The Queen's Vow (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 2)

by GARY DARBY

  Using hands, arms, and knees I climb up the craggy stone to its top. Breathing hard, I stand only to discover the rock’s high point is not level, but rounded and uneven.

  On shaky legs, with my feet spread wide, I rise from my hunched-over position and peer behind me.

  The Vargs have squeezed everyone into a tiny semicircle. Step by step, the Vargs are slowly advancing, their growls a menacing rumble, their eyes narrow slits of blood-red as they push closer.

  The dragons roar defiantly and the wolves answer with their own piercing growls and snarls. For the moment, the wolves are being held at bay, but it won’t last long.

  Cara and the others have their backs to the rock wall, their swords held out, waiting for the Vargs’ death rush.

  Master Boren peers up at me and places a hand on Wind Rover. I can see on his face that whatever it is I’m going to do, it’s now or never.

  Gathering myself, I launch off the rock—and immediately wish I had wings. Instead of soaring like a dragon or bird, I fly as well as the stone pillar I just left.

  My jump, though, is just enough that at the last instant, I reach out and grab onto a branch with both hands, only to find that my bad hand has let me down.

  I lose my grip, doing a somersault in midair and hit another tree limb.

  Hard.

  The smaller shoots and leaves whip at my face, arms, and hands. I taste blood in my mouth. But to my great fortune, I’ve somehow managed to land belly first.

  There’s a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach and dancing lights seem to twirl and spin before me, even though I’ve closed my eyes tight.

  Abruptly, I realize that I’m sliding off the limb just as I hear savage snarls just below me. I open my eyes and wish I hadn’t.

  A half-dozen Vargs are springing up and down, their jaws snapping just under my feet, and they’re so close that I can see the white foam drooling from their snarling black lips.

  If I slip, a Varg will clamp its fearsome fangs on my foot or leg and drag me down to the ground where it and its pack mates will tear me apart.

  One leaps up, its jaws snapping so close that I swear I feel wind at my ankles. I manage to scoot myself higher and glance down.

  The Vargs appear to be fighting among themselves as to who gets to be the first to bring me down.

  A sick feeling sweeps over me. Could a Varg climb the tree I’m in? Some of the branches sweep fairly close to the ground.

  I whip my head around thinking that I should get higher up but there’s nothing close that I can get a foothold on, and if I slip off this branch . . .

  It’s now or never.

  Steadying myself with my hand, I pull the gemstone out of my tunic, hold it high and cry out in a loud voice, “Vald Hitta Sasi Ein! Power Comes to this One!”

  I all but stab the gem into the tree limb. I feel power surge through my body, and then an intense, bright light like an emerald wave explodes outward from the jewel and washes over everything in its path.

  I hold the dragon gem tight against the rough bark for several heartbeats before I feel the tree shudder as if it’s coming awake from a long and deep sleep.

  The trees are swaying, rustling back and forth. I can hear a creaking groan from deep within the wood.

  Tree limbs shiver and rattle as if some giant hand is shaking the tree’s trunk sending tremors all the way from the roots to the tallest branches.

  There’s a wrenching sound as if the ground below is splitting apart. I glance down, and my mouth hangs open.

  The trees are walking.

  Walking isn’t exactly the right word.

  It’s more like the trees are gliding over the ground like when you slide across a frozen pond. The Vargs that were at the tree’s base spring away in fear and try to flee, but it’s too late.

  The first line of trees bend over until their treetops are just above the wolves. Snaky limbs spew out and wrap themselves around the wolves’ giant bodies.

  Then, like a catapult, the trees flip upright, snatching the Vargs off the ground and sending them arcing high over the treetops and into the distance.

  I hold on tight to the swaying, weaving branch, thinking that if riding the golden at a gallop was bad, this is going to be even worse.

  Another tree seizes two wolves and begins to smash them together repeatedly as if it were pounding two rocks together until the Vargs are limp and lifeless before the tree sends them flying through the air.

  Off to one side, one tree has a wolf ensnared in its branches while next to it another tree has a wolf grasped tightly as well.

