by GARY DARBY
I turn back to stare at the thick tree trunk and after a bit, a small smile spreads my cheeks. “Of course.”
I hurry over to the others and declare, “I know how we can carry Alonya if we decide to go on.”
“Eh?” Phigby grumps. “What are you talking about, Hooper? If you’re going to suggest we carry—”
“No,” I quickly interrupt and point to the downed trees. “By using those.”
To their puzzled expressions, I answer, “I need all of your help to move those two long tree trunks out of the long grass and into the clearing’s center.”
“Hooper,” Master Boren gruffly says, “we don’t have time for games or any more of your silly ideas.”
He waves a dismissive hand at me and turns to Helmar and Amil. “If we go farther up—”
“Then, I’ll get the golden to help me,” I snap and turn away.
“Hooper, wait,” Phigby calls out. “Boren, give the lad a chance to explain.”
At Master Boren’s dark glare but nod, Phigby gestures to me,”All right, Hooper, we’re listening.”
I swiftly lay out my idea. When I’m finished, the Dragon Master rubs his hand over his short beard and peers at the others.
Phigby nods to himself and mutters, “I think if he can make it work, Boren, it may well be the answer we seek. I for one feel too exposed in this place and judge that we should press on as soon as possible.”
“I agree. At least give him the chance,” Amil argues. “If it doesn’t work, we’ve only wasted a bit of time that we’d have spent discussing what to do about Alonya anyway.”
Boren peers at me for a moment before he waves a hand at the tree trunks. “All right, everyone over there by the logs. Hooper, show us where you want them.”
I lead the group over to the fallen trees. “Amil, clear some of the branches so that they don’t catch on the grass.”
His ax makes short work of clearing the thickest side branches and then I say, “We’ll lift the first log out of the grass,” and motion toward the open space in the glen’s middle, “and place it so. The second will go opposite the first and wide enough for a dragon’s girth.”
With each of us taking a portion of the thick log, we bend down, wrap our arms around the tree trunk and lift.
Staggering under the load, we drag it out of the grassy brush and haul it into the glen’s center. We lift the second log and place it opposite the first.
I lead the golden over to where I can settle her at the end of the two logs and close to her middle. I walk over to the nearest tree trunk, take out the dragon gem and place one hand against the smooth bark.
In my mind, I imagine what I need done and murmur, “Vald Hitta Sasi Ein, Power Comes to this One.” I go to the second log and again utter the power words.
For several heartbeats, nothing happens and then the tree trunks begin to sway back and forth.
The few remaining limbs rattle and shake, then shoot out in long thick streamers against the ground. They raise the two trunks up, one on each side of the golden.
Then, like a spinning wheel would twist wool, the sinewy limbs wind themselves around her body until they hold the trunks tight and snug against the golden’s scales.
Then, more branches come spraying out and wrap themselves around and around the trunks until they form a thick mat of soft, green leaves between the trunks.
I say to Helmar and Amil, “Pull the golden’s tail so that her spikes are not caught up in the mat.”
Once that’s done, I lead the golden, who now pulls a long, leafy litter over to where Alonya sleeps, drooped against a tree. I place my hand against the smooth bark next to her and again quietly murmur the power words.
A cascade of thick limbs wiggles down from the treetop and slip themselves under the sleeping giant. They gently wrap themselves around her and pick her up off the ground.
Like leaf ants carrying an enormous leafy bundle, the limbs carry Alonya over to the mat and lightly deposit her. They gently unwind themselves and glide back to the tree.
I take my hand away from the tree trunk with a sense of satisfaction. Alonya never stirred in her sleep and seems to be resting comfortably on her matted boughs.
Everyone is standing with his or her mouth open. “Amazing,” Master Boren mutters.
“Incredible,” Amil states.
Helmar just stands, mute, slightly shaking his head back and forth.
Cara glances from me to the golden and back. I can tell that she’s pleased by what I’ve done, but her anger won’t let her say anything.
