by GARY DARBY
“Hooper!” Phigby growls. “Now is the time for you to show just how smart you are by keeping your mouth shut.”
The massive maiden swallows and gestures at us with a partially eaten rib bone. “You said you fled the Wilders?”
“That’s right, my lady,” Phigby acknowledges. “They attacked and burned our home, Draconstead.”
The giant rips off another chunk of meat along with bone, chews for a moment before she swings around to gaze at Golden Wind and then turns back to us.
“The attack on your holding,” the Golian warrior questions around the mouthful of meat, “the Wilders were after the noble one?”
With an affirmative nod, Phigby declares, “They tried to steal her.”
He lays a hand on my shoulder and motions toward Cara and Helmar. “But thanks to the bravery of Cara, Helmar, and Hooper here, they managed to spirit Golden Wind away from the Wilder marauders.”
The Golian chews slowly, and I can plainly hear the cracking and crunching of bone. The sprogs have gotten over their initial fright and now timidly sniff at her sandals, softly screeping as they do so.
She watches them mill about her feet before she rips off several bits of meat and hand-feeds the baby dragons.
That of course, sets them to lifting their front talons and scratching at her leggings as if begging for more with their silly pollywog grins on their faces.
Watching them a bit more, she breaks several rib bones in half and offers them to the hungry sprogs.
While they gnaw on the bones, she lifts her chin and mutters to Phigby, “Cara, Helmar, and Hooper you have named—who are you and what are the names of these others?”
Phigby bows from the waist before straightening. “I am Professor Phineas Phigby, Book Master and maker of potions and medicines, and, unfortunately, late of Draconstead too, m’lady. My friends and acquainteces just call me Phigby.”
He gestures to one side and says, “This is Boren Dracon, Dragon Master of the House of Lorell; Cara is his daughter, and Helmar his novice.”
Phigby motions just beyond Master Boren. “And that stout fellow is Amil, a commissioned Traveler of King Leo of the Northern Kingdom.”
At that, Phigby spreads his hands wide and frankly explains, “We are a small company whose sole hope is to keep the golden out of Wilder hands.”
The Amazo takes another rib and begins to gnaw on it, as a dog chews on a bone between its back teeth. After swallowing, the maiden raises her head and lets her eyes take in all of us.
“You have named yourselves. I am Alonya.”
Phigby gives a small bow of his head to the giant. “It is our great honor to sup with Alonya, warrior, and daughter of mighty Golian.”
The maiden takes another bite and chews slowly. She seems to be considering Phigby’s words. No one dares interrupt her musing.
Alonya swallows and pointedly inquires, “And why exactly did you bring the noble one to Golian? The domain is not exactly partial to dragons, you know.”
Her question seems innocent enough, though she, herself, hasn’t shown any outward hostility to the dragons. However, I’m not altogether sure that she’s entirely convinced by our story.
It may be that she doesn’t suppose us to be Wilders, but perhaps something else entirely.
Perhaps spies as in the days of Lord Braveson and Queen Escher.
I can see Master Boren and Phigby trade wary looks and that Helmar’s hand grips his bow a little tighter. They too sense that Alonya is still judging who and what we are.
Phigby is slow in his answer as if he’s trying to choose his words with care. “After we fled Draconstead, at first, we thought it best to get word to Lord Lorell or failing that, to reach King Leo and put Golden Wind under his protection.
“Before we were driven from Draconstead, His Majesty was most interested in her welfare.”
He draws in a breath and lets it out in a soft breath. “But much has happened since and we have had to reconsider our plans.”
The maiden leans forward, listening intently to Phigby. When he doesn’t continue, she waves a rib bone at him and orders, “Continue, Professor Phineas Phigby, Book Master and late of Draconstead, I am most interested in what tale you wish to spin.”
Alonya waves the remnants of a rib in the air. “All of you, let me hear what you have to say. A good story around the campfire is one of the trail’s great pleasures.”
She leans toward Phigby and gives him a wry smile. “And something tells me that this will be a good story, indeed.”