  The two trees whirl as if they were spinning tops and smash the two Vargs together. Wolf blood sprays over limb and leaf before they too go sailing overhead.

  Still another tree catches a fleeing Varg with a sinewy branch, tosses the Varg straight up into the air before it catches it on the way down before it hits the ground.

  It does the same thing again, only the Varg goes even higher. Twice more the Varg sails higher and higher into the air.

  Only, on the last throw, instead of catching the whimpering Varg, the tree lets it smash into the stone barrier.

  The dead body lies draped over the rock, blood dripping from its mouth. Almost casually, the tree glides over, picks up the slain wolf and flings it through the air.

  More and more trees seize the wild beasts who are now running every which way to escape, but it’s a futile effort.

  Within moments, it seems like the air is full of skying wolves, only they don’t have wings, and when they land, it’s not gentle.

  The remaining wolves are yelping, snarling, growling in a frenzied attempt to flee, but a ring of tree trunks hem them into a tight circle.

  Each meets the same fate; a sinewy limb whips out from the shimmering green light, seizes the brute and sends it soaring over the treetops.

  It’s not long before the last wolf is a dark speck sailing over the trees into the distance. I let out a deep breath and let a satisfied smile play across my face.

  “They may be sleek and fast in the forest,” I mutter to myself, “but they’re pretty clumsy at skying and they really have to work on their landings.”

  The trees gather themselves and slip back to where they were before their incredible feat started.

  Roots jab themselves deep into the soil and within moments, the oaken trees and the forest grow quiet again.

  Slipping the emerald back into my tunic pocket, I slowly clamber down from my life-saving limb.

  I hurry over to where the others are, who, for the most part, lean up against the cliff face, breathless from their fight to the death.

  The golden and the sapphires swing their heads from side to side, surveying the forest to see if any more Vargs will dart out from the gloom.

  Scamper sticks his head up over the golden’s carapace and chitters at me, telling me that he’s alive and well.

  Smiling, I give him a quick wave and hurry over to where Cara is bent over, using her sword to prop herself up.

  “Cara,” I ask anxiously, “are you all right?”

  Gasping for breath, she doesn’t answer but raises a hand telling me that except for needing to breathe, she’s fine.

  Helmar straightens from his hunched-over position and waves me off, letting me know that he too hasn’t suffered any serious wounds.

  I hear a rustling of clothing and turn to find Phigby kneeling beside Alonya, who has slumped to the ground.

  “M’lady,” he says, “you bear the deepest wounds among us; let me look after you first.”

  She starts to object, pointing and staring at me with round, questioning eyes. “What is he? A sorceror of some kind?”

  “No,” Phigby curtly answers, “and we’ve tended to our injuries, then we’ll have Hooper explain all. Now, quit moving around so I can get to these wounds.”

  Alonya settles back but her eyes are narrow and sharp as she peers at me. “I’ll wait, but after what my eyes witnessed, I think that the tale you wove
earlier will pale in comparison to what he has to say.”

  Chapter 9

  Wiping blood and sweat away from his forehead, Amil coughs, “Another moment, and either we’d all be inside some Varg’s stomach or Master Boren would have had to light up the night sky with a torrent of dragon fire.

  “Then, we’d have the Wilders on top of us for sure.”

  A broad smile crosses his face. “There were too many even for me to handle.”

  The big man lays a beefy hand on my shoulder. “I have no idea how you sent those Vargs flying, but you have my gratitude.”

  “And mine,” Phigby says over his shoulder.

  “Aye,” Amil returns and his grin widens. “I cannot wait until I tell my fellow Travelers this tale at the Wanderer’s Inn.

  “Trees moving as if they had legs, branches acting like hands to pick up those wolves and fling them through the sky.

  “They may not believe me at first,” he growls while he hefts his ax and shakes it, “but I’ll make them believe.”

  He stops, cocks his head one side with a puzzled expression and demands, “Hold on, what am I saying? Just how did you do that?”

