by GARY DARBY
He cocks his head to one side as he sizes me up. “You be no Wilder, and this,” he says as he gives Scamper several hard shakes that sets him off to chittering again, “is no Wilder dragon.”
Holding a snarling Scamper out to one side, he asks, “What you be, boy?”
I take a deep breath and lick the sweat off my lips before I stammer, “I be a Hooper.”
The man grunts at my response. “And what exactly be a Hooper?”
I eye his double-edged ax. He holds it straight out as effortlessly as if he were holding no more than a dandelion. But I’m sure that if I make the wrong move, he’ll have it slicing through my flesh before I can take two steps.
I decide to take a chance. “I, uh, well, a Hooper is someone who lives deep in the forest many leagues from here.” I swallow and go on in a rush of words. “We Hoopers are fearsome warriors and we don’t take kindly to one of us being hurt or killed, you know.”
I gesture toward Scamper. “That is a symbol of our tribe — a sacred symbol that we hold in high regard.”
The man snorts, eyes Scamper and then me. “Seems your tribe takes to liking things on the small size if you ask me.”
I manage to muster the sternest expression I can. “Maybe, but, just so you’ll know, there are lots more Hoopers just over that hill. That yell I let out was our war cry, calling for hundreds of warriors to come to my aid. If I were you, I’d best be going before they show up. And, oh, without killing or hurting me, or our sacred symbol, of course.”
The man stares at me for a long moment before his face cracks into a grin so wide I think it’s going to split his face in half. His laugh is more of a roar that starts deep in his belly and ripples up and out of his mouth. He lowers his ax and steps back, all the while letting out one rolling belly laugh after another.
After a bit, his guffaws simmer down to loud chuckles. I always thought of Helmar as being a big, strong man. However, this fellow is a Helmar and a half. I feel like a tiny twig next to a giant oak tree.
Scamper is still furiously wriggling in the man’s grasp. He’s not used to being handled in such a rough manner. The man glances at my bow and knife while firmly saying, “Now, boy, tell me the truth. I’ve walked this forest from one end to the other, and unless they’re invisible, there’s no ‘Hooper’ warrior clan.”
I start to stammer, but just then my eyes catch movement over his shoulder. With as much bluster as I can, I say, “Well, you might want to rethink that because our clan elder and two of our warriors are on the hill behind you with arrows pointed straight at your back. And most likely there are more on their way.”
Without letting go of Scamper, he turns halfway around so that he can see who’s on the knoll’s crest. Phigby, Cara, and Helmar stand almost shoulder to shoulder. Cara has an arrow notched while Helmar and Phigby stand with swords in hand.
Phigby stares down into the little vale and then, for some reason, reaches out and pushes Cara’s arrow down before his sword disappears under his robe.
The big man seems to study the three for several moments before he turns back to me. “You say the long-beard up there is your clan leader?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply stoutly. “And he’s a very powerful wizard, too. Why just last night he slew a huge goblin with just one of his mighty spells.”
“Goblin, eh?” the man says. “And a big one, too? Well, now, I’ve always wanted to meet a powerful sorcerer.”
He takes his ax and points up the hill, his meaning clear. He holds a still struggling Scamper off to one side as we trudge up the small knoll until we reach the top.
“Your warrior here tells me that you are a great shaman,” the muscular man says in a mocking air to Phigby. “Able to slay a good-sized goblin with one spell. I have to admit that’s quite a feat, it usually takes me a half dozen good swings of my blade before I can bring down one of the bigger brutes.”
He gives Scamper a little shake causing him to start chittering loudly again. “He also says that this is a sacred symbol of your tribe.”
He casts a sideways glance at me. “What did you call it, again? Oh yes, the ‘Hooper warrior clan.’”
He snorts and says, “So, magician, give us the truth, did you actually slay that oversized barrel of pig’s fat with one spell? As I said, it takes me a few swings before I can cut one down to size.”
Phigby stands a little straighter and says, “Then maybe you should sharpen your blade so that it cuts better.”
