come.

  The putrid aroma of murder and massacre wafts upon the wind. A noxious odor that taints my soul. It will not be the first, nor the last time that such a rancid fragrance will fill my nostrils. Its icy touch drowns the warmth of life and reminds one of how truly short are our days.

  The foul ones have come for me.

  Oh, the vainness, the cruelty of those who crave power over the lives of others. From their mouths come silken words that caress vanities, that hold up lies as promises, that move hearts, and minds to accept falsehoods as truths. Vows of healing when there will only be more wounds, more sorrow, more hopelessness.

  My brothers and sisters here are lost. Their crime? Only that they were born in this day and time. I may well be lost this night, too.

  If so, perhaps with it goes the hope of a world. But what is hope or faith without action? Emptiness. I pray that there will be some, if but a few, who do not cower and merely hope, but instead, push aside their fears and come forth. Perhaps they will work a miracle, wrest victory from what seems to be defeat. If not, then the Evil One shall win, and my birth will be for naught.

  Oh, how I sorrow for the little ones, the innocents who are born trusting into the world. What do they ask of us at their beginning?

  Only that the world we leave them will be better than the one we found at our own birthing.

  Is that so much to ask?

  Forevermore, it is not.

  Chapter 9

  Cara blends into the forest’s shadows as if she’s a shade herself. She moves faster than before; slipping from one ebony pool to the next, a dark apparition in the night. Her quick pace makes it hard for me to keep up, but I push forward, skirting scraggly brush and cone-shaped trees in a dogged lope. I can tell we’re nearing the woodland’s edge when Cara abruptly brings us to a halt. “What do you hear?” she whispers.

  I strain to listen. After a few moments, I put my mouth close to her ear, “They must be doing something to the dragons in the paddocks. I can hear the dragons stomping and the clinking of wing chains, sounds they make when they’re awake, not asleep.”

  I stop, listen, and then murmur, “They’re doing something with the chains, I can hear the links sliding through the rivets.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she replies in a soft, but grim tone. “The Wilders are stealing the herd. Some of them must be in the paddocks and in the barn while others are out in the meadows.”

  Crouched over, we slide from tree to tree. We both stop at a sharp noise, like the clanging of two swords together. Then I hear voices that carry on the night air, but I can’t make out their words. Their speech is loud as if they’re not afraid of anyone hearing. My mind goes numb with the realization that it’s Wilders that I hear.

  We cautiously tread forward. Cara has her bow up, and an arrow notched, but I carry an empty bow with quiver slung over my shoulder. To be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea of how to notch an arrow and let one fly.

  We slip past one last tree when out of the blackness a hand grabs my shoulder. I start to yelp, but another hand wraps itself over my mouth. I struggle against my unknown assailant before a sharp voice whispers in my ear, “Be quiet, you fool!”

  I recognize that voice! I glance up to see Cara holding her bowstring taut against her cheek, an arrow ready to fly, but then her eyes widen, and she quickly lowers her bow. The strong arms release me, and I stumble backward. Cara however, moves closer and whispers, “Helmar,” as if he’s the answer to her prayer.

  Well, maybe he is.

  I can feel the heartfelt relief in Cara’s voice, the way she croons his name. I admit, for the briefest of moments, in a way, I’m disappointed to see him, but I quickly shut that silly thought out of my mind. We desperately need him. “It’s awfully good to see you,” I say, “we thought that perhaps — ”

  “Came close enough,” he brusquely answers, “but no, I’m alive.”

  Cara reaches out a hand to grasp his forearm. “Father? Daron?”

  He shakes his head in answer as they gaze into each other’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I wish I could give you better news, but the fact is, I don’t know. Your father sent me home early.”

  Cara drops her head for an instant before she nods and gets back to business. “The Wilders are after the golden. Hooper and I were going to get her out of the barn and into the forest.”

  Helmar nods slowly before asking, “The other workers?”

  “I fear all dead,” Cara answers and then in an angry tone says, “the drogs are working with the Wilders. They killed Hakon and Arnie, perhaps all the others as well.”