I draw in a deep breath. This isn’t going well. She isn’t accepting our claim that we’re weary travelers fleeing the Wilders. She’s going to listen to our “good story” and then lop our heads off.
Phigby clears his throat and glances around at our fire-lit faces. “Perhaps it would be best if we each told our part of how and why we came to be here.”
Alonya shrugs her muscular shoulders nonchalantly. “Suit yourself. Weave the fabric of your story in any manner you wish. Tonight, it appears, your camp is my camp.”
Phigby turns to us and asks, “Where shall we start?”
“With the message about the Wilders raiding in the east,” Helmar suggests, “as we now know that it was a ruse to distract the Dragon Knights.”
Phigby glances at Master Boren, who nods in approval. “Very well,” Phigby agrees. “Helmar, tell your part and then Boren what happened to you.
“Cara, explain how you got the golden away from the clutches of the Wilders. Amil and I will fill in the remainder.”
Phigby doesn’t include me in the telling, which is fine with me as I don’t want to make another mistake with the Golian giant. She may not be so forgiving next time.
As the evening wears on until the four moons are high overhead, we recount our journey and travails to the Amazo maiden.
Alonya listens quietly, for the most part, but when Phigby describes the battle before the Colosseun Barrier, her eyes flash while she spits out, “So the vermin would dare enter Golian!”
She leans forward, her eyes like a hungry wolf about to pounce on its prey. “And you affirm that there was much spilling of Wilder blood?”
“Of a surety,” Phigby replied. “We witnessed two of your brave warriors go down, but we saw the Wilders pay a price, twenty, thirty times that or more for their foolish attempt to breach your barrier.”
Alonya licks her lips and rumbles low in her throat as if savoring Phigby’s words. She waves a hand and orders, “Continue.”
Phigby finishes our tale by saying, “And thus, we’ve come not to invade or to harm, but to seek an audience with your queen, that we may prevail upon her wisdom and mercy.”
In his telling, Phigby is careful not to bring up the gemstone, or the ode book. Of my part, he says little, only that I helped Cara and Helmar free the golden, and fought with them at Dunadain Keep.
I’m sure Phigby had good reason for not mentioning the gemstone, and I certainly am not going to correct him, nor do the others.
“So,” Alonya breathes out, “you would have me believe that we must now add to the world’s woes a foul fairy bent on ensnaring us all in her craven clutches.”
Phigby quickly murmurs, “I give you my word of honor, it is the truth.”
Alonya stares at Phigby with an intent expression for a long while as if she is mulling over our words. Then her eyes narrow and she leans forward.
“You’ve not said it, but you mean to invoke the vow of Queen Escher, is that not so?”
Phigby acknowledges Alonya’s declaration with a small bow of his head. “Yes, that is our intent, but we are also mindful that there were two parts to the vow, and it is not our purpose nor desire to reawaken old wounds and memories.
“We merely seek a safe haven for a time until we can determine the Northern Kingdom’s fate and whether or not it would be safe to return.”
He draws in a breath and cautiously says, “We have many questions regarding King Leo . . .” his voice trai
ls off as if he doesn’t know what else to say.
Alonya stares at the fire for several moments before she abruptly turns to me and asks, “How come you by the little one?”
I glance over at Phigby and with a motion of his hand he encourages me to explain how I came by Scamper.
“I found him,” I answer, “in the forest near Draconstead. Drogs had killed his mother, but somehow they missed Scamper, and I took him home.”
At the mention of the drogs, Alonya spits into the fire and runs the back of her hand across her mouth as if she’s bitten into something foul to the taste.
“Drogs!” Her voice is a sharp bark filled with loathing. “Tell me that you killed those who would do such a thing.”
“No, my lady,” I answer in truthful tones. “I did not. I am not a warrior such as you and lack the skills to wield a sword or draw a bow against a drog.”
Alonya seems to study my face before she answers, “A truthful answer, if not a satisfying one.”
