by GARY DARBY
Alonya lopes through the darkness, and to keep up with her great strides, the dragons break into a lurching, rolling gait.
To hold on, I grip two of the golden’s horns tightly. However, I soon think to myself that this must be how sailors feel when they’re on a wind-blown sloop in the middle of a heaving storm.
My insides bounce and slosh, first up, then down, then side to side. I decide that this must be what they call being seasick even though we’re dozens of leagues from the sea, and I’ve never been on an ocean-going vessel.
I also decide that if dragons didn’t have wings, we probably would never ride them unless it were at a slow, easy, plodding pace.
After a while, in the forest’s gloom, I have no idea where we are or where we’re headed. Wherever it is, I hope it’s far away from the hungry Vargs for I believe Alonya was right when she said that the wolves wouldn’t take long to take up the chase.
That means we’re in a race for our lives with the Vargs and their vicious fangs not far behind.
After a bit, Alonya calls a halt. We bring our dragons up close to her.
“Alonya,” Phigby says, “from what I can tell, we seem to be headed toward the mountains. Is it your intent to take us into the heights?”
“Yes,” she answers, barely breathing hard even after her long run. “But our course holds its own form of danger to you and to your dragons.”
My eyebrows raise at the sound of that. Anything that could be considered a danger to a dragon can only mean instant death to a puny Drach like me. I’m hoping that Master Boren or Phigby will challenge Alonya’s plan and set us in a different direction.
Instead, Phigby gestures with a hand as if to beckon Alonya to explain further. “Danger seems to be our unwelcome, but constant companion these last few days. What is this threat and how serious is it?”
“Judge for yourself,” Alonya answers. “Have you heard of Logath’s Grotto?”
We glance at each other, and it’s clear that none of us have heard of Logath’s Grotto until Phigby pulls at his beard and murmurs, “Perchance, Alonya, are you referring to Logath the Gatekeeper?”
“Is that what you call him?” Alonya questions. “The Gatekeeper? We call him the Sentinel of Shades.”
“Gatekeeper, sentinel,” Boren mutters, “what are you two talking about?”
Before either can answer, Alonya snaps a hand up. “Listen,” she murmurs and cocks an ear toward the forest behind us. “Do you hear?”
I turn my head in several directions, but if there is something to hear other than the natural sounds of a night forest, I can’t make it out.
Boren leans over to her. “I hear nothing, what is it?”
“The wolves,” she answers, letting out an almost wolflike snarl of her own. “They’ve picked up our scent and trail us. They’re far behind, but they move faster than we.”
“So soon?” Helmar asks with surprise evident in his voice.
“I’m afraid it would appear so,” Phigby laments. “M’lady, can we make it to your camp before the Vargs catch up?”
Alonya has been running for a good portion of the night, but she only needs to take a few deep breaths before she answers.
“Where we need to go is still more than a day’s journey toward the mountains. Soon we’ll leave the flatlands and enter the foothills.”
“Which will slow us down considerably,” Amil observes.
“Yes,” Alonya answers, “and the wolves will be upon us long before then.”
“Then we need a place from which to fight,” Helmar states.
Alonya gives a curt nod to his comment. “Since dragons cannot climb trees to escape the wolves and you do not want to use dragon fire, there is a place near the grotto that may afford us the protection we need to make a stand.
“But you must make your decision and speedily. Either sky away and leave me to fend for myself or we all go near the grotto and do battle with those wolf heads.”
“Logath’s Cave,” Amil breathes out in a voice that speaks of apprehension. “Is there no other place, perhaps close to the foothills?”
Alonya shakes her head forcefully. “The lower hills have little in the way of trees or foliage and no proper place in which to make a stand against a Varg pack of that size.”
She glances upward at Osa, which is midway toward the far horizon. “Dawn is still some ways off, and the wolves will be upon us before we see daylight.
“Even at the grotto, this will be a night battle, and they will have the better of it with their keen eyes and sharp ears.”
With that, she turns to Boren and neither her eyes nor face shows any expression. “So, Dragon Master, what is your choice?”
She gestures upward at the night stars. “Sky your dragons and leave me behind to face the wolves; unleash dragon fire in the open on those who race to kill us, or chance Logath’s Grotto?
“That is all that I can offer you.”
I have no idea who or what Logath is or why he has a cave named after him, but I sense a feeling of dread among the others. And that can only mean that the grotto is not the safe haven that we seek.
Amil, in particular, seems distressed by the idea for his voice is on edge as he speaks, “Perhaps we are far enough away from the border that the Wilders will not see the dragon fire.
“We should make for the foothills and make our stand there, using the dragons to our advantage.”
“And if we are not far enough away?” Boren snaps.
“The Wilders would be upon us in practically no time, and their numbers would make that wolf pack look puny in comparison.”
He turns to Phigby. “You know more of these things than anyone, what say you?”
Phigby pulls at his beard as if he’s carefully considering his response. “Do I believe,” he begins in a low rumble, “that Logath is one of the lesser gods sent to guard the Gates of Dreadfell?”
I lean over and whisper quietly to Amil, “Dreadfell?”
