On Wings of Thunder (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 3)

by GARY DARBY

  She puts her back against Wind Song’s sky blue scales, slides to the ground, pulls her legs up close, and wraps her arms around them tight. Cara’s tone is husky, needing. “I admit, Helmar’s plan of returning to Draconstead pulls at me. I want to go home, though I know that’s being too sentimental as all that I would find there are charcoal and ashes.”

  She shudders while pulling her knees up to her chin. “Or other even more horrific scenes.”

  Pausing, she raises her eyes to Golden Wind. “But still, it’s home and it calls to me in a way that no other place does, or ever could.”

  I sit down next to her, and she swings her face around to me, and I nod in understanding. “Funny,” I begin, “I never thought I would ever think of Draconstead with fondness or as home.

  “But,” I laugh small, “I admit, compared to what we’ve been through, the idea of being back in the birthing barn, mucking out the stalls, getting harassed by Arnie and Hakon doesn’t seem all that bad, now.”

  I give her a crooked little smile. “I guess you never know what home means until you leave it, or worse, lose it forever.”

  My smile widens a bit. “Besides, where else could you take a girl to climb an oak tree and pilfer one of Phigby’s books?”

  Cara can’t help herself and laughs lightly at the memory. She nudges me with an elbow in a playful gesture. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

  Her smile is soft as she replies, “Thanks.”

  Just then, we lift our heads as the voices from around the fire grow in volume and ferocity. Snorting, I say, “They’re back at it, again. All of them.”

  Golden Wind cranes her neck to peer in the direction of the passionate argument. Amil’s and Helmar’s voices seem to bounce off the scattered boulders that sit atop the small hill.

  “They do seem most ardent and concerned about my well-being,” she observes.

  “They are, Golden Wind, and so are we,” Cara answers. “We have to keep you away from Vay and the Wilders—the question is how and where. We came to the Golian Domain hoping that the Golians would honor Queen Escher’s promise and protect us.

  “Instead,” she goes on in sadness, “they and we were betrayed, and now their city is destroyed, and so many Golians died. We can’t let that happen again. But we still have to find a way to protect you.”

  No one speaks for several moments, and my mind swirls around and around as if I were caught in a whirlpool, not of water, but of thoughts.

  Shrugging, one corner of my mouth turns down in a small frown. “I admit that I have no idea of what to do. We can’t go with the Golians for their own sake; we can’t trust that King Leo isn’t conspiring with the Wilders so that seems to suggest avoiding the Northern Kingdom, if possible. And we have no idea who else is in league with Vay, so where does that leave us?”

  Cara’s eyes are somber as I ask her, “Is going back the answer? I’ve always trusted Helmar’s judgment, but on this, it . . .”

  My voice trails off before I shake my head at her. “It just doesn’t feel right, but neither does making for Wynsur Castle. There has to be another answer.”

  Cara gazes upward at the sky that grows lighter with each passing moment, chasing away the stars one by one. “We need to find a spot where the Wilders can’t find us,” she murmurs as if thinking aloud.

  “A place where we can hide Golden Wind from spying eyes, safeguard her, and of greatest importance, so that she can birth her sprog without fear.”

  I grunt, “Exactly,” and turn to Golden Wind. “But where?”

  The golden swings her head around until her muzzle is so close to Cara and me that I can feel her warm breath. “Everyone seems unable to see that we already have the answer. Or rather, part of the answer.”

  I snap my head up. “We do?”

  “Of course,” she answers. “It’s right here. It’s been here the whole time.”

  Cara and I both look around, but all we see is the rocky ground, jagged boulders, and the high hills that lead to the towering Denalian Mountains behind them.

  Almost in unison, we demand, “Where?”

  The golden’s eyes show just a hint of amusement. “Are you sure you don’t know? It’s given us answers before, you know.”

  Cara and I whip around to face to each other. “The book,” I state.

  “Of course,” Cara agrees, “the Gaelian Fae book.”

  “Yes,” the golden answers as she turns her gaze on me. “Use the gift of Wind Rover’s sapphire gemstone to open the book. It will point the way for us.”

  I put my hand on my tunic and feel the hardness of the two dragon-jewels tucked safely in my inner pocket. “Are you sure?”

  “I am very sure,” the golden answers with confidence. “Did the book not show us the way before?”

  “Yes,” I reply, “and look where it got us.”

  Golden Wind swings her head a little closer. “Hooper, even a dim trail in the dark forest is better than a path without any light, don’t you think?”

  Cara and I glance at each other before Cara nods at me. “She has a point, at least we would have a goal instead of standing around here arguing with each other.”