She leans towards me, and the firelight catches her angry eyes and pinched lips. For an instant, I think that she is going to strike me for not taking on the drogs.
Instead, she declares, “Then I will avenge the Anarsi for you. One hundred of the soulless ones will die in exchange for her life.
“Their heads will I set on stakes at our boundaries as both warning and tribute.”
Alonya rises to her feet and takes several steps toward the dragons. The sprogs, bellies full of roasted venison, have waddled over to plop themselves against the golden.
No doubt, they’ll be asleep in moments. I lean over and whisper to Phigby, “Anarsi?”
He whispers back, “Scamper and his mother, now be quiet.”
Alonya stands with folded arms as if she is studying the dozing dragons. None of us speaks, unwilling to interrupt her thoughts.
I can see from Master Boren’s and Phigby’s apprehensive expressions that they too are not convinced that Alonya accepts our story as true.
Alonya turns and again settles by the fire. “It is well that you keep the noble one away from the Wilders,” she declares.
“But I do not see a clear path for you either entering Golian and invoking the vow, or if you choose, going back to your own kingdom.”
Her face takes on a somber expression as she gazes into the fire watching the flames flare up before dying into mere embers. “Both ways may well be closed to you.”
We exchange anxious glances, and my first thought is that Alonya wants to take the golden for herself. “Alonya,” Master Boren inquires, “why is that, may I ask?”
Alonya draws out a long, fine-tipped knife from her ankle sheath. In her hands, it is merely a blade, in mine—a short sword.
With quick strokes, she draws several lines in the dirt near the fire and runs her knife point over one mark. “This is the easternmost edge of Golian.
“And we,” she points her knife toward the Denalian Mountains and then stabs the blade in the ground midway down one track, “are here.”
Her knife follows the second, squiggly line that roughly follows the mountains. “This is the Wolven Floden as it flows near the Denalians before it turns to the east.”
Alonya waves her knifepoint over the curvy line much further down. “From here on a high knoll I watched a host of Wilders wing up and down the river.
“They are thick like maggots on a carcass all along the river’s far side where it bends away from the mountains.
“Their dragons circle like vultures over a dying animal waiting for its death. It was apparent to me that they were searching, but I did not know for what.”
Alonya nods toward the golden. “Now I know.”
She points to the line’s other end. “Though I’ve not seen, I have no doubt that if you were to go farther north that you would find the evil ones waiting for you there as well.
“I have not seen as many Wilders near this portion of the river, and why I do not know, but it can only be a matter of time for they show their filthy faces here as well.”
Alonya gives her large shoulders a little shrug. “So you see, at best, your way back would be very risky.”
“Wait,” Amil asks, his eyes concerned, “you’ve seen Wilders near here?”
“A few,” Alonya answers and again taps on the lower Floden line. “But many more here.”
In sudden realization, I whip my head around at our campfire. “The fire,” I croak, my voice choked in fear, “they’ll see it.”
I grab the water flask to douse the flames, but Alonya holds up a hand to stop me. “No need. You’ve chosen your camp well, the trees and the hollow hide your campfire. It would only be seen if a Wilder were lucky enough to fly over the very top.”
“Are you sure?” I brusquely question.
“Quite,” she answers curtly. “I know these woods well; they are as familiar to me as your former home was to you.”
I hold the water flask in my hand, still unsure that we shouldn’t cut the flames.
“Hooper,” Phigby orders quietly, “put the waterskin down. If Alonya says that the Wilders will not notice our small fire, then why should we doubt someone who’s acquainted with these woodlands while we are not?”
I glance at Phigby. There is something odd in the way he repeated Alonya’s comments, and I notice that he and Master Boren exchange a sideways glance with puzzled faces. I let the leather skin slip from my hands to the ground.
“There is one other thing that does not bode well for you, I think,” Alonya continues.
She takes her knife to point far down one line. “A fortnight ago, I camped near the Springs of Silver Dale. A clear stream runs from the spring a quarter-league to empty into the Wolven.