Phigby’s beaming smile scrunches up his beard onto his cheeks, and his eyes are alight. He laughs and points. “Of course!” he claps. “A travoy.”
“A what?” Master Boren asks.
“A type of litter or pram used anciently,” Phigby explains, “by nomadic tribes to carry household items and sometimes people, especially those who were sick and unable to walk or ride. Only typically, you hook the poles to a horse or sometimes to oxen.”
He laughs again. “Obviously, it would take a giant horse to pull a giant maiden, which we don’t have, but a dragon will suffice nicely.”
Master Boren walks the litter from one end to another. He turns with a dubious, troubled expression. “I see your point, Phigby, but in her condition, I’m concerned about the strain that this will put on Golden Wind.”
Cara shakes herself from her expressionless stance. “Father, you said it yourself, we cannot leave Alonya here, and we cannot sky. Here is a way for us all to go.
“Besides, Golden Wind did place herself willingly between the tree trunks. She seems to understand the seriousness of our situation.”
Helmar comes to stand next to Master Boren and stresses in a quiet, but firm voice, “Master, there is danger in the sky and perhaps on our back trail as well.
“Yes, I’m concerned about the weight that Golden Wind will have to pull, but it’s doubtful that the sapphires could do as well, and they certainly would not last as long.
“Perhaps it will only have to be for a short way before we can find a suitable hiding place for Alonya. We have a way to push forward. I suggest we take advantage of the opportunity.”
Master Boren glances from Helmar over to Cara, before giving a curt nod.
Phigby waves a hand toward the pool of water. “Everyone take a last drink before we leave, including the dragons, we don’t know where our next water will be.”
He comes to stand in front of me and slowly shakes his head. “Hooper, you are full of surprises.” He lays a hand on my shoulder and leans close. “And excellent ideas, too.”
Phigby shuffles off, and I pace up to stand next to Golden Wind’s head. Cara steps over to join me and I admit, after last night, I’m a little wary at having her so close.
She reaches up and strokes Golden Wind’s muzzle. Snidely, she says, “Yes, an excellent idea. But I wonder just whose notion it truly was?”
Stroking Golden Wind’s nose she murmurs, “Thank you, girl.” She whirls away to round up the sprogs. Apparently, Cara is still nursing her anger from last night.
“You know,” I murmur to Golden Wind, “I could lift up the Denalian Mountains from one end to the other, carry them on my shoulders and that girl would think that you, or Scamper, or maybe even the sprogs helped me. Or, had the idea.”
“Patience, Hooper,” the golden whispers, “Cara will see reason in due time.”
“Oh, sure,” I whisper back, “due time meaning when I’m fifty seasons old, or older!”
Between Helmar, Cara, and me we get the sprogs loaded in their travel bags, and with a last hard look at me, Cara turns and strides over to Wind Song.
After they’re both out of earshot, I murmur to Golden Wind, “Thirsty?”
“No, Hooper,” she replies. “I drank my fill.”
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask in a muffled voice. “I mean pulling Alonya. It won’t hurt your—”
“Little one?” she answers in the same low tone
. “Thank you for your concern, Hooper, but no, I and my sprog will be fine, I assure you.”
I glance around. “Looks like we’re leaving,” I give a short whistle. Scamper sticks his head up out of the tall grass and then darts out and up the golden’s leg to his usual place.
I knuckle his head while saying, “Empty-handed this time, I see.”
He starts grinding and tapping his teeth, the way he does when he gets frustrated, like now.
“Sorry, Scamp, if you’re looking for sympathy, you’ll get none from me. All I had for breakfast was a couple of deep breaths of morning air and several mouthfuls of cold water from the pond.”
Helmar begins to take up his post at the column’s rear, but this time, he has to stay farther back because of the litter’s length.
While he’s moving into position, and the others are starting to slowly lumber ahead, it gives me a chance to lean over and ask, “Did you put that thought in my head about using the tree trunks and the limbs to create a litter for Alonya?”
Her answer is a warm chuckle. “Hooper, you give me too much credit. No, I didn’t give you any such idea.”
