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

by GARY DARBY

  “The side door?” I ask while swallowing several times.

  “Exactly,” she replies. She turns to Helmar. “Where’s Wind Glory?”

  “With Wind Song,” he answers. “That’s how I found you two.”

  Cara takes a deep breath before saying to me, “Helmar and I will make for our dragons. That’ll give you time to sneak into the barn.” She peers at me with solemn eyes. “Once inside, just wait, you’ll know when to get Golden Wind out of there.”

  My eyes grow as big as Osa the moon. Does she really understand what she’s asking of me? She wants me to sneak into a barn where there are sword-wielding, bloodthirsty Wilders. She leans close with a fierce expression on her face. “Hooper, remember, this isn’t just for the golden, but for Scamper, too.”

  I gulp and feel a bit faint, but at the mention of Scamper I can’t help but numbly nod in answer.

  “Good,” she replies. “Once you’re in, don’t worry about the other dragons, just get Golden Wind away from here as fast as you can.” She glances at Helmar. “Fairy Falls?”

  He shrugs in answer. “As good a place as any.”

  She turns to me to ask, “Do you know how to get to Fairy Falls?”

  I shake my head at her. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there.”

  “Just follow the meadow creek into the forest for a quarter league,” Helmar explains. “Then turn west toward the high hills. You’ll come to the Dielong River, go upstream from there.”

  “How far up the river?” I ask.

  “Just keep going,” he answers, “you’ll know when you’re there.”

  I eye both of them suspiciously. “Just what are you two planning?”

  “Never mind about us,” Helmar returns. He must have sensed that I wasn’t happy with Cara’s idea because he leans close and mutters, “Hooper, I know how you feel about dragons. I’ve always known how you felt, but we’re asking that just for once you put aside your feelings and think about what this means for all of us.”

  Cara puts her hand on my mine. “Draconton’s villagers and our workers here at the stead died tonight because the Wilders want to take our dragons and especially Golden Wind. If we can do this one thing, just this one thing, Hooper to thwart their plans, then we will in some small measure avenge our people.”

  She doesn’t say it, but I can see it in her eyes — and avenge my father, brother.

  She goes on. “The meadows are lost, but, if fortune is on our side, then we may have this one chance to steal away the golden.”

  Helmar reaches out to turn me toward him. “We need to know, Hooper, are you with us on this, or not?”

  I meet his eyes, and I have to admit, for an instant, the temptation to turn aside and say “not” is almost overpowering. Instead, I let my hand slide up and down my bow for a moment before I look at Cara. Her pleading eyes meet mine, and I feel like I’m melting inside.

  “I’ll do it,” I answer. “Not for the golden, but for . . . ” I stop, unable to go on, embarrassed to have let my affection for her come out so obviously.

  Her hand squeezes mine gently. “Thank you, Hooper. Scamper is fortunate to have such a good friend.”

  I screw my mouth to one side. She thought I was talking about Scamper. Well, in a way, I was, but what I really meant was that I was willing to do it for her. Oh, well. It’s probably for the best. What chance do I have with her, anyway?

  Absolutely none.

  I hold out my bow and quiver. “And if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, then these will be of more use to you two than me.” I tap my waistband where my knife sits. “I’ll make do with this.”

  Cara pulls my bow and quiver over her shoulders, gives me a tiny smile and then with Helmar leading, spurts away, crouching low, to disappear into the gloom.

  I wait a few moments and then edge to the woodpile’s far end to peek around the corner. Where there were eight or so Wilders before, there are only four now, and the tall one is not among them. I eye the distance between the cut wood and the meal house. If I were as fleet of foot as a deer, I could be to the hut in three or four bounds easily.

  But I’m not a deer, and any bounding I could manage would make the waddle of a sprog look graceful.

  Going straight across is out of the question, the Wilders would surely see me. I glance to my right. Several small bushes sit almost in a diagonal line that ends near the meal house’s far corner. The bushes are skimpy and thin, but they at least provide some cover.