The ax man lifts his blade up as if to inspect the edge. “Hmmm,” he replies. “You may well be right; it does look as if it’s getting a bit dull.”
He smiles at Phigby and points his ax at him. “Maybe I should sharpen it on your scraggly, old beard. It looks as rough and coarse as any grindstone.”
“You, sir,” Phigby answers as his fingers stroke his whiskers, “would find my beard to be more than a match for that thin, rusty blade you claim to be a goblin slayer.”
Uh, oh, I think to myself. That does it. We’re all dead. Neither Cara nor Helmar are going to get their weapons up in time, and Phigby isn’t going to be fast enough to dip into his bag of tricks before the ax man lops our heads off with one swing.
As if reading my mind, the man lifts his cleaver, no doubt readying it for the fatal blow. Who will be the first to lose his head? Me, no doubt.
Phigby and the axman stare hard at each other, their eyes locked as if blinking would somehow show a lack of courage. Neither speaks, both stand glowering, less than a body’s width apart. Then, the big man starts to chuckle. A moment later, Phigby is chortling.
Then, broad grins appear on both men’s faces along with gales of laughter. Helmar, Cara, and I exchange puzzled glances. A moment ago, I was sure that Phigby had provoked this man into attacking us, now they’re laughing as if someone had told an excellent joke.
The man holds Scamper up. “Professor, what am I to do with this ferocious beast? He almost left me with but one ear!”
“Hooper,” Phigby orders, “retrieve your beastie. It’s not polite to gnaw off a friend’s ear.”
“Friend?” I choke as I gather Scamper in my arms.
“Friend, indeed,” Phigby replies. “And well received, too.”
He spreads his arms wide and says, “Amil!”
“Phigby!” the man heartily replies and gives the older man a bear hug. It’s so enthusiastic that I’m afraid he’s going to snap Phigby in half. Both men are laughing as Amil lets Phigby go and stands back.
“So,” Amil says as he nods his head toward me, “this one tells me that you are now the grand chief of the entire Hooper warrior clan, and here I thought you had retired to the quiet life of reading books and mixing your potions.”
Phigby’s eyebrows rise noticeably. “Chief of the Hooper warrior clan?” he asks me in a long-drawn-out questioning tone.
With my head lowered, I can barely meet his eyes as I mumble, “Had to say and do something, I was afraid he was about to slice me open with that huge ax of his.”
Phigby shakes his head as if he can’t believe what he hears and gestures towards me. “Amil, this is Hooper, and that furry rascal he’s holding is Scamper. And these two are Cara, daughter of Boren Dracon, and Helmar, novice Dragon Master to Boren Dracon. All good and true friends of mine.”
He pauses before saying in a more serious tone, “We’ve come from Draconstead.”
Amil’s face turns serious and he eyes the three of us. “Draconstead,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “There was a news crier in the village. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or spreading rumors, even if he did wear the king’s colors.”
“Unfortunately, they are not rumors,” Phigby answers. “And it is amazing how fast news can travel, especially bad news. The Wilders attacked Draconstead and left it burning, forcing us to flee.”
Phigby eyes the lot of us before he gestures to Amil and says, “There is more to tell, but not here.” He glances upward. “We’re out in the open, let’s get back
to the cabin.” He motions toward the stream, “Hooper, retrieve your flasks, I, for one, thirst.”
Phigby whirls, his robes swishing around him and heads back to the hut. I grab the full flasks, and hurry after them. I notice that Phigby’s route avoids the thick grove of trees that hides the dragons. Amil may be Phigby’s friend, but he’s not revealing that we have a golden dragon, at least not yet.
We enter the cottage and Cara, Helmar, and Phigby sit on the makeshift bed while Amil takes the chair. I get the bare ground to rest upon.
Phigby is quick to ask Amil, “By any chance do you have any food to share? We’re a bit on the hungry side. Besides, I would consider it an honor to break bread with you again, old friend.”
Amil shakes his head. “Sorry, no. I came into the forest hoping to find a fat rabbit or two, but I’ve come up empty-handed.”