She pauses and then answers as if she’s weighing every word, “Tear jewels have individual abilities to strengthen the Gem Guardian.
“It may be that you had the initial kernel of thought and the crystal simply helped you grow the idea until it matured.”
“Hmmm,” I answer and sit back to ponder her words. I scrunch up my face and pull at my chin. If anyone needs to grow in this company, I think, it’s me.
We slowly make our way up the dale’s winding track. I’m sure Master Boren would like to move faster, but if we did, the hard jostling would either bounce Alonya out of her leafy bed or perhaps even crack one or both of the tree trunks.
Scamper tires of the golden’s jostling ride and dashes here and there on the ground seeking a snack. Our measured pace allows him to scoot ahead of us as if he were acting as our scout. Of course, the only thing he’s scouting for is a tasty morsel or two.
It’s just past midday when suddenly I hear Scamper chittering loudly just past the front of our dragon column.
I immediately jerk upright because Scamper only makes that sound when he wants to get my attention and quickly.
Master Boren thrusts his hand high in the air bringing us to a halt. I lean over and anxiously whisper, “What it is it, Golden Wind? Is Scamper in trouble?”
She whispers back. “See for yourself. On that knoll to our left.”
I whip my head up and to one side. Standing in full sight on a small hummock is a Golian warrior. She’s dressed similarly to Alonya but from the creases in her face and the gray strands in her brown hair, it’s obvious that she’s older than our Golian companion.
But old or not, what catches my attention is that she’s notched her bowstring with a feathered shaft and pulled the strand tight against her cheek.
It’s evident that her aiming point is our little caravan and with one tiny twitch of her hand, her deadly arrow will bring instant death to one of us.
Chapter 12
At the head of the column, Master Boren and Phigby raise both hands, empty, in the age-old symbol of, “Don’t shoot, we’re friendly!”
I can’t speak for the rest of the company, but I know I hold my breath waiting to see if the Golian will honor their plea.
When no arrow comes flying toward us, out of the corner of my eye, I see that Master Boren and Phigby are having an animated conversation before Phigby turns and over his shoulder shouts, “Cara! Come forward, quickly!”
Without a moment of hesitation, Cara spurs Wind Song into a lumbering gait and pulls to a stop beside her father.
Phigby leans over and says something too low for me to catch, after which Cara lifts both hands, empty, head high and calls out to the formidable figure, “Daughter of Golian, we mean no harm.”
She points back toward the golden and our makeshift litter. “Alonya, one of your warriors, is injured. We were returning her to Golian where she can receive the succor and care needed for her healing.”
The Amazo seems to be listening, but her arrow point hasn’t dropped one whit. Cara waits for an answer, but none comes so she calls out again.
“Her wounds are not of our doing. We and Alonya fought off a pack of Vargs last eve not far from here. She was injured in the battle.
“We ministered to her as best we could, but her wounds were too severe for her to walk so we built this litter to carry her back to the safety of Golian.”
The Amazo still does not answer, nor does she lower her bow. I’m beginning to think that no matter what Cara says, it won’t make any difference.
This Golian warrior intends to have our heads.
Cara tries again. In an imploring voice she says, “Noble Amazo, before the Varg attack, we explained to Alonya that we were fleeing our mutual enemies, the Wilders.
“We came to Golian hoping to find sanctuary so that we could protect the golden dragon. We have no other wish than to see Alonya regain her strength and for us to find a haven for Golden Wind.”
I feel a glow of pride in Cara. Sometimes she can act, well, a bit churlish, but not now. She sounds very mature, very, well, grownupish. I, for one, am impressed.
The Golian’s eyes flick between Cara and Alonya’s litter. With a practiced hand, she whips the arrow back into her quiver and shoulders her bow. She slides her sword out of its scabbard and swiftly strides down the knoll in a straight line to Alonya.
Master Boren calls out, “Everyone stay on your dragon and keep your hands off your weapons. Let Phigby and me do the talking!”
The two of them slide off their dragons and swiftly stride down the line until they stand next to the litter.
