by GARY DARBY
At my best hobbling gait, I push through the woods, Cara right behind me. We hurry back to the hollow and in rushed, clipped words, Cara describes what we found. “Two sets of tracks by the river, one made by a Golian, the other is a Varg.”
Phigby, sitting on a small log, and tending to a little fire, rises to cast a worried look at the nearby dark trees. “Could you tell how old?” he asks.
“Fresh,” Cara answers.
I nod in agreement and glance over toward the dragons. I can just barely make out their thick bodies through the dense tree branches.
“Maybe we should bring the dragons in closer. They’re the only protection we have.”
“What about Helmar and Amil?” Cara asks in a concerned voice. “We’ve got to warn them somehow.”
Master Boren lays a hand on Cara’s shoulder. “We don’t know where they are by now. Besides, they can take care of themselves, and I doubt if they’ll venture far.”
His eyes roam the surrounding tree line. “The wolves around Draconstead hunted mostly at day dawn and at dusk. Phigby, can we say the same of these wolves? Or are they of a breed that hunts only in the early morning?”
“I suspect,” Phigby answers, his eyes still on the surrounding forest, “that they follow the same pattern as their cousins around Draconstead.”
He runs a hand over his beard and rumbles low, “The Golian, however, is a different matter.”
Phibgy gazes in the dragons’ direction before saying to Master Boren, “I think Hooper has a sound idea. We can bring them in a little closer, and they’ll still be hidden.
“Besides, they’ll give us fair warning if we are approached.”
Master Boren nods to Cara and me. “Go get them, just make sure they can’t be seen.”
It doesn’t take Cara and me long to resettle the four dragons closer to our temporary camp. The sprogs are awake and making sounds that they want out of the saddlebags.
“Do we take the chance and set them down?” I ask. “They could wander off, you know.”
Cara shakes her head while peering at the restless sprogs, “I doubt if they’ll go far, but baby dragons aren’t known to be exactly quiet when they’re active, you know.”
“How well I know,” I mutter. “But if we leave them in their bags, they’re just going to bleat that much louder.”
Cara screws her mouth to one side. “You’re right. I guess we don’t have much choice.”
Once the sprogs are loose, they waddle in and among the adult dragons who are slowly chewing on some brush that they’ve pulled up. The sprogs munch on the occasional leaf that falls from the dragon’s mouths.
“I think they’ll be content for now,” Cara says.
We hurry back to the shallow basin where Phigby has let his small fire die until it’s but a wisp of a flame. I glance at the puny blaze and say in a somewhat nervous voice, “Uh, don’t you think we should build the fire up a bit?”
Phigby shakes his head at me. “No Hooper, in fact, I would have no fire going if it weren’t for the fact that I need to boil up a potion for Boren.
“His head must have bounced off the paving back at the Keep, and it pains him.
“Once I have that done, we’ll have no fire and no smoke to either be seen or carried on the breeze and whiffed by a Golian or Varg nose.”
“Oh,” is all I answer in understanding. The scent of wood smoke carries a long ways and if we do have unwanted neighbors prowling the forest, the less they can see or smell of us, the better.
Phigby rummages in his shoulder sack for a moment, brings out a small pot, sprinkles some white flakes into the pan’s bottom, adds a little water, and sets it on two flat rocks by the fire.
Cara is pacing the rim’s rounded top with drawn bow. Seeing that there is little else for me to do, I mutter, “I know you don’t want a fire, but maybe I should gather more wood? For tonight?”
“Fine,” Phigby answers. “Make yourself useful, but I wouldn’t stray too far from camp if I were you.”
I gesture over to where the dragons are slumbering. “Don’t worry, I’m not going much beyond those four.”
Phigby turns back to his now simmering pot and I set off to climb the low-set ridge and amble over to where the dragons sleep.
The sprogs follow me as I gather a few loose branches. I make my way near where the golden is lying and bend over near her muzzle, pretending to pick up deadwood.