  Hunched over as low as I can, I slide out from behind the woodpile and scurry across the short distance to the first bush. I crouch behind the thin limbs and the new spring leaves, clearly able to see the Wilders. Their torchlight outlines the bushes' stringy leaves in odd shapes and for a moment, I see a leering skeleton head with fiery eye sockets looking straight at me.

  I pull my eyes away and think, if I can see the Wilders, surely they can see me. Nevertheless, no flight of arrows speeds through the air in my direction, so once again I gauge the distance to the next bush. This space is almost double the length. The one redeeming feature is that I’m going away from the Wilders though not far enough that a red arrow from one of their longbows couldn’t pierce my thin body.

  I rock back slightly on my heels, gather myself and rush out from behind the shrub. At any second, I expect to hear a cry of discovery and moments later the muted twang of longbows releasing their arrows.

  I’m behind the next-to-last bush, breathing hard and somewhat surprised to still be alive. I glance back at the Wilders. Their heads are turned away. Two are staring into the barn while the other two are peering toward the meadows. This is my chance. Without hesitating, I dash from behind the waist-high leafy bush and rush headlong for the low-slung cookhouse.

  I dart around a corner and lean my back against the rough log walls. I take several deep breaths and listen. I hear nothing that would indicate that the Wilders saw me so I follow the wall until I reach the end. I peek around the corner, but I can’t see the Wilders.

  Almost tiptoeing, I hastily cross the open ground until I’m behind a haystack that’s several heads taller than me. The smell of newly cut hay, rich and strong fills my nostrils as I hurry along. The paddocks on this side are empty and using the railings for cover, I scurry between the enclosures until I reach the trace that leads to the barn’s end.

  In the darkness, I crouch low and ease my way until I’m at one corner. I reach out and rub my hand across the sidewall. The barn’s planks are smooth and even, the only building in the upper meadows with such even-textured siding, painted barnyard red.

  I slide down to make myself as small as possible in hopes that it will lessen any chance of the Wilders’ discovering me. I place my ear close to the barn and listen. Startled, I jerk my head back a little. The dragons are letting out deep growls, and I can hear them stomping and clawing their talons against the bare ground.

  They’re obviously agitated but from what? I push around the corner and slowly open the small side door. I step over the threshold and slip into the barn. I ease down behind one of the posts that hold up the enclosure railings and make myself small.

  The Wilders have placed sputtering torches inside to light up its interior. At the building’s other end, in the torchlight’s glare, I see several swordsmen standing around the tall Wilder. There’s a muttering of voices, but they’re too far away for me to make out their words. I know that Cara and Helmar want me to do whatever it takes to get the golden out, but there’s something I must do first.

  I have to make my way to my corner and see if Scamper, perhaps frightened by all the commotion, came back to his straw nest. If he did, and the Wilders found him —

  I don’t want to think about what would happen if they had, I can only pray that he stayed quiet and hidden and is still alive. I duck under the lowest railing, crouch against the barn wall and almost crawling start to cross Golden Wind’s paddock. My hunched over posture is agonizing to my leg but my eyes neve
r leave the Wilders. I hear Golden Wind’s tail scrape across the ground as she moves around but I ignore her. I’m sure she’ll recognize my scent as I’ve cleaned her enclosure enough times.

  I’m not quite halfway when I feel a warm, almost steamy breath on my head and shoulders. I glance over my shoulder. The golden’s muzzle is so close that if I rose up even a tiny bit, I’d bump my head against her. She’s watching my every move. It’s clear that she recognizes me, which is good, but what if the Wilders get suspicious of why she’s standing and staring toward the back end of her stall?

  I reach up with my hand and try to push her away, but she stands firm. “Go,” I furiously whisper, “you’re going to give me away.” She doesn’t move. Like the big, dumb beast she is, she just stands there staring at me.

  I grimace to myself. I recognize that expectant look on her idiot face. She thinks I have more sugar grass and is waiting for me to bring it out and feed her.