My whisper must not have been low enough, for Phigby turns to me. “The underworld, Hooper, where the gods send shadowy and evil creatures from time to time.
“Logath is the gatekeeper to keep these vile creatures in Dreadfell until the gods choose to unleash them.”
“If that’s true,” Cara asserts, “and I’m not granting that it is, then why would Logath mind our entering his grotto? We’re certainly not going to let his pets loose.”
“Careful how you speak of Logath,” Amil answers. “He does not take kindly to those who would make jest of him. He is an angry deity for having to live in the underworld, and he takes no pity on those who enter his realm.”
“Still,” Master Boren answers, “this is merely a myth. Has anyone seen this Logath?”
He swings around to face Alonya. “Have you?”
She shakes her head, causing her braids to bounce on her shoulders. “No, and I freely admit that what I know is based on an old warning to steer well clear of the grotto.”
Master Boren huffs at Phigby, “The question is, as you’ve said so often, is there an element of truth in the lore? Or is this some make-believe story intended to frighten misbehaving young children?”
“I cannot answer your question, Boren,” Phigby asserts. “Other than to repeat what you’ve already said; there may well be some truth in all legend and lore.”
We wait for Master Boren to make a decision. I can see by the deep furrows in his face that he is struggling with the choices.
However, indecision is not in the makeup of a Dragon Master, especially when in the far distance comes the baying of giant wolves, hot on the trail of meat for their stomachs.
He straightens himself in his saddle. “Alonya, I gave you my word that we wouldn’t desert you, and we’re not. For now, we make for this place near the cave.
“If the wolves catch up with us before we reach the grotto, and we have no other choice, we will turn the dragons loose on them.”
“Then,” Alonya voices in a hard tone, set
tling her jerkin and scabbard about her waist, “let us see just how swiftly dragons can run.” She spins on her heels and races away with the dragons pounding behind her.
If I thought that the earlier unceasing jostling was akin to a sloop caught in a gale, what comes next is a Sea Trader’s vessel trapped in a raging tempest with waves higher than dragon heart trees.
It’s as though I’m astride a giant boulder that is bouncing, rolling and crashing down a steep mountainside.
With each lunge of the golden my neck snaps and pops as if my head is about to be twisted off and hurled by the wayside.
Even Scamper lets out a plaintiff, Nrrrrow, as if the wild ride is too much even for him.
One thought occupies my mind; to hang on with every bit of strength I possess.
I’ve wrapped my fingers around the golden’s horns in a death grip, but I have to keep pawing at her for a better hold.
I have no idea how long the constant jolting lasts before the golden leaps over a large, fallen tree trunk that spans our trail like a wooden dam. The jar from the landing is too much, and my tight clutch is broken loose.
Flying through the air, my arms and legs windmill in every direction as if I’m a human bird trying to learn how to fly.
Then, I hit, a rock? A tree? Whatever it is, my head smacks against the hard, unseen barrier with a vicious blow.
I remember sliding down something that’s rough and raspy before I land on my back and then nothing after that.
After a bit, I rouse from my unexpected nap. My head feels like a pumpkin that two drogs are sitting on and about to burst wide open.
It hurts. There’s a ringing in my ears, and I can feel a stickiness in my hair.
It’s blood. My blood. It’s not much, but when you’re as small as I am, every drop counts.
Rolling over onto my back, I manage to sit up. Muttering to myself, I say, “Next time I go flying, it’ll be on the back of a dragon. They at least know how to land without hitting a tree headfirst.”
I look around. It’s dark. Really dark. Thick clouds shield the moons, deepening the shadows.
In the gloom, the trees and bushes seem to blend together as if I’m hemmed in by a black wall in every direction.
And I’m alone. All alone. I don’t know how long I’ve lain on the forest floor, but it’s obvious that the others have sped on without me. At first, I’m furious, almost indignant that they would leave me.
After all, I’m the Gem Guardian, am I not?
After a bit, I reason that either they didn’t see me fly off the golden or more likely they chose not to halt and take the time to go back and look for me. Either way, I resign myself to the fact that they haven’t stopped to search.
Most likely because they weren’t willing to risk the time it would take to look for someone as unimportant to the cause as I.
To Alonya, what’s important is getting away from the Varg pack and living another day. A delay could mean her death.
Master Boren and the others are focused on keeping the golden out of the Wilders’ clutches and more immediately, away from the Vargs’ slashing fangs.
A hindrance to those goals would be unacceptable to their thinking. In the grand scheme of things, I’m of no consequence to any of their plans.
My one hope is that when they find that I’m missing, someone will take care of Scamper.
In my little world, he’s the one thing of consequence to me, and I’m hoping that that will be significant to at least one of them. Cara, most likely.
Standing, I take stock. I have my short knife, held tight against my tunic by my waist belt. The emerald dragon jewel is still a hard lump in my inside pocket.
I draw it out and turn it over in my hand. When I first held the tear gem after Pengillstorr had given it to me, it felt icy, like a stone that’s lain on the bottom of a cold mountain stream.
When I used it before, there was a warmth to it as if it drew heat or energy from my body, or perhaps from somewhere else entirely.