“And we haven’t had a chance to hunt either, I’m afraid,” Phigby answers. He then asks, “Is there a village nearby that we might find food?”
He pauses before saying, “We had to run before a pack of Wilders early this morn and to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly sure where we are.”
“Yes, there’s a small village about a league from here, Deerfield, but I would not be so hasty to enter it,” Amil quickly interjects.
Phigby leans toward Amil. “Why is that, old friend?”
Amil stares at Phigby for several moments as if making his mind up about something before he gives a slight shrug and says, “Well, you might as well hear it from me, rather than the sheriff. There’s a King’s Warrant on your heads. All except you, Phigby.”
“A King’s Warrant?” I sputter. “What is that?”
“We’ve been declared criminals and have a price on our heads, Hooper,” Cara answers dryly. She peers at Amil and asks, “And no doubt the warrant makes no distinction between being brought before the king dead or alive?”
“That’s right,” Amil affirms.
I can’t help but notice that as soon as Amil mentioned the warrant that both Helmar and Cara’s hands went to their sword hilts. Amil, no doubt, sees the same thing for he lays his ax on the ground and raises his empty hands. “I am not here to collect the bounty,” he says reassuringly.
Without looking at either Cara or Helmar, Phigby orders, “There’s no need for swordplay here, you can rest easy.”
“But — ” Helmar begins but Phigby is quick to say, “I trust Amil, Amil trusts me. I owe my life to him — ”
“And I to him,” Amil adds emphatically. “If you are Phigby’s friends, then I am not your enemy. Phigby does not easily call anyone friend, but those he does are honest and trustworthy. Which causes me to wonder about that warrant.”
Cara and Helmar glance at each other before they ease their hands off their sword hilts. Cara mutters to Phigby, “A King’s Warrant. How did the king issue such a document so quickly? It’s not even been a full day.”
“An excellent question, Cara,” Phigby replies and eyes Amil.
In answer, Amil’s eyebrows furrow and he says, “A dragon rider came through Deerfield at dawn’s light. I was under the impression that he had ridden through the night. He read the proclamation, it bore the King’s Seal but was signed by Prince Aster on the king’s behalf.
“Once he finished, he stated that his next stop was Brayton at the head of Thomson’s Valley. From what he said, I’m under the impression that His Majesty has news criers, riding sapphires, going to every corner of the Northern Realm.”
Phigby let out a long sigh while saying, “Which means that news of that warrant will be known throughout the kingdom in just a few days.”
“But why?” Helmar growls. “We’ve done nothing wrong. Why would the king post us after we — ”
Phigby holds up a quick hand, stopping Helmar from speaking further. “Amil is a commissioned Traveler of King Leo,” he rapidly explains, “and as such is considered to be one of the King’s Own.”
“A Traveler?” I ask. “What’s that?”
“Amil is a representative of His Majesty,” Phigby explains, “and journeys both within the Northern Kingdom and to other lands. He sees what there is to see and then reports what he finds back to the king.”
“Oh,” I answer, “you mean he’s a spy like those I read about in your books.”
Amil and Phigby share a sideways glance. Phigby murmurs, “Amil carries out his tasks in many ways for the king.” He pauses before hastily saying, “But most importantly, be assured that the Amil I know is a good and trusted friend of mine.”
“All right,” I mutter, not entirely convinced by Phigby’s explanation as what little I know of spies and such are that they are devious whether what they do is in the open or not.
“Amil,” Phigby presses, “this warrant, did it mention why we were posted?”
I notice that Phigby uses the word “we” even though he’s apparently not named on the document. Phigby is loyal to his friends; that I can certainly say of him.
“It did indeed,” Amil is quick to reply. “And I must say, that it will do nothing but provoke the whole countryside to be out looking for the lot of you.”
He presses his lips together. “Stealing a golden dragon that is both the dread and hope for us all is no small matter, Phigby.”
The dragon is out of the bag. We’re doomed. Who is going to take our word against the king’s?
Nobody.
