by GARY DARBY
“Even if we find this new haven,” Cara asks, “what then?”
There is an uncomfortable silence to Cara’s pointed question.
Phigby clears his throat and softly says, “What then, my dear Cara? I don’t think any of us know the answer to that question.
“What I do know is that we’ve come through Vay’s best efforts to kill us, we’ve evaded the Wilders, and the golden is not in either of their hands.”
“And let’s hope and pray it continues that way,” Master Boren answers.
He puts a fatherly hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “We’ll just have to hope that this new place opens new doors for us as we’ve certainly shut enough behind so far.”
He turns to Fotina. “Will you and Alonya be well enough to travel?”
She gestures at me and glances sideways at Alonya with a wry smile. “If we are not, then we’ll have your magician here contrive a litter big enough for the two of us to ride in comfort.”
“But,” Alonya says to Phigby, “none of that sleeping potion of yours. I want to be awake if we’re discovered by the Wilders.”
Phigby bows and I can see a bit of embarrassment in his face. “On that you have my word m’lady.”
With Fotina and Alonya in the lead, we march down the flood-strewn stream until we meet another creek that leads up into a narrow valley.
The rushing brook in the vale is lined with trees whose turquoise-colored leaves offer a semblance of cover to our column. After a bit, the channel narrows into a series of rapids where the water spills over boulders and solid rock.
The trees grow sparse, replaced here and there by waist-high scrubby brush that provides little concealment to our band. It’s late morning when we round a bend to find ourselves facing a high, craggy cliff.
A thin waterfall bounces and slides its way down the cliff before tumbling over a steep ledge into a small pool. Tiny waves spread out from where the waterfall splashes into the pool and toss themselves against the pebble-lined bank.
Fotina has us cross the shallow stream, whence we follow a trail that winds up the knoll until we reach a narrow pass between two hills. As with climbing the hill, we hurry through the pass as both are so open that we’d be easily seen by a Wilder.
Our dragons lumber down the hill’s backside before Fotina turns us into another sharp dell that slopes upward toward a range of tall, snow-capped peaks.
From atop Golden Wind, I can see white streamers that seem to spew from the far off mountaintops.
Though Fotina is hurrying us along at a brisk pace, Alonya drops back to walk beside the golden. “How is your leg holding up?” I ask, knowing full well how much it hurts to walk on a bad leg.
She grimaces a bit before saying, “Phigby’s medicine helps.”
She gives me a tiny smile, leans close and whispers, “Though I admit, pride aside, there have been a few moments when I wouldn’t have minded having my leafy litter back, at least to rest on every now and then.”
I glance around, before I whisper back, “Sorry, there are no trees here.”
“I know,” she sighs. “So I will just have to keep marching and be grateful that I have one good leg that doesn’t hurt.”
She points to the towering mountains and the swirling cloud ribbons. “Thawen, the goddess of spring, is sweeping winter’s snow off the peaks. She tries all spring and into the summer, but never finishes.
“Bitterbreeze, Winter’s King, always comes and puts new snow on the mounts before she can complete her task.”
The sprogs poke their heads out of the saddlebags and eye her. She returns their stare and chuckles at their pollywog expressions.
Her laugh causes me to say, “Alonya, if I may, I was told that your people hate dragons, but you’ve not acted that way toward them.”
“Meaning,” she asks, “that all Golians are supposed to despise dragons because of what happened in Queen Escher’s time?”
I nod in reply. “My understanding is that the Wilders and their dragons practically destroyed Golian, and because of that, Golians hate dragons almost as much as—”
The golden’s ears flick back, and I bite my tongue. I nearly said, “as much as I do.”
Alonya glances at me but either she didn’t hear the last part of my comment or she doesn’t pay any heed.
She then says, “That’s because so many in Golian have neither heard the whole story of how your Lord Braveson rescued Queen Escher or they conveniently choose to ignore the part that Braveson’s dragon played in the rescue.”
I turn my head at that. “Are you talking about Crimson Fury?”