  Then, she comes even closer. I’ve nowhere to go, she has me pinned against the back wall. I start to panic, she’s never shown hostility before, but there’s a first time for everything. All she has to do is place one of her huge clawed feet on top of me, put her weight down and —

  But she doesn’t. Instead, she brings her muzzle close and starts gently nuzzling my tunic, right where I’ve stashed the dragon jewel. Wide-eyed, I stare as she swings her muzzle back and forth, barely touching my tunic.

  I can’t help the feeling that she knows what’s inside my pocket. She raises her head and stares at me for a long moment before she takes several steps back.

  Movement near the barn’s middle catches my eye. Oh no. The tall Wilder and another are slowly making their way toward the golden’s pen. They’re engaged in some quiet, but earnest conversation and haven’t spotted me. I hesitate, unsure of what to do. I still have over half of the enclosure to go.

  It won’t be long before all the two Wilders have to do is lift their heads in my direction, and they’re bound to see me before I can get to the next stall. I’ve got to go back. I can’t make it to my little place where Scamper and I live.

  My hands curl into tight fists of anger. Now, I may never know whether Scamper’s alive or dead. With the golden still watching me, I silently creep back to the dark corner where I started.

  Just as I sneak under the bottom railing, outside the barn’s immense dragon doors, the sky lights up with a scarlet stream of dragon fire. I hear screams and wild yelling from the barn’s fronting. Cara and Helmar must have caught those Wilders in the open before they could dart for safety inside the barn.

  There are loud shouts and the tall Wilder and his companion spin around to run toward the shrieks of pain and rage. Overhead, I hear the whistling of dragon wings — it's Wind Song and Wind Glory flashing by, barely skimming over the barn’s pitched roof, before they separate to go in different directions.

  I listen to the sound of a longbow, followed by an anguished cry. Whoever loosed the arrow, their aim is perfect. Then, from near the barn’s front, I hear the thruung of Wilder longbows as they send a flight of arrows skyward, searching for Cara and Helmar. The Wilders are fighting back furiously at the assailants who’ve turned the tables on them in a surprise attack that most likely killed several of their companions.

  I sneak across the golden’s stall until I’m near the front so that I can see down the barn at where the Wilders are yelling, cursing along with the almost constant thrumming of longbows. Their attention is centered on what’s happening outside the barn, not inside.

  Now’s my chance. I start to rise from my crouched position but stop halfway up. I hear a familiar fluttering and scratching coming my way. “No . . . ” I groan. It can’t be, but it is.

  Moments later, I’m surrounded by the four sprogs. Regal starts to screep, but I wrap my hand around his muzzle. I lean down, face to face with the four and angrily whisper, “No noise! None!”

  They seem to understand because they all promptly plop down on their backsides and stare up at me expectantly. I raise my eyes and stare at the ceiling while shaking my head. “This can’t be happening,” I mumble in disbelief.

  I have no choice. If I leave them behind, they’ll start squawking and will certainly attract the attention of the tall Wilder, who’s now retreated from the barn’s front and stands almost midway to the golden’s stall.

  He’s stopped and has his back to me, watching the other Wilders unleash more arrows into the night sky. In one hand is a thin, slender sword that he holds point down. I raise my eyebrows at that. From what I know, such a weapon is not the typical sword carried by fighting men.

  This blade seems meant more for thrusting at an opponent from a distance rather than the close infighting dictated by a broadsword that warriors use. It’s much like the type of sword that Lord Lorell carries, the kind that gentlemen and royalty of the realm use in mock duels.

  Either way, my little field knife will be no match against the Wilder’s blade.

  Time’s running out. I’ve got to do something, now. Neither my luck nor that of my two companions overhead will hold forever. I shepherd my little dragon troop over to the side rail. I then step over to the rope that runs through several pulleys overhead and lifts the huge crossbar that secures the dragon doors at this end of the barn.

  As quiet as I can, I begin to pull the thick line down, watching the bar rise ever so slowly. It finally stands straight up so that when I’m ready, I can push the two wide doors open.

  I turn back. There is still the matter of getting the golden out of her enclosure. Not to mention the Wilder, who’s standing nearby still gazing outside. I have a feeling that he’s not going to leave his post and will leave the fighting to the others.