  Before I can answer, he laughs again and claps my shoulder hard. “Never mind. If I had any doubts before, I don’t now, Gem Guardian.”

  He turns away, still chuckling to himself, “Skying wolves . . .”

  Master Boren gives me an odd look as if he can’t make up his mind to thank me or not. As it is, he says nothing but turns to his dragons, crooning softly to them.

  I’m left with Helmar and Cara. Helmar gives me a begrudging shrug and mutters, “And I will add my thanks to Amil’s.”

  With that, he turns to the wolf carcasses and begins pulling arrows out of dead bodies to reclaim as many bolts as he can for his quiver.

  Cara stands gazing at me, a hesitant expression on her face. Finally, she says, “What happened to you? We went back to search, but we couldn’t find you or the golden.

  “Then those devil dogs closed in on us, and we had to give up the search.”

  For an instant, there is an expression of concern on her face. “I thought that they might have found you first.”

  “Uh, no,” I mumble in return. “I sort of took a wrong turn and got lost. I heard the fighting and came as fast as I could to help.”

  She starts to reach out as if to place her hand on my arm, but then abruptly changes her mind. “Well, wrong turn or not, thank you for what you did.

  “If you hadn’t, Amil’s right, Father would have used dragon fire on the wolves, and if those beasts hadn’t got us, it wouldn’t have been long before the Wilders were overhead.”

  “You’re welcome,” I mumble.

  She starts to move away, and I hastily stop her. “Cara.”

  She turns back to me. “Yes, Hooper?”

  I bite on my lip. “Uh, I’m really glad that you—and the others are all right.”

  She gives me a little smile, hesitates and then gestures toward where Helmar is collecting arrows and Amil is checking to make sure that the Vargs are indeed dead.

  “I need to help Helmar gather arrows.”

  She turns and makes her way next to Helmar. I let out a long sigh. Cara spoke to me. She actually talked to me without those flashing eyes that match her fiery hair or with a growl in her voice.

  If fighting a pack of Vargs was what it was going to take to get her to notice me in a nice way, then bring on another pack of Vargs.

  Actually, that isn’t entirely true, I’ve had my fill of Vargs for one lifetime, but still, it just goes to show how far I’m willing to go to get the girl of my dreams back in my life, even for a brief moment.

  I glance over at the golden and give her a questioning look. She gives me a tiny nod indicating that no harm has come to her either.

  Hobbling over to where Alonya sits with her back against the overhanging rock wall, I stand close by in case Phigby needs help.

  Alonya’s lips are closed tight and one hand clenches her forearm where blood runs freely down the arm to drip onto the ground.

  More of her life fluid stains her leg and Phigby has his ever present bag close as he pulls bandages and jars of medicine out to tend to her wounds.

  I shuffle closer and mutter, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You!” Alonya begins again. “What magic did you wield that causes trees to move as if they had legs and hands with which to grasp the throats of Skerwolves in a death grip? How—”

  “M’lady,” Phigby quickly interrupts, “I promised you a full accounting, and you shall have it, but not until we stop this bleeding, so please lie still and hold your questions for now.”

  Alonya flicks her eyes toward Phigby and then back to me. Her expression is stern, mine hesitant, timid.

  She lets out a long sigh. “Do what you must and then I will have my answers—but make no mistake, it is apparent that you haven’t told me everything, and before we take another step deeper into the domain I will have my answers.”

  Phigby seems to ignore her irate grumblings and goes about rummaging in his bag before speaking to Alonya in a brisk voice, “We have no water to cleanse your wounds. And even if we did, we couldn’t chance a fire to boil up a healing potion.”

  She waves a hand and through clenched teeth grinds out, “Get on with it and you have my thanks.”

  Phigby shoves a gray cloth into my hand. “Press this down on her leg wounds,” he orders. “Hard.”

  I take one look at Alonya’s leg and grimace. A line of deep puncture marks starts just below her knee and go almost to her ankle.

  Each is oozing bright red blood that seeps down her leg and drips onto the fist-sized rocks underneath her foreleg.