“Yes,” she returns. “Braveson’s mighty red dragon.” She reaches out and strokes the golden’s neck. “And born of a golden dragon.”
She gives Golden Wind a small smile and continues. “When Malonda Kur captured and held Queen Escher in Warrior Hall, the very center of Dronopolis, your Lord Braveson led a company of his men, mounted on their own red dragons to Warrior Hall.
“They fiercely battled a whole host of Wilders and their dragons on the hall’s steps. So much blood flowed that it’s said that even today, the steps’ white marble is stained scarlet, and no matter how much scrubbing is taken to the stone, the red has seeped in so deep that it cannot be removed.
“All of Braveson’s men were killed along with their dragons, but so were the Wilders, until only Kur and Braveson were left. Kur’s red dragon was an enormous beast, more than twice the size of Crimson Fury.
“When Braveson met Kur in the hall in their death fight, it was Kur’s dragon who held Escher fast in his huge talons.
“The two dragons fought claw and fang inside the great hall’s confines. Fotina says that in certain places in the ceiling, you’ll see where their spiked tails scoured the stone.
“Flame and smoke filled the hall, and their roars were so loud that it shook the building to its very foundation.
“When it was over, both Kur and his dragon were dead, and Crimson Fury lay dying. He and Lord Braveson had saved Queen Escher, but Crimson Fury gave his life for her.”
I shake my head and murmur, “I never knew.”
“From what I know, few even in Golian care to recall,” she mutters. “For us, it’s an inglorious period in our history and rarely mentioned.”
“And you?” I ask. “How do you know about Crimson Fury if so few other Golians do?”
Alonya pointed ahead to Fotina. “She’s taught me more than just lessons on pride, Hooper. She’s made sure I know as much about Golian as I possibly can.
“So you see, I am aware that not all Drachs are bad, and neither are all dragons.”
I give her a little smile. “I would say she’s done an excellent job on both counts, pride, and history.”
“We shall see, Hooper,” she murmurs, “we shall see.”
Just then, Cara slows Wind Song until she comes even with Alonya and Golden Wind. She leans over slightly and says, “Alonya, Phigby wants to know if you need more elixir to help with the pain.”
“Not now,” Alonya answers. “It would be best if I stay alert. But give him my thanks for his concern.”
“I will,” she answers.
With that, Alonya strokes Golden Wind on the neck before dropping back to the column’s rear, leaving Wind Song plodding next to the golden.
I stare straight ahead, as I’m not sure which Cara is riding alongside, the one who was somewhat pleasant to me this morning or the one who likes to skewer me with verbal darts.
We plod along a bit before I can feel Cara glancing at me sideways. Without returning her gaze, I ask, “Yes, Cara? What is it?”
She waits a moment before saying, “I was just wondering what you and Alonya were discussing.”
I think about it before I swivel in my seat to say, “We were chatting about Golian history and stiff necks.”
“Stiff necks?” she questions with a little laugh.
“Yes,” I answer, “you know, how a stiff neck prevents you from seeing
and understanding what other possibilities might surround you. After all, with a stiff neck, you can only see what’s directly in front of you.”
Staring at her with a straight face, I say, “Or you think that only you know what the truth is.”
Her eyes narrow for a moment before she declares, “Wax philosophical all you want, Hooper, it doesn’t change the fact that you made a fool of me back in the woods.”
She bites down on her lip and shakes her head, her auburn hair swishing about her head. “Lately, the way you’re acting, Hooper, it’s very strange and odd.”
With that, she slows Wind Song to a stop and waits until Helmar and his dragon are abreast.
After a bit, I can’t help myself and glance back. Cara and Helmar are conversing and smiling as they talk. My ears burn. I’m sure they’re speaking and laughing about me, the “odd” and “strange” Hooper.
I glance back again. Cara’s eyes are alight and dancing when she speaks to Helmar. I’m sure that he’s not odd or strange to her.