We may be breathing at the moment, but as soon as we’re captured, our heads will roll. Cara is quick to say, “We didn’t steal Golden Wind. Besides, as my father’s heiress and with Lord Lorell dead, I had a legal responsibility and obligation to protect her against those who did try and steal her, namely the Wilders. They’re the ones who should have a King’s Warrant on their heads, not us.”
Amil uses two fingers to purse his lips together, “An interesting argument, mistress, but I’m neither a magistrate nor in a position to speak for or against you in the matter.”
Out of a sense of morbid curiosity, I just have to ask, “Just how much is the price on our heads?”
Amil grunts and points to Cara and Helmar. “Each of you is worth your weight in gold.” He turns to me. “You’re only worth your weight in silver.”
“But I — ”
I stop and shrug. Even though I was the one who actually stole the golden, it figures that I’m worth less than anyone else.
The room is silent for quite a while before Phigby says, “Well, that certainly changes my thinking as to what to do next.”
Cara murmurs, “It appears that we not only have to run from the Wilders but now the whole kingdom is after us.”
“But we’ve done nothing wrong!” Helmar explodes.
“No, we haven’t,” Phigby murmurs, “yet it is what it is.”
My head is spinning. We face not only a horde of Wilders but now the whole kingdom, too. And there’s only four of us, whereas there’s a — a — well, a whole horde of them.
Phigby eyes Amil and mutters, “Amil, old friend, you and I have walked many trails together, entrusted our lives to each other. Would you not judge us before you hear our story? I suspect it is quite a bit different than what you’ve heard and what that warrant states.”
Amil returns Phigby’s stare for several heartbeats. He gives a little nod. “I’m listening Phigby, and if it will ease your mind, I know that you’re not one to go around stealing dragons, especially a golden one.”
His mouth upturns in a small smile. “Still, from sitting around many a campfire with you, I take it I’m about to hear a fascinating story?”
“Indeed,” Phigby answers, “and now with this latest news you’ve brought, a story that I’m beginning to think has more twists and turns to it than I believed possible.”
Amil’s eyebrows rise a bit at that, and he motions with one hand. “Go ahead, I’m still listening.”
“Helmar,” Phigby orders, “tell your part, first, then Cara.”
I notice he doesn’t include me, which
in a way is good. No telling what my undisciplined tongue will utter.
Helmar is quick to recount his story, the order to meet at the Manor House and then his return to a burning Draconton. Phigby stops him and has Cara begin at that point. Phigby halts her when she starts describing her part in the attack and turns to me. “Hooper, tell us what happened in the birthing barn, we’ve not heard from you yet, this would be a good time, I think for us to hear all of it.”
I nod and as detailed as I can, recall the events in the barn. When I begin to describe my nemesis, Helmar, Amil and Phigby lean forward with intense expressions of their faces. “Hooper,” Helmar orders, “repeat what you just said.”
“I said,” I reply, “that the tall Wilder drew his skinny blade, but he stayed well away from the fight. The other Wilders did the fighting.”
“Skinny blade,” Amil is quick to say, “describe this sword that he carried.”
I shrug and hold my arms out wide. “The other Wilders had these long, large broadswords while his blade was . . . ” I hold out one finger. “Not much wider than this.”
Helmar leans even farther, his eyes questioning. “He was carrying a rapier?”
I shrug at his question. “I don’t know what they’re called, I just know that his sword looked like the one I saw Lord Lorell carry when he was at the stead last summer. If the golden hadn’t chomped on his sword arm, he would have run his blade through me when he caught me opening the golden’s paddock gate.”
“The golden did that?” Phigby questions with widened eyes.
“Yes,” I answer, “she brought her head clear over the top railing. And just when he was about to skewer me with that rapier, or whatever you call it, she clamped down on his arm and threw him to one side.”
“Hmmm,” Phigby muses quietly while he strokes his beard and peers at me with an intent look. “She’s saved your life three times now. Fascinating.”
Amil has an elbow on one knee, his chin in one hand. “A Wilder would no more carry a foil than a pig would go romping with a pack of wolves.”
He looks at me, his eyes like stone. “Are you absolutely sure of this that he didn’t carry a Wilder longsword?”