  I begin to pat at the gashes with the cloth when Alonya growls, “He said, press hard, not dab. The idea is to stop the bleeding, not wipe away the blood.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble and push down firmly on several of the deeper puncture wounds while Phigby slathers a milky white salve, almost like butter, over Alonya’s wounded arm before bandaging it tightly.

  I hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t dare turn. I’m afraid that if I do, Alonya might take a swing at me with her good arm, and that would mean Phigby would have more blood to deal with, and it wouldn’t be Alonya’s.

  “The sprogs are missing, Hooper,” Master Boren announces in an accusing tone. “They’re not in the saddlebags. Where are they? Are they safe?”

  I glance over at the golden, who’s sitting quietly. She doesn’t have a worried look on her face, nor has she bolted from the camp to find the sprogs.

  Still pressing down on Alonya’s leg wounds, I twist head around to face Master Boren. “Sir, I can assure you that they’re safe.”

  “Well,” he demands, “where are they? Tell me and I’ll go after them.”

  Just then, Cara, hearing her father’s loud voice, joins us. Phigby glances up, sees her and brings out another cloth from his bag. “Help Hooper with the bleeding,” he commands .

  “Boren,” he says, “if Hooper says the sprogs are safe, they’re safe. In the meantime, you can either help here or tend to your dragons, but either way, leave us alone while I take care of these wounds.”

  For an instant, Boren’s face flashes anger before he steers Cara toward Alonya. “I’ll help Helmar,” he says gruffly to her, “you help here.”

  With that, he spins on his heels and strides past the boulders to find Helmar.

  Cara shuffles around to the other side of Alonya’s enormous leg and pushes the cloth hard against the deep cuts and slashes below the giant’s knee.

  As she does, I keep my eyes averted from hers, but I can’t help peeking at her every so often. When I do, I catch her gazing at me in a peculiar fashion.

  She has a pensive, questioning expression on her face, one that I’ve never seen before, at least not with me.

  It’s as though she can see me, but she’s not sure if she really knows me.

  Who I am, or r
ather, what I am—now.

  “Find any arrows worth saving?” I ask to break the silence.

  “I collected the ones that didn’t shatter,” she answers softly. “Helmar and Amil are gathering Alonya’s.”

  She presses harder on an oozing gash. “It almost takes the two of them to pull one of her shafts out of a carcass. I couldn’t do it by myself.”

  In a few moments, Phigby moves to Alonya’s leg to wipe away the dirt and grime and spreads a liberal amount of the white cream over her leg.

  Where the paste touches the blood oozing from her wounds, it forms a thick coating and looks almost like the thick, sticky grease that you make from pig’s fat.

  With practiced strokes, Phigby wraps several layers of cloth around her leg as a tight bandage and then ties the ends off.

  “You need to stay off your feet for a while,” he instructs, “to give the Aloeseun balm a chance to close those holes. If not, you’ll start bleeding heavily again, and I might not be able to stop it.”

  Sliding through the slits in the rocks, Master Boren, Helmar, and Amil stride up. Helmar and Amil lay a half dozen of Alonya’s arrows by her bow.

  Helmar’s and Cara’s quivers hold slightly more than that.

  “It’s the best we could do,” Helmar explains.

  “Most of ours snapped in two. We pulled what we could of Alonya’s from the Vargs’ carcasses, but a good many of those shafts split their head as well.”

  “Then we will make do with what we have,” Phigby answers.

  “Alonya,” Master Boren questions, “can we assume that we won’t be troubled by any more Vargs tonight?”

  He gestures towards the gloomy forest. “Or are there more packs like those who attacked us roaming this forest?”

  Alonya gives Boren a curt shake of her head. “If any of that band survived their moonlit sky ride, I doubt that they’ll make their way back here anytime soon.”

  Her face takes on a troubled air. “As far as more packs, there were more wolves in that bunch tonight than I have ever seen before and I have traveled the length of the Denalians.”

  She shakes her head as if she is mystified by the number of Vargs that had gathered together to attack us.