Reaching down, I stroke Scamper across his chubby tummy. He’s snoozing and doesn’t wake as I murmur, “I guess we’re two of a kind, huh, Scamp? Both of us a bit odd to the rest of the world.”
The valley soon narrows noticeably, and we follow an ill-defined, twisting trail into the high foothills. The way becomes steeper as we curve past small mountains, covered with stubby trees, brush, and short grass.
We crest a knoll and gaze upon another sharp, narrow valley that leads straight into the high mountains.
We halt for a moment to let the dragons rest. Fotina gestures up the vale at a range of tall peaks in the near distance.
“This is Three Peak Vale. Do you see where the three peaks are set close together, and there is another just to the right that stands alone with its peak sheared off?”
“Yes,” Boren acknowledges, “I see.”
“That is Flattop,” she answers, “and our beacon. What we seek sits in the valley between Flattop and the three peaks. But the climb to the valley is not an easy one for either two or four legs.”
I glance at where she’s pointed and remark, “That doesn’t seem all that hard a climb.”
Fotina gives me a demure smile. “Distances can be deceiving in the mountains, Hooper. Once we reach the top, I shall ask you how you enjoyed the easy climb.”
She glances around and asks, “So, if your dragons are rested, let us be off and enjoy our comfortable trek.”
Amil leans over and says, “Methinks, Hooper, that something in her tone tells me that you’re going to regret your comment.”
“You know what?” I answer. “Methinks you’re right.”
It’s not long before we reach the valley’s end and turn into a sharp arroyo. The higher we go in the rising mountains, the sparser the vegetation becomes.
There are a few evergreen trees here and there but even the waist-high shrubs that we pushed through earlier have all but disappeared.
Instead, there is a thin scattering of hardy grass and small plants with odd-shaped leaves that seem to be like cups to either catch the rain or the sunshine.
Without overhanging trees to shelter under and hide the dragons, we will be easy to see if a Wilder dragon wings overhead. One thing about dragons, they’re not hard to spot out in the open, even if they try to hide among a bunch of big rocks.
Boulders don’t have wings or enormous tails.
The sun is well past its high point, and we are noticeably higher in the mountains when I hear Helmar shouting from behind, “Wilders! Wilders!”
Master Boren wheels his dragon around and looks back down the valley. He points off the side, “Everyone, behind that knoll, now!”
“You heard him,” I yelp to the golden. She wheels sharply to the left, and we lumber behind a rocky outcropping that’s covered with granite slabs.
We scrunch all the dragons together into a tight bunch. The mound will hide us from anyone who’s below us on the trail, but not from a Wilder soaring overhead.
As soon as I bring the golden to a stop, Phigby calls out, “Where are they?”
Helmar, with Amil at his side, sprints over and points down the path. “A large flight of Wilders, just to our east and far down the valley.”
Fotina and Alonya’s faces are masks of fury. “They dare come this far into the domain!” Alonya growls.
“Their daring,” Phigby mutters, “comes from either being driven to do so by fear if they don’t, or because the reward is great enough to warrant the risk.”
Fotina turns to Helmar. “Did they see us?”
Helmar shakes his head in answer. “I don’t think so; they didn’t turn as if they did.”
Amil mutters as he surveys our hiding spot, “If they come any closer, and sky higher, it won’t take long before they spot us.”
Master Boren turns to Fotina to ask, “Are we close enough to this hideaway of yours to make a run for it?”
“No,” she states in a flat voice. “We are still too far. And we have a high trail yet to climb where we would be easily seen from the valley below.”
“We cannot just sit here and wait for them to find us,” Amil’s voice shows frustration. “Once we’re discovered, it would just be a matter of time for them to bring in their horde and shoot their arrows at us as if we were apples in a barrel.”
Master Boren motions to Helmar and Amil. “Find places from which to watch, see if they turn toward us. Cara, Hooper, keep the dragons behind this knoll, and whatever you do, keep them out of sight!”
He nods toward Phigby, Fotina, and Alonya. “We need to discuss what options we have.”