“Pssst,” I whisper. “Golden Wind, wake up.”
The golden sleepily raises one eyelid and peers at me. “You and the other dragons need to be on guard,” I mumble. “There’s a Golian and at least one giant wolf nearby.”
“You woke me up for that? We already know.”
“You do?” I stammer. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“If you were in any real danger, we would have,” she reassures me.
She starts to close her eyes, but I continue in an insistent tone, “Wait, there’s something else. Have you seen or heard Scamper?”
“No,” she states. “Now, please, go away, I’m tired.” She closes her eyes and an instant later, she’s asleep.
“Humph,” I grumble, “some help you are.”
I make a circuit of the sleeping dragons while I gather more firewood. Scamper is nowhere to be seen or heard. As the day draws on, I collect wood several times to make sure we have enough for the night but also to keep looking for my friend.
The medicine that Phigby has given to Master Boren seems to work for he dozes off and on through the day, rousing long enough to ensure that all is well before napping again.
Cara and I alternate standing guard but neither of us leave the top of the hollow and that’s where we take turns catnapping. Cara sleeps with one hand on her bow, another clutches an arrow.
Having no weapon, I make sure my footsteps never take me far from Cara and her bow.
As the afternoon wanes and evening starts to fall, I’m becoming increasingly anxious about Scamper. And, I admit a little over Amil, and Helmar.
I make a circuit past the dragons before joining Cara on the little knoll. “Any sign of Scamper? You don’t think he followed Amil and Helmar do you?”
“No,” she replies testily. “That’s the umpteenth time you’ve asked me. Maybe Scamper’s found a place to sleep.”
Slowly, I turn in a complete circle surveying the thickly forested countryside in all directions. “No,” I answer. “Scamper wouldn’t go off to sleep somewhere. If anything, he would’ve curled up next to the fire for that.”
Cara lets out a little breath and bites down on her lip. “I suppose Helmar and Amil have had to go farther afield to find game than they intended.”
I scan the nearby black spruces and pine trees again, but except for a few birds and the occasional squirrel, there’s no movement in the forest.
It’s as though Scamper has disappeared. “This just isn’t like him,” I contend in a strained voice. “Something’s happened, I’ve got to go look for him.”
Cara whips out a hand to stop me. “No. The last thing we need is for you to go wandering out there alone. Let’s face it, Hooper, you have about as much woodland skill as a newborn sprog.
“In a hundred paces you’d be lost and if there are Vargs out there, you’d stand not much more chance against them than a lamb with the butcher in the slaughterhouse.”
It’s not so much what she said as how she said it.
She’s right, of course, I’m a stumblebum in the woods and I have no fighting skills whatsoever, but did she have to make it sound as if I’m so horrible to have around?
We turn at the sound of lowered voices. Master Boren is awake and conversing with Phigby. Cara thrusts her bow and arrows at me. “Here,” she commands. “Stand guard while I go talk with Father.”
I reluctantly take them and stammer, “There’s no reason to give these to me, you know I can’t use them.”
“Then it’s time you learned,” she snaps and runs down the incline to Master B
oren.
Holding the bow in one hand and the leather quiver in the other, I retort, “Right. I think I’ll just go out and shoot myself a Varg or two, just for practice.”
I glance down in the hollow. Cara is sitting next to Master Boren. She holds her head close to his and speaks in a soft voice while one of her hands lovingly caresses his arm.
His eyes never leave her face, and I can see from his tender look how much he loves his daughter.
Drawing in a deep breath, I think, what would it have been like to grow up in a family surrounded by love? Amazing, that’s what.
After a bit, Cara rejoins me on the rim. I hand her the bow and gesture toward the forest. “While you were gone I held off a whole pack of Vargs.”
She reclaims her quiver and eyes the bundle of arrows. “Incredible, and without using a single arrow.”
Cara’s eyes search the tree line. “And no dead Varg bodies anywhere.”
She glances around and asks quietly, “Still no sign of Helmar or Amil?”