“In the night, I heard odd sounds and went to investigate. There was a ship at the mouth of the stream and its sailors were pulling up buckets of the clear water.
“I have seen the river boats that you Drachs use for fishing and trade and this craft was not such a ship. This was far larger and from the the number of those who carried bows and scimitars on its deck, I’m sure I spied upon a warship.”
“A warship!” Helmar exclaims.
We glance at each other and I’m glad that the others have as deep a puzzled expression as I wear.
Amil frowns as he says, “To get that far up the Wolven Floden, they would have had to beat up the river from where it meets the Lorell. That is a tough go against a strong current.”
“True,” Alonya acknowledges, “nevertheless, they were there.”
“Wait,” Cara says, “warships on the River Lorell? Are we at war with someone?”
“Not that I know,” Amil answers, with eyebrows furrowed. He turns to Alonya. “Could you describe the vessel and its sail, m’lady?”
Alonya nods slightly in response. “Somewhat, though I did not get a good look as I was peering through thick branches for concealment.
“The vessel was large, sleek, with running boards high above the waterline, and had a bank of oars to each side.
“It had one blood-red square sail set amidships with some sort of sketch or pattern, set in white, drawn onto the canvas.”
Amil leans forward and asks intensely, “The drawing, what did it look like?”
“I could not see that clearly as the sail was set at an angle to my line of sight,” Alonya replies slowly.
“But from what I could tell it appeared as if I were peering at the head and body of a horse, but with the tail of a fish.”
Amil’s intake is like a hiss. “A Morag.”
“A what?” I ask. “What’s a Morag?”
“A water horse,” Phigby explains. “Or as some call it, a sea horse.”
“Unlike the MerDraken, who ride sea dragons,” Amil, wide-eyed, expounds upon Phigby’s statement, “the Selkie Folk are said to ride them and gallop over the ocean waves.”
“Selkie Folk?” I question.
“Half sea lion, half Drach,” Amil explains, “that ride Morags and love to eat the
flesh of drowning sailors and drink their blood.”
He rubs a hand over his bald head and says, “But more to our discussion, they are the Sung Dar’s tribal symbol.”
“The Sung Dar!” I’ve never seen Master Boren with such a startled expression.
“I have heard of them, but they belong to the Great Southern Ocean, hundreds and hundreds of leagues from here.”
“Aye, that was once true,” Amil affirms, “but there were rumors coming out of the royal house of encounters with Sung Dar vessels off our coast.”
Amil nods toward our giantess and adds, “What with Alonya’s sighting, I would venture to say that we are not dealing with rumors anymore.”
“These Sung Dar,” Cara questions, “I don’t recall reading much about them. Aren’t they sea traders?”
“Once, long ago,” Amil answers. “But no longer. Now, they are tribal mariners who travel in great fleets like floating cities on the ocean. They do not come on land except to raid and pillage.
“If they have come to these waters, you and we have more than just the Wilders to worry about.”
“Their weapons,” Alonya asks in a demanding tone, “what do you know about them?”
“Only what is rumored,” Amil answers in a honest tone. “I have heard that their ships carry enormous catapults that can fling massive fireballs made of an unknown substance great distances.
“These orbs of fire hiss and spit flame and embers when they strike an object, burst into gigantic firestorms that consume everything they touch.
“Each ship also carries a tremendously powerful ballista that can shoot a spear as thick as my arm through dragon scales. Their ships carry archers that are so accurate that they can knock a flying fish out of the air at a hundred steps.
“Their swordsmen carry scimitars sharp enough to slice through fine silk with a single swipe.”
I glance over at Phigby and see that he is working his mouth as if he has bitten into a bunch of sour mush-grapes.
He leans toward Alonya and asks with just a hint of sarcasm, “My lady, I was wondering when was the last time that you used the moons as target practice with your bow?”
Alonya’s eyes narrow and she studies Phigby’s face for several moments before avowing with a straight face, “Last evening I hit Nadia so hard with one of my arrows that I knocked a large piece off her face.