While Helmar and Amil climb the little knoll to find a vantage point, Cara takes her bow and with a sideways glance at me moves to the very end of the dragon line.
Phigby, Fotina, Alonya, and Master Boren move off to one side and huddle together, speaking in low, earnest tones.
I hear scrabbling on the golden’s scales and turn. Scamper, naturally, is taking the opportunity to go bouncing off to look for food. I walk to the other side of Golden Wind and murmur very low, “Can you hear or see anything?”
Her ears twitch forward, and her voice is so quiet that I can barely hear her. “They are still far away, but there are a good many of them.”
She hesitates before observing, “If they find us, I am not sure that this will be a battle we can win with weapons alone.”
I nod and reach inside my tunic and touch the jewel. It is cold to the touch. For whatever reason, it appears that I cannot use the gem to help though I’m not exactly sure how I would use it here in our defense.
We stay that way for some time before Helmar slides down from his perch. He rushes over to the four. I edge over so that I can hear.
“It doesn’t appear that they’ve seen us, yet,” he explains. “However, one large flight of the group is moving off, and they’ve left behind a good dozen or more. They’re spreading out, their circles growing ever larger.”
“Like vultures,” Master Boren grinds out in a hard voice, “searching for their prey.”
“How long before they reach us?” Fotina asks.
“Not long,” Helmar answers grimly. “And once they spot us, one or two will break off to gather the larger force that left while the others harass and pin us in one place.”
“My lady,” Phigby asks, “is there any place nearby that can hide us?”
Fotina frowns, peers up the valley for a moment before turning. “Nothing any better than what we have here.”
She motions in the direction of Flattop Mountain. “If you sky from here, most likely you will outrun the Wilders—”
“And leave you two,” Master Boren rasps, “to face the Wilders alone? No, only as a last resort to save the golden will I agree to that. We have to come up with a better way, or hope that they don’t spot us.”
No one speaks until Helmar says with some hesitation, “I have an idea. It may not work, but I think it may be better than sitting here and hoping t
hat they pass us by.”
“Then out with it, “Master Boren orders. “But hurry, son, we don’t have much time.”
Helmar pulls the others away and speaks in a voice so soft that I’m not able to hear. I consider being brash and putting myself into the midst of the conversation, but instead, hang back.
For a few moments, Phigby and Helmar seem to be having an animated conversation before Helmar nods as if agreeing to something that Phigby has said.
Master Boren straightens, places a hand on Helmar’s shoulder, and nods.
Phigby and Helmar hurry over to Wind Glory, Phigby speaking in a hurried tone all the while, but so hushed that I can’t understand his words.
Helmar motions for Amil to join them and moments later, the big man is listening intently to Helmar.
His head jerks back as if in surprise before he gives a curt nod, claps Helmar on the back and dashes back up to his viewpoint, his feet spraying rocks and gravel as he clambers up to the rock slabs.
Phigby dips into his bag and hands Helmar a ball that seems to have a dozen shiny sides to it all the while muttering far too low for me to hear.
Helmar grabs the sphere, jams it in his tunic, hurriedly gets his sapphire to her feet and climbs aboard. He pulls the dragon from the line and strides toward the knoll’s rounded end where Cara kneels.
She jumps to her feet as he stops next to her. He leans down and speaks, to which she gives an anguished cry of, “No!” before he turns his dragon to lumber in the direction from which we just came.
I hurry over to stand next to Phigby, who is watching Helmar disappear down the trail. “Phigby,” I ask in a puzzled, anxious voice, “what is Helmar doing?”
“A very brave act,” Phigby answers, his face somber and grave.
Just then, Cara comes rushing up. “What is he doing?” she demands. “He’s riding straight out in the open. The Wilders will see him!”
“Yes, Cara, they will,” Phigby responds with a sigh. “That is precisely what will happen and precisely what we want to happen.”
She turns to Boren with a cry in her voice, “Father, stop him, this is insane.”