  We push ourselves to our feet and with quick strides make our way over to the group. As we get close, I hear Amil declare, “And I say, we need allies, someone strong enough to not only guard the golden but to rally others to our cause.”

  “And I say,” Helmar replies in as firm a voice, “that we need to—”

  “Open the Gaelian Fae book,” I finish for him, “with this.” I hold up the sapphire stone.

  I glance at Cara who gives me a little nod to go on. “Wind Rover gave it to me just before she died. I believe it will open the book and give us guidance on where we take our next steps.”

  Phigby, who had been sitting with his head down while poking at some pebbles with a stick, raises his head and gives me a satisfied smile. I can’t help the feeling that he was just waiting for me to speak up and display the sapphire gem.

  But that can’t be right because he doesn’t know that I have the sapphire as just Cara and Golden Wind know that I now possess a second magical stone.

  Or does he somehow know?

  No one speaks but they exchange quick glances among themselves, none more so than the Golians, who stare with open wonder. Phigby gestures toward me. “Hooper has a valid point. After all, it was the book that led us here.

  “Moreover,” he goes, “since we are somewhat safe for the moment, now would be the best time for us to see what the book has to offer. He’s right in that it may just aid us in choosing our path.”

  With that, he reaches deep within his haversack and draws out the Gaelian Ode book.

  Noticing the three Golians’ evident puzzlement and surprise, Phigby hastens to explain how Voxtyrmen, the emerald dragon tear-jewel, opened the ode book, which in turn, led us to Golian.

  “And you believe,” Queen Alonya asks, “that this second gemstone and the book will then show your next path?”

  “Yes,” Phigby replies. He gives me a quick sideways glance. “And perhaps more.”

  Cara and I sit on a lumpy, small boulder next to Phigby, and he hands me the ode manuscript.

  The others gather around as I place the sapphire gem, Truorka, which, except for its coloration, is the same tear-drop shape as the emerald jewel, in the book cover’s second slot.

  The sapphire glows bright, and an instant later, the orb clasp snaps open, and the pages shuffle as if a sudden breeze rushes through the tome until they stop.

  The page before us glistens in an azure hue as if we were gazing at the deep-blue sky itself. Around the page’s edge are snow-white clouds that seem to float and sail along as if pushed by a gentle breeze.

  Soaring in and among the clouds are all manner of birds in flight. Dainty dawn birds, their soft white bodies tinged with just a hint of orange flit in front of a rising sun.

  Scarlet redbirds sweep past in a rush as if chasing butterflies
above a lush meadow. Flashy yellow finches streak across the page as if playing tag with each other while brilliant bluebirds trill a soft melody whose notes seem to float right off the page.

  At each corner is a beautiful, cobalt-colored dragon, whose wings and whole body move as if it were alive and skying through the air.

  And in the page’s very center, as if flying upward from a distant point comes the image of one sleek, sky-blue sapphire dragon.

  Cara begins to cry. “Cara, what’s wrong?” I’m quick to question.

  She turns to me with tears streaming down her pale pink cheeks and motions toward the blue haze. “Oh, Hooper, I see her, I see Wind Rover.”

  Nodding, I whisper, “Me, too.”

  My eyes go back to the image of Wind Rover as she comes to a stop, her wings beating gently, as if hovering in midair, just above the page.

  Lifting her head up, Rover’s eyes are bright, alert, alive as she bows her head to both Cara and me before her image fades away.

  In its place, bright lettering appears, in sapphire hue, and edged in glittering gold. The letters float for an instant before they snap themselves onto the page.

  I glance at Cara and push the book over to her while mumbling, “Here, I think you should read this one.”

  Giving me a tiny smile, she places the book in her lap and in a soft voice reads:

  Blue its scales were set to be

  Quicker than wind and surely as free

  To soar through cloud and azure sky

  Low as the crawven, and to eagle’s high

  Through a summer’s day or winter’s night

  Wings spread wide in sheer delight

  To top the clouds and below to gaze

  The joy found in the sun’s bright rays

  From Truorka, these gifts to come

  Given by choice and freely done

  Rising faith and wisdom true

  And call the wind in fearsome brew

  But with these gifts a warning fair

  Use Truorka with goodness and care

  For to you, the jewel is not to serve

  But only to those who truly deserve.

  And of this, I have freely done

  For him, I give willingly to the one

  Whose work has only just begun

  So that he grows still, the cutter’s son.

  And for this, I gladly do my part

  A willing spirit, ready to depart

  Always together, never apart

  To remember ever, the sacrifice of the heart.

  For long moments, no one speaks before Cara sobs a little to Phigby, “This time, I’ll remember every word.”

  He pats her hand and gives her an understanding smile. “I’m sure you will.”