Now, it’s cold to the touch as if there’s no life left in the crystal. Still, I wonder if there’s some way I can use it to help me out of my predicament.
In the darkness, I hold it up and mutter, “Vald Hitta Sasi Ein, Power Comes to this One.”
I look around, half-expecting to see—what?
In answer, absolutely nothing happens.
Surrounding me is just gloomier forest and little else. I heft the gem in my hand and wonder if I’ve used all the power it once possessed.
If so, I should toss it aside as it’s just weight to carry. I think about it for a moment, but instead of throwing it away, I tuck it snug and secure in my inside pocket.
I turn in a tight circle, trying to get some sense of my bearings, but it’s hopeless. I have no idea which way to go.
For a brief moment, I consider yelling out in the faint hope that perhaps, the others have come back to look for me and will hear my calls for help.
Cupping my hands around my mouth to shout, I stop before I make the tiniest of sounds. What did Alonya say about the Vargs?
That this will be a night battle, and they will have the better of it with their keen eyes and sharp ears.
Sharp ears. Just how good is the hearing of a Varg? I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. I look up at the sky and for an instant; I catch sight of a faint glow in the clouds. The four moons!
Just before I flew off the golden, I noticed that the moons were above and to the right quarter of our travels. Now at least, I have a sense of direction.
I’ll keep them off my right shoulder, and that should guide me close to the same course that we were traveling.
Of course, I have no idea how far Logath’s Grotto is from this place, but just the idea that I’m heading on the right course is a small victory for me.
The blood has started to dry and cake in my hair, which is a good sign that my gash is neither deep nor severe. The pain in my head is subsiding, and the loud ringing in my ears is but tiny chimes now.
Tugging at my waistcoat to settle it around my shoulders, I take a step while muttering, “You can’t go from here to there without taking that first step.
“Only problem is that I know where here is, but I haven’t the foggiest idea where there is.”
I’ve not meandered far when the night’s stillness is broken by the distant howls of wolves. I suck in my breath and hold perfectly still, trying to determine if they’ve caught my scent and are hot on my trail.
Moments later, the wolf calls come again, this time closer. I hobble over to the nearest tree and gauge whether or not I could manage to reach its lowest branch and pull myself up into its sheltering limbs.
Stepping upon a jutting tree root, I reach for the nearest low branch. Just then, the howls come again, not far off.
Their closeness and my own fear spur me into action, and I leap upward to grab onto the arm-sized branch and—land hard on my back, having entirely missed the limb.
I let out a tiny moan from the sharp pain of a tree root jutting into my ribs.
Wolf howls come again, and I frantically get to my feet looking for a lower branch. I see one that seems a bit closer to the ground in a nearby tree and shuffle over to the dark trunk. I reach toward the branch only to freeze in place when the wolf cries sound again.
This time, they’re very close and now I’m afraid that if I make any noise I’ll alert them to my presence. I put my back against the tree trunk’s rough bark and force myself to not move or even breathe.
Tremors of fear shake my body as I wait in the forest’s gloom. There’s no sound, nothing to tell me where the wolves are.
They’ve gone quiet and that can only mean that they’re silently creeping toward me, their evil red eyes centered on the tree that hides me from their sight.
I reach for the handle of my short knife. I wrap my hand around the hilt and grip it tight. I tense my muscles, ready to whip it out and face the wolves.
One small knife agains
t a host of fangs that are long, sharp, and deadly can only lead to one thing; a bloody and swift death for me.
The devil dogs’ wails sound again through the woodlands, and I stiffen in fear, but then let out a long breath and slump over. The cries have moved off in the distance.
The pack has passed me by and is dashing ahead. A part of me is grateful that the Vargs didn’t pick up my scent, another part hopes that Cara and the others found the refuge that they sought and are safe.
Taking up the trail again, I know that now I’m not only going in the same way that my companions went but the wolves as well. Nevertheless, do I have a choice?
For now, it doesn’t seem that I do.
Clouds hide the moonlight, and the darkness is so smothering that I’m always tripping over tree roots and stubbing my foot against craggy rocks.
After a while, I’m convinced that I’m spending about as much time picking myself up off the forest floor as I am walking on top of the ground.
From the long practice of having to move and work in the dark without a lantern, I have good night sight, but these shadows are so deep that I can see little.
I finally come to a point where there’s no sense in continually tripping over tree roots, and I decide to stop and wait for the morning before going on.
Squinting my eyes, I try my best to spot a likely-looking place to hunker down for the night, but everything appears the same in the murkiness.
Climb a tree, I think. But the lowest branches of these mighty oaks are double my height off the ground.
If I were Alonya or Scamper, I could easily make my way up a trunk, but obviously, I’m not either one, so scaling the branches into the treetops is not a possibility.
So, it’s either curl up against a tree trunk amongst the roots or lie on the open ground. I resign myself to pushing through the brush in the dark and hope that I might find something more suitable in the next stand of trees.
My pace is plodding, my falls and spills frequent, my knees and elbows bruised and scraped.
Luckily, I haven’t broken any bones yet, but I may have to stop just so I have some semblance of knees left by morning.