  Helmar’s face hardens, and he gruffly asks, “Any sign of the knights?”

  “None,” she flatly answers.

  “You don’t think they’re in on this, too?” I ask.

  Helmar hesitates before he sharply says, “No, but with or without them, we must act and swiftly at that.”

  “Your plan?” he asks Cara.

  “Get to the woodpile,” she answers, “see what’s happening at the barn. After that . . . ” her voice trails off meaning she hasn’t thought past the stacked wood.

  “Good first step,” Helmar acknowledges. “Let’s go.”

  He spins away, with Cara right behind him. Neither glances back to see if I’m following, but I understand. With Helmar here, Cara now has little use for me. Still, bent over as low as I can, I follow them to the last line of trees, just behind the heap of cut logs. The two slide down on their stomachs and wriggle forward.

  I do my best to imitate them, but by the time I get to the cuttings, they’re already peeking over the bark’s top. I slip next to Cara and slowly raise my head to peer at the barn. The dragon doors are open and crimson-clothed men holding broadswords that gleam in their torches’ firelight stand guard. As we watch, several more stride from the barn and one turns to gruffly call into the barn.

  Helmar pulls us down and whispers, “I count eight outside.”

  “And obviously more inside,” Cara answers, “but how many?”

  The two peer at each other for a moment before Cara murmurs, “If we assume that there are about the same number on the inside of the barn as are on the outside, then I’m sure the greater number are in the far meadows rounding up the dragons there.”

  “Makes sense,” Helmar affirms, “as it would take far more of them to round up the free roaming dragons than those already corralled.” He slides up to take another look at the barn. Cara and I join him just in time to see a tall, scarlet-cloaked Wilder step from the barn’s dusky interior into the flickering torchlight. Helmar is studying something off to the side when I see Cara suddenly lean forward as if she’s intently scrutinizing the Wilder newcomer.

  She stays that way for several heartbeats completely absorbed in watching this particular Wilder, but why, I don’t know. I tap on her forearm and point toward the Wilders. “What?” I whisper in her ear, but she holds up a hand to quieten me.

  The tall Wilder speaks to the others, and Cara edges forward even more as if she would crawl on top of the log pile to discern what the Wilder is saying.

  The man’s voice carries, but I can’t make out what he�
��s saying. Cara is so engrossed in this Wilder that she doesn’t realize that she’s raised her head up too high. Helmar reaches up to yank her down. “What are you doing? Do you want to be seen?”

  She doesn’t answer but slides down with her back to the rough bark. Her face is taut, troubled, and she’s gripped her bow tightly with both hands. “Cara, what is it?” I ask. “You couldn’t take your eyes off that Wilder.”

  Cara runs her tongue over soft, pink lips. “It can’t be,” she mutters. She draws in a deep breath and lets it out while running her fingers through her thick hair. “But, if that’s who I believe it is, then this night is even more monstrous than ever.”

  “What do you mean?” Helmar questions.

  She hesitates before waving a hand at him. “Later, right now, we need to get the golden out and away from the Wilders before it’s too late.”

  Helmar peers at her for a moment before asking, “Ideas?”

  “One,” she answers. She turns to me. “Hooper, I’m going to ask you to do something that’s far, far more dangerous than climbing Phigby’s tree. Can I count on you?”

  I hesitate before saying hoarsely, “I’m listening.”

  Helmar leans forward to hear as she motions over her shoulder toward the barn. “I’m positive that they haven’t spirited Golden Wind away yet, and she’s still in there. I think the Wilders are waiting until they can move the whole herd at once. That means we still have time.”

  “To do what?” Helmar asks.

  “For you and me to distract the Wilders while Hooper sneaks into the barn and gets the golden out.”

  My mouth hangs open, but before I can even gurgle out a word of protest, Cara points at the log pile’s end. “From there, it’s just a short run to get behind the meal house. It’ll hide you for most of way until you can get to the rear of the barn. For some reason, it looks like most of the Wilders are staying close to the front so there might not be that many toward the back.”