“No,” I answer. “Or of Scamper, either.”
She slings the quiver over her shoulder and with practiced ease holds the bow with an arrow alongside the shaft.
“I know you want to go look for him,” Cara says, “but if we’re going to risk ourselves looking for anyone, it’ll be for Helmar and Amil.”
Her brisk comment brings a slow burn to my face, but I don’t answer. What good would it do other than getting into a verbal tussle with Cara?
I need to go look for my friend, but where would I start? How do you find one bundle of fur in a murky forest that seems to stretch out forever?
After thinking about it for a moment, I state, “The river, that’s where he is, fishing.”
“Hooper,” Cara chides, giving me a stern look. “You and I know what could be prowling next to that river.”
She lays a hand on my arm, pulls me around to face her. “You’re not going out there, understand me? When Helmar and Amil return and Scamper hasn’t, then we’ll discuss what to do, but not before then.”
Cara’s eyes are fiery, commanding. Helmar’s absence has left her in a foul mood, and it’s obvious that I need to bide my time before I slip away on my own to search.
Seemingly convinced, I mumble, “All right,” but I have other plans if Amil and Helmar don’t return soon.
I make my way down the slight incline. Master Boren begins coughing and with some hesitation and trepidation, I hold out the water flask for him.
He eyes me and then reaches for the leather canteen. “Thank you,” he mutters. “After drinking Phigby’s potions, a mouthful of cool water will taste that much better.”
As he drinks deeply, I turn to Phigby and quip, “See, I’m not the only one that thinks your concoctions taste terrible.”
“It’s not the taste that matters,” Phigby grumps. “What matters are the results.”
I peer at the tall peaks in the far distance and gesture with one hand. “The Denalian Mountains, are they the domain’s actual boundary?”
“Unlike the Colosseun Barrier,” Phigby answers, “there are no real border markers here, the Denalian heights and the Floden serve that purpose.
“Both are formidable obstacles to any who try to pass over or through them into the domain’s interior.”
“So we must not be very far inside the Golians’ territory?” I question.
Phigby strokes his full beard a few times. “Some say one foot placed inside the domain is one step too far.”
He turns and peers at the imposing heights. “And for good reason.”
“Cara told me about the lone Wilder that was sent back with the message of ‘Don’t,’” I reply.
“You would think that after being defeated with only one survivor the Wilders wouldn’t ever think of invading Golian again.”
Phigby lets out a long sigh. “Not only do the foolish discount the lessons of history, but they forget the price that was paid to obtain that experience.
“If we find sanctuary in Golian and the Wilders seek us out, I have no doubt that it will cost them dearly.”
He raises his eyes to the mountains again. “But what if Daron was right and the Wilders are more than they seem and able to mount a vast dragon army such as in the days of Malonda Kur?
“Will history repeat itself and Golian is devastated? Is that the price they will pay for honoring a dead queen’s vow?”
He strokes his beard and muses, “If that is what is most ingrained in their society’s historical memory, then it may well be that they are unwilling to honor Escher’s vow.
“If so, the best we can hope for is that the Golians turn us aside from their lands and let us live. The worst . . .”
He doesn’t have to finish his answer for it’s obvious what the worst would mean to all of us.
As usual, a weak, “Oh,” is all that I can answer.
Chapter 4
After considering Phigby’s dire pronouncement a bit more, I respond in a bit of a protesting voice, “But when the Wilders were chasing us, and we approached that giant wall of theirs—”
“You mean the Colosseun Barrier?” Phigby questions.
“That’s the one,” I respond. “Their warriors didn’t shoot any arrows at us, they aimed for the Wilders. Surely that must mean that they hold the golden in some regard and us with her.”
Phigby glances up the incline toward where the dragons are sleeping. “Possibly. After all, how many strangers come skying along accompanied by a golden dragon?
“It could be that they made every effort not to kill the golden or those that were with her.”
“Then,” I contend in a small voice, “that must mean that if any giants do show up and they see the golden, they won’t attack, right? I mean because of their queen’s vow?”