I swivel in my seat to watch as the Amazo reaches the makeshift carryall and both Master Boren and Phigby give a small bow. “I am Professor Phineas Phigby,” Phigby says with just a bit of a flourish. “Book Master and Alchemist.”
He motions to Master Boren with one hand. “This is Boren Dracon, Dragon Master of the House of Lorell.”
He steps a little closer to the litter and while gesturing at Alonya’s bandaging, explains, “It was I, with the help of my comrades who dressed Alonya’s wounds after our battle with the Vargs.”
The Golian peers first at Phigby and then at Alonya. She motions with the tip of her sword at the dressings. “Show me,” she orders.
Phigby carefully unwraps the bandages revealing Alonya’s deep, bloodied gashes on her leg.
The giant lady leans over and sucks in a breath through clenched jaws. Her voice would match a wolf’s growl. “Varg fangs.”
“Yes,” Phigby acknowledges. “We were set upon by a host of the beasts. We suffered wounds too, but, unfortunately, Alonya, being the brave warrior that she is, bore the brunt of the attack.”
“And for good reason,” the Golian declares as she straightens. “She and I have killed many Skerwolves in the lowland forests; they would like nothing better than to kill one of us when the chance arises.”
She studies the litter for a moment and asks, “Did Alonya direct you to make this for her?”
“Uh, no,” Phigby answers mildly. “She tried valiantly to walk the path, but when we reached the spring at the base of the foothills, she could go no farther. She had lost a great deal of her life-fluid.
“I gave her a potion meant to ease her pain. Instead, it caused her to fall asleep as you can see. We built this for her as a way to bring her into the mountains and to her comrades.”
The Golian seems to consider Phigby’s words for several moments as she lays a hand on the sleeping Alonya. Then, she turns and studies the golden. “And where was Alonya taking you and the noble one?” she questions Phigby.
“Honestly, we don’t know,” Phigby concedes. “She only said that we needed to get deeper into the mountains to avoid being seen by Wilders and that she wanted us to meet someone.
“But she didn’t name who that someone wa
s or where we were to meet. However, of a surety, she spoke true, for only a few hours ago did we see Wilder scum skying in the distance.”
At that, the Amazo straightens to stare at Phigby. “How many and how close?”
Just then, a motion in the sky on our back trail catches my eye. I whip up my hand and point. “As many as those.”
Everyone spins around at my declaration. Skying low above the row of hills that we just passed through and maybe five leagues or more distant are six Wilder dragons.
The Golian takes one look and orders, “Swiftly, follow me.”
At a brisk run, the Golian lady leads us through a series of hill valleys until, surprisingly, we turn away from the mountains and back toward the woodlands.
We pass through a sharp cleft between two birchen-covered hills and ahead of us I can see several small mountains, one of which seems to have its top cleanly sheared off as if some Titan had taken his ax and cut off half the mount in one mighty swing.
The giantess halts to scout our back trail, rejoins us, and seemingly satisfied that the Wilders haven’t spotted us, slows down, though what she considers to be a slower pace is still a lumbering gait for the dragons.
Cara pulls Wind Song out of the line and alongside the litter. She seems to be concerned about Alonya. After a bit, Wind Song picks up the pace and comes even with Golden Wind.
As they draw alongside, I ask, “How is she doing?”
“Still sleeping,” Cara curtly answers, staring straight ahead without even a sideways glance at me.
“Her wounds, have they stopped bleeding?”
This time, she turns her head to me as if to acknowledge my presence. “Yes, it appears so,” she says and begrudgingly gestures toward the giant litter. “Thanks to your contraption.”
“That’s good,” I answer, “It’ll give Phigby’s salve more time to work.”
I squirm around so that I can glance back. Between the golden’s movements and the logs dragging across the ground, the litter bounces and sways.
Trying to make light-hearted conversation, I point at the sleeping giant. “Look, she has a little smile on her face. Maybe the litter’s rocking makes her think that she’s back in her cradle.”