  I push my body into a little stoop and silently step to the stall’s side postern nearest the barn doors. The bar that holds the gate in place is smaller than the barn door rod, but it’s still heavy for me to raise, especially when I’m trying to remain unseen and not heard. I lift it up and over the stanchions that hold it in place and turn to set it down.

  A sword point appears less than a finger’s width from my face and leveled exactly at my right eye.

  The Wilder is standing a sword’s length from me. Covering his face and head is a turban wrap-around, only his fierce eyes show through a small slit in the cloth. “Put it back, now!” he hisses as the tip of his sword dances just in front of my nose.

  I draw in a deep breath and nod. I raise the bar up as if I’m going to replace the grainy shaft so that it’s once more cradled in the two braces. I hesitate, and the rod wiggles in my grasp as if I’m having trouble lifting it up. I step back, wobbling until I have the thick board right where I want it.

  Then, with every bit of strength I can muster, I shove the wooden beam straight into the Wilder’s chest. The bar’s blunt end catches the man just below his throat. With a grunt, he stumbles backward but doesn’t fall to the ground. Before I can turn and fling open the gate, the man rushes me, swinging his sword in a high arc toward my head.

  I fumble with the knife in my belt. For some reason, it’s stuck, and I can’t get it out. My eyes catch the sword’s dull glint, and I try to jump aside, but my heel finds some unseen object, and I fall, landing on my back. The Wilder’s foil hits the stony ground next to me with a muffled clank, but he whips the blade back up again and raises it high.

  I try to squirm away, but it’s no use, I can’t escape.

  The sword starts to slash downward, but before it can land its deadly blow, a great golden muzzle swings over the stall’s top rail. A fang-lined mouth opens, and a scream echoes through the barn. I look up, gaping at the sight above me. Swinging in the air, his arm gripped between the golden’s jaws is the Wilder.

  He shrieks again, his voice filled with pain and terror. For another second, he hangs there before the golden tosses him aside where he hits the ground with a thump. He rolls over and becomes still on the floor, his bloody arm beneath him.

  I pull myself up
and swing the enclosure gate open. I stumble over to the barn doors; place both hands on the planking and start to push. Before I can get them to move a finger’s length, the doors shatter in a burst of planks and splinters from a dragon head-butt, and the golden lumbers past me into the night.

  Behind me, there are shouts, yells and the sound of boot steps pounding, racing toward me. I start to run, but then I hear the fluttering of tiny wings and stop. I wave frantically at the four sprogs, “If you’re coming it’s now or never,” I yelp.

  The four dash past the door, waddling along like ducks out of water. Without looking back, I make a run for it, with the sprogs right at my heels. I never knew they could move so fast.

  A sudden realization hits me. The golden will almost surely be able to get away. Though her wing chains prevent her from flying, even in her condition, she can run as fast as a horse. The pursuing Wilders, being on foot, will never catch her.

  I, on the other hand, can barely outrun baby dragons. Without wings to carry me away to safety, the Wilders will surely find me long before I can reach the forest. I don’t have a choice; I’m going to have to make a final stand.

  I’m past the cookhouse, so I can’t stop there. The woodpile. Can I make it to its relative safety; use the cords of wood as a barrier against the Wilders’ arrows? I stub my toes against a rock, and I fly forward. I don’t catch myself in time, my head plows into the ground, and I put a face-sized furrow in the grass.

  I turn over and spit out dirt and grass. The sprogs are all over me, their little talons scraping at my tunic in panic. I push them away, pull myself up, and stare wildly at the woodpile. I’m too far away. I’ll never make it before a Wilder arrow finds my back.

  I glance behind and see several Wilders stop just beyond the meal hut. One drops to one knee and draws back his bow, his arrow point aimed straight at me.

  Then like a spear of light, a flash of dragon fire streams down on the Wilders. It catches the one who knelt and in an instant, he’s a human torch running and screeching in the night. The others break and make a run for the barn’s protective cover.