Phigby picks up a short stick and draws what appears to be circles within circles in the dirt, each bigger than the last before he raises his head to gaze at me.
“It’s true that actions do speak louder than words. If what we saw at the barrier is any indication, then, yes, perhaps, they still remember the vow, even after all these years.
“But we must not forget that they still have deep-seated recollections of Drach betrayal. And though it was long, long ago, that treachery led to death and destruction that all but razed Golian and Dronopolis to the ground.
“Not to mention that Malonda Kur come close to slaying their beloved queen.”
He pauses before saying, “What if such memories take on a life unto themselves until they’re ingrained into the very fabric of Golian society?
“Each child, practically from infancy, is taught of Drach treachery and the murderous Wilder rampage that ensued because of our duplicity.
“In any case, they may hold Golden Wind in some regard, but that may not hold true for us.”
He gestures with his stick toward the towering massifs. “What I do know is that they jealously guard their borders and are ferocious warriors. And it may be that the most we can hope for is a fair hearing before their queen.”
The sun begins to lower, and the tree’s shadows are long and sharp, like black spears laid out in rows on the ground. What few clouds break the blue sky cast an orange glow that deepens even as I watch.
None of us speaks but we sit quietly, listening and watching.
Being in a land where Golians and Vargs roam and Scamper is missing puts me on edge and I begin to pace. Phigby watches me for a few moments before he gestures toward the log he’s sitting on.
“Pacing won’t get Scamper or Helmar or Amil to return any sooner.”
He pats the downed tree trunk with a hand. “Sit, rest.”
I shake my head. “No thanks, Phigby, I can’t sit still at a time like this.”
Master Boren rises to his feet and calls over his shoulder. “I think I’ll take over the guard duty for a bit. Cara could use a little rest, I’m sure.”
Phigby watches him trudge up the incline before turning to me. “Hooper,
I’ve got to ask,” his voice is so low I can barely hear him.
“How does it feel to be one of the few, perhaps the only person, to have ever skyed on a golden dragon?”
After Master Boren’s earlier tongue-lashing, I keep my voice every bit as soft as I answer, “I guess it feels like skying any other dragon, not that I’ve had all that much practice skying on other dragons.”
“Humph,” Phigby grunts. “So she’s still just another dragon? Even after she saved your life, several times over?”
Gazing past the hollow’s rim at the woods, I can barely see Golden Wind’s outline in the dusk.
“What would you have me say, Phigby?” I mutter through clenched teeth. “She’s saved my life, yes. But others of her ilk murdered my family, made me an orphan.”
I thrust out my scarred hand and arm while pointing to my face. “Left me with this, caused me to live a life of shoveling dragon dung all day, and with Proga lance scars on my back if I didn’t work fast enough.”
Phigby clasps his hands tightly together. He stares at the ground for a long time before he speaks. Unlike his harsh tone a few moments before, he concedes in a gentle tone, “I’m sorry Hooper, at times I forget—”
“Well, I don’t!”
Just as Cara comes down the tiny hill, I tromp away to climb up the opposite rim. Once at the top, I glower at the forest, my eyes like stones. I know Phigby means well, but he just doesn’t understand.
No one can actually grasp how I feel unless they had been there and heard the screams, the shrieks of pain; the cries for help or smelled the stench of sulfur and burning flesh.
I glance over at Golden Wind and try picturing her doing such a horrible deed, but I just can’t. She’s a dragon, yes, but she seems so different from any other dragon.
It’s not just that we can speak with one another. She seems, well, to be genuinely concerned about me.
Isn’t that funny? There are Drachs in our own company that could not care less about me, but a dragon does?
I have to admit, my feelings are like storm clouds churning, blowing every which way.
One moment I’m angry about what the dragons did on that horrendous night of hellfire and the next moment, I glance over at GoldenWind and I can feel my anger slip away no matter how hard I try to hold on to the feeling.