  I pull my finger along the page’s edge and as before, I find that I can slip my finger under another page and turn it over. I nudge Cara, who, in a quiet tone, reads,

  To hide the golden from Vay’s many eyes

  A journey to take from icy mountains to sunny isles

  There is no trail, no easy way

  The burdens that come most heavily weigh

  The journey continues it does not end

  Even with the loss of those called friend

  Slake your sorrow, ease the pain

  But do not stop and give Vay the gain

  From the giant’s Golian Domain

  Turn southward to cross the river’s plain

  More days to reach your loathsome goal

  The Swamp of Lost and Tormented Souls

  There to hide from Vay both day and night

  Draw the veil over her malevolent sight

  But count the time most carefully and well

  For it is not a place for you to dwell

  For after you pass through Ukur’s Gate

  It is death that you will surely race

  No rest at night, no repose by day

  Until you finally pass through Perseon’s Way

  But in that place where vileness does reign

  Meet your demons, and ease your pain

  Find your enemy, find your friend

  And bring your rage to a final end.

  As before, as soon as Cara stops reading, the book and the orb clasp snaps in place. We all stare at the sealed book for several moments before, without speaking, I take the sapphire crystal and place it in my tunic pocket.

  With a sigh, Phigby takes the book from Cara and runs a hand over the smooth cover as if in deep reflection over what Cara has just read.

  I glance over at the golden, and our eyes meet. In my mind, I can hear Cara’s voice again,

  But with these gifts a warning fair

  Use the jewel with goodness and care

  For to you, the jewel is not to serve

  But only to those who truly deserve.

  I truly am but the gems’ guardian. They are not mine to wield for my own self-serving purposes. I am to use them for the benefit of others.

  Hooper, who was the lowest of servants at Draconstead, is still the lowest of servants, meant only to carry the gems and to exercise them in the service of others.

  But never for myself.

  “The Gate of Ukur and into the Wailing Swamp,” Amil sputters in disbelief. “That can’t be right. There must be some mistake.”

  Cara turns to Amil. “What do you mean?”

  Instead of Amil answering her, Phigby swings to Amil and questions, “You’ve been there, Traveler?”

  “Aye,” Amil scowls, “I’ve been there, or rather I got close but never had the desire to reach the gate and pass into the Swamp of Misery.”

  I never thought I’d see it, but for a moment, I believe there is a semblance of fear on his face. Or perhaps, the pain of remembering something you’ve tried hard to forget.

  Amil’s voice is like low thunder in the far distance. “When I was much younger and much more foolish than I am now.”

  He lifts one side of his mouth in a crooked smile. “The young think they are immortal, you know, and can vanquish every foe they meet.”

  “Not to mention that they know everything,” Phigby grunts.

  Amil nods. “Aye, that too.”

  “Why did you call it the Wailing Swamp?” Cara asks. “The book said the Swamp of Lost and Tormented Souls.”

  Amil stares hard at his ax and shakes his head. “Because, as I approached, it was the most horrible wails and screams I did hear. And ragged laughter as if from a hundred madmen and sounds that I cannot put a name to, nor did I want to see what made them.”

  Dropping his head to stare at the ground, he lets out a long breath. “To my shame, I stopped short before I reached Ukurs Gate and fled, afraid that whatever trod behind the cursed veil would hunt me down.”

  He rests his forearms on the head of his ax. “I’ve never gone back nor had any desire to again cross through the murk and quagmires that lead to that noxious place.”

  He straightens and thrusts a finger in my direction. “But I can tell you what lies past Ukur’s Gate, Hooper.”

  “I’m listening,” I answer while licking my lips, and swallowing. “What’s on the gate’s other side?”

  “Death, that’s what,” Amil snorts.

  He waves a hand at the book. “Oh, the ode is certainly right that we’ll meet our demons. If the tales are true, then past the gate is nothing but leagues upon leagues of dark, dreary, bewitched swampland where the sun never shines.

  “It’s filled from one end to the other with the most noxious creatures imaginable. Serpents big enough that they can swallow a whole dragon and then look for a second just to appease their monstrous appetite.”

  Pushing his face close to mine, he spreads his arms wide. “Crocs whose mouths are broader than an Elepho Oxen’s horns, filled with teeth sharper than my blade and whose jaws are so powerful that they can snap the finest sword in two with one bite.”

  He ducks his head, pretending to be a swamp croc, and then raises it, his eyes sweeping back and forth as if he were search
ing. “They lie in wait, just below the murky surface, only their crimson eyes showing, waiting to snap up with a single bite the unwary traveler.”

  Raising his arms, he waves his ax around as if he were warding off a swarm of flies. “