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

by GARY DARBY

  There are only two things that I can toss away into the morning air that would be of no consequence. The sprogs and me.

  For just an instant, I loosen my fingers around Cara’s waist as if to untie the straps that cinch the leather bags. It wouldn’t take but a moment to loosen the knots and send the little dragons flailing to the ground and their deaths below.

  I shake my head at the dark thought. Cara would never speak to me again, never look at me, and never, ever forgive me. That I could not bear. I push my hands together. In fact, I hang onto Cara that much tighter. “Where is the golden going?” I yell into her ear.

  She points ahead. In the distance, I can see the mountains rising sharply to form snow-tipped towering peaks that seem to march from one horizon to the other.

  “We can’t fly over those!” I shout into Cara’s ear. “They’re too high.”

  “I know,” Cara calls back, “but that’s where the golden is leading us.”

  The sapphires are beating their wings furiously to keep up with Golden Wind and to stay ahead of the trailing Wilders. We’re nearing the mountains and to me, they look like an impenetrable stone wall.

  Cara abruptly raises herself in her saddle and jabs a finger into the rushing gale. “Look!”

  I peer ahead and blink back the tears that form in my eyes from the wind’s force. Though my vision is blurry, below us I can just make out a white-laced stream that’s sliced through the mountains to cut a sharp, narrow valley. It’s what lies across the gorge that causes me to press forward against Cara’s back to try and see better.

  Giants.

  A line of warrior giants, twenty times taller than any one of us stands on a massive wall as if guarding the gap through which the rivulet flows. The Titans stretch completely across the vale from one mountainside to the other. Sharp tipped arrows, notched in enormous bows point right at us. The golden is following the stream straight up the valley toward the glowering giants. And we’re following the golden.

  “Turn her, Cara, turn her head!” I yell. “We’re headed right for them!”

  Instead of turning Wind Song away from the goliaths, Cara snaps out, “And fly into those bloodthirsty Wilders that follow? I’d rather take my chances with those stone giants and what lies beyond.”

  “Stone?” I choke out and peer harder at the towering titans. It’s then that I notice that the giants haven’t moved. They’re standing absolutely still as if frozen in place. It dawns on me that I’m staring at colossal stone statues. Like sentinels, they stand as if to guard this valley against intruders. I start to ask Cara what good are rock giants when a crimson arrow flies by my ear.

  Then another and another.

  The Wilders are coming within longbow range. I look back, and I all but stop breathing. The sky is full of red dragons with their riders pulling on the sinews of their longbows to unleash a hail of deadly arrows at us.

  We’ve lost the race. The Wilders are upon us.

  Chapter 15

  My eyes grow wide, and I suck in a breath as I see the Wilders rise from their dragon saddles to take better aim at us. They’re so close that I just know they can’t miss — not at this distance. Just as they’re about to loose their arrows, I hear a loud whoosh and an enormous iron-tipped bolt splits the air just over my head — coming from the opposite direction.

  There comes a piercing screech, and I look back to see a red dragon thrashing in the air, an arrow shaft longer than I am tall protruding from its neck. A stream of green dragon blood spurts skyward. The red’s neck snaps back, and his Wilder is catapulted out of his saddle. His arms and legs flail helplessly in the wind as his dragon begins a death dive to the ground far below.

  More giant arrows fill the sky, each a lethal missile that impales a crimson, sending rider and dragon plunging downward to the boulder-strewn valley. I peer in the direction of the arrow’s flight and stare in absolute astonishment.

  From the shoulder of each stone giant runs an enormous bridge that connects each statue to its neighbor. Standing on the connecting spans are flesh-and-blood giants.

  There must be at least several dozen, maybe more, each armed with a longbow that makes my bow look like it’s made from a twig. Their aim is deadly; each arrow they launch brings down a Wilder dragon. They haven’t fired upon us yet, and the only reason I can think of is that our sapphires don’t present the same threat as the Wilders.

  For once, luck seems to be on our side, and I’m not going to question why.

  More Wilders fall from the sky, but now they’re fighting back. Swarms of scarlet-clad Wilders turn their attention away from us and fill the air with hurtling arrows that fall on the Golians. Most of their arrows bounce off Golian shields, but I see two giants stagger on the stone ledge with Wilder arrows piercing neck or eye.

  One giant falls onto the bridge and lies still, the other sways, trying to hold its balance before finally tipping forward and falling off the span. The giant’s body somersaults through the air until it crashes onto the rocks below.

  Even though they’re taking losses, the Wilders press on, trying to overtake us, but they have to do a sky dance to throw off the giants’ aim. The Wilder archers no longer have a clear bead on us. Nevertheless, our three sapphires are twisting and weaving their way through the sky, not giving the Wilder bowmen a clear target for long.

  There are so many of them that their arrows seem to be like a black blanket over our heads. Once, a thundering storm caught me out in the open and I was pelted with sharp hailstones that bruised and cut flesh when they struck.

  However, those chunks of ice didn’t kill. I would gladly trade being in that hail tempest again for this storm of death arrows that rain down on us and from which we can’t seem to escape.

  I’ve long since lost sight of the golden, I have no idea if she’s still skying or if she lies on the ground with a Golian arrow protruding from her neck. I know Scamper is still with us because I can hear his high-pitched squalling as he hunkers down under Wind Song’s skull sheath. He’s spitting mad and letting the Wilders know that he doesn’t appreciate being their target.

  I have no idea how I’ve managed to hang on and not fall off. Cara moves naturally with her dragon, seemingly knowing when, and which way Wind Song is going to twist and places her body in the right position at just the right time.

  Not me, one instant I’m pitched to the right, the next I’m hanging off the left side. Then, we zoom straight up, and my head feels as though someone is trying to yank it off my neck, then we’re spiraling downward, and I’m doing everything in my power not to lose my grip and do a header over the top of Cara.

  I know it’s only a matter of time before either a Wilder or a Golian archer skewers us with an iron-tipped bolt or I’m flung off Wind Song and die on the sharp rocks that litter the ground.

  Helmar seems to be trying to get us away from the fight, but each time we turn in a new direction to escape, the Wilders cut us off with a flight of arrows or a phalanx of dragons that rush at us. We’re caught in the middle of the battle between the Golians and the Wilders. A sudden desperate thought stabs at me, and I yell, “Cara, take Wind Song up! Go up!”

  “What?” she shouts back.

  “Up,” I cry. “Straight up!”

  Without knowing why Cara tugs on Wind Song’s head, and she instantly responds by skying upward and away from the Wilders. We flash toward a layer of thin clouds, which stream high in the air above us. I still can't find the golden anywhere, but I see that Helmar and Phigby have their two sapphires pacing us as we climb higher and higher.

  For the moment, we’re clear of the cloud of arrows, but it won’t be long before the Wilders catch up.

  I glance over my shoulder. Far below, dozens of Wilders are still exchanging arrows with the Golians. At this height, they look like a swarm of angry bees attacking a marauding bear who’s sniffed out their honey-laden hive.

  To my disappointment, a dozen or more Wilders have followed our sapphires and those that
trail us are pumping legs and arms in a furious attempt to gain more speed from their reds. I can feel Wind Song begin to labor and slow. Having to carry two of us to such heights is too much. She can’t last much longer.

  Cara senses the same because she calls over her shoulder, “It’s too much for her, she’s lagging.”

  I had hoped that the massive bodies of the Wilders’ crimsons wouldn’t be able to sky this high, but I was wrong for they still follow. Even at this height, we haven’t cleared the mountain peaks that rise on each side, and the air is so thin it’s hard to get a full breath. Cara calls over her shoulder. “Hold tight, Hooper, we’re going to dive straight down.”

  My eyes grow wide as I understand what she’s about to do. She’s going to plunge her dragon right through the Wilders at such speed that hopefully they won’t be able to hold their arrow points on us long enough to let loose.

  My next thought is what will kill me first, a Wilder arrow through my body, or falling off Wind Song during our wild dive and plummeting to my death?

  Wind Song seems to loll in midair as if she’s skying over a gentle hill before she points her nose straight down. I decide that I’ll know the answer to my questions within a few moments.

  Wind Song, Wind Glory, and Wind Rover are wingtip to wingtip as if in a race to hit the ground first. One part of me wants to close my eyes shut, but I keep them wide open.

  The sprogs’ screeches of disapproval fill the air before they delve deeper into the saddlebags, the wild ride obviously not to their liking. I’m in total agreement and wish that I could burrow in alongside them.

  For an instant, I see the whites of the Wilders’ eyes as we speed past. They’re as full of astonishment as my own. We split the Wilder dragon pack and the Wilder riders desperately pull on their reins, trying to get their dragons turned to follow us.

  They’re so busy with the reins that they don’t dare try to draw their bowstrings. And they can’t unleash dragon breath as we’re so close that their own fire streams would scorch their fellow riders. At this point, they can only turn their dragons and follow us down.

  The wind is roaring in my ears. Wind Song has her wings practically tucked against her body, and we’re in a headlong rush to the boulder-packed ground below. I have no idea if she will be able to pull out of this dive or not.

  If not, then we will make one large hole when we smash into the ground.

  In our upward sprint, we actually crossed over and past the Golians’ statue barrier and now we’re falling on the far side. Below and to my left, I can see the Wilders and Golians still battling. The fight is taking its toll on both sides, with fewer Wilders than before, but fewer Golians as well.

  Helmar and Wind Rover pull ahead. The ground is so near now that I think I can see individual stones on the ground. I close my eyes. We’ve waited too long to pull up. We’re not going to make it; we’re going to hit so hard that we’ll be splattered across the countryside.

  With an upward jerk that is so forceful that it feels as if my head will snap off my shoulders, Cara pulls Wind Song up and to the left. We’re skimming just above the stream. We’re so close to the water that we leave a spray behind us that looks like a rooster’s tail.

  “Cara,” I yell, “Helmar’s leading us back toward the other Wilders!”

  In an incredibly calm voice, she answers, “That he is.”

  In just moments, we flash past the Golian archers, directly at the remaining Wilder horde. Blood-red arrows whiz past to the right and left. One comes so close to my head that I’m positive I have a new part in my hair, straight down the middle.

  Just ahead, I see a horde of Wilders bring their bows down with the arrow’s knife-sharp tip aimed right at us. Their arrowheads glint in the day dawn’s golden burst of light and look like Phigby’s tiny Feast Day sparklers.

  However, these aren’t harmless sparklers that make a child dance and laugh with glee, these flickers of light are meant to kill.

  I can see the Wilders pull their bowstrings taut, and my muscles grow as tense and tight as the sinews of their bows. We’re headed straight for each other. They can’t possibly miss. My jaws clamp down, my grip on Cara tightens so much that I fear I’ll squeeze all the air out of her, and she won’t be able to breathe.

  I take a quick peek behind. The Wilders that followed are still with us, but the Golians’ arrows are deadly and accurate. Fewer Wilders trail behind, but there are still more than enough to knock us out of the sky.

  The distance between the Wilder pack to our front narrows. I suck in my breath. A thunderous twang of unleashed bowstrings fills the air. A barrage of arrows flies toward us, so thick that it seems as if I’m staring at a solid dark wall.

  For an instant, time seems to come almost to a standstill. I can see the mass of arrows moving toward us, but it feels as if they’re moving more slowly than a rising moon. Wind Song’s wings barely beat the air. I think to myself that this must be what happens just before you greet death.

  Everything comes to a halt and then you just . . . die.

  I’m abruptly jerked out of my reverie by Wind Song’s sudden rush skyward. Her drastic move catches me totally by surprise. We’re skying upward again, but I’ve lost my grip on Cara. I’m falling backward, pushed by the roaring wind, my hands and arms flailing helplessly in the air. Only at the last instant do I manage to grab hold of an edge of Cara’s dragon saddle.

  I’m lying belly down on the back of Wind Song with both hands gripped on the decorative edging of Cara’s saddle. Its thin lace and beadwork are not going to hold me long. As the sapphire beats her wings, her powerful back muscles throw me up and down as if I were on the back of a bucking horse.

  “Hooper!” Cara shouts above the gale. “Hang on!”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?” I gurgle in reply.

  Wind Song crests at the top of her upward rush, and we flatten out for a moment before we’re speeding downward in a shallow dive. I can’t see a thing. My face is pressed against dragon scales, and my body streams behind like the House of Lorell’s pennant that flies on the flagpole above The Common back in Draconton.

  I have no idea where we’re going or what happened to the Wilders. Are they still following us? Are we still trying to get away? Are we high in the sky or down low? I have no idea. What I do know is that as Wind Song twists one way and then the other, I can feel the decorative frill on Cara’s saddle fraying and ripping.

  My weight is too much. At any instant, it’s going to tear loose, and I’ll go flying off Wind Song’s back. I desperately push my head up, looking for something else to grab ahold of, but there’s nothing to grasp.

  “Cara! The lacing’s tearing!”

  She looks back with real fear in her eyes as she realizes my precarious predicament. For a moment, she turns, does something with Wind Song, and then twists her body around and reaches out. “Grab my hand!” she shouts.

  I loosen the grip of one hand and frantically try to catch her fingers. Just then, the lacing tears away. I have nothing to hold onto. I begin to slide backward from the wind’s powerful push. Somehow, my fingernails grip one of Wind Song’s scales and stop my slide, but only for an instant. I can’t hold onto the scale, I’m not strong enough.

  Cara leans out farther and farther, stretching her arm toward me. She’s bent over almost backward with one hand just out of reach. I grip the tough dragon scale with every bit of strength I have with my right hand, take a deep breath and lunge with my left hand.

  I touch Cara’s outstretched fingers just for a heartbeat and then I’m torn away.

  I’m falling, tumbling through the air.

  Ground and sky spin through my vision. In one of Phigby’s books, I once read where a maiden dipped her hand into the “gentle, soft waters of a lily pond.”

  Gentle? Soft?

  Pure fantasy.

  When I hit the water, it felt like Sorg the drog had picked me up and thrown me against the wall beams of the birthing barn back at Draco
nstead.

  The only good part was that the water wasn’t too deep, and the bottom was mud.

  Gentle, soft mud.

  I lay, dazed, my body half embedded in the brown, soupy goop which swirls up and over me. Little bubbles dribble out the side of my mouth. A demanding voice inside my head is yelling at me that I’m drowning, but I’m too shocked, too stunned to move. My mind keeps floating in and out of darkness.

  With a swiftness that jerks me awake, I’m yanked from the bottom goo. Great blasts of wind beat at my body, and I can feel the sunlight on my face. I’m sputtering and spitting out gobs of water and sucking in huge drafts of air, trying to breathe again. Now I know what a fish feels like when an eagle snatches it out of a lake.

  Then, there’s ground underneath me. I hear faint, running footsteps and then dimly, “Hooper! Hooper!”

  Hands are on my face, cupping my chin. Someone rolls me over, pounding my chest as if they would beat the life back into me. “Hooper, spit the water out. C'mon, you can do it.”

  I spit, sputter, and cough up more water, and then still more until no more water comes out and I’m sucking in huge drafts of air. Someone holds me so that I’m more on my side and stomach until my breathing is almost normal.

  Then I’m rolled on my back, and I open my eyes. An angel is floating above me, complete with halo and a serene, beautiful face. I can even hear her delicate lacy wings rustling.

  Wait, those are dragon wings and they are not delicate.

  Two dark, solemn eyes, a button nose, and little paws that pull at my lips replace the angelic face. Gwaaaake? Scamper asks as he nips at my nose. Gwaaaake? he asks again in a very insistent manner.

  “No, Scamper,” I gulp and sputter to my furry friend. My words sound muffled in my ears as if my mouth is full of hay. “I’m not awake, I’m dead, can’t you tell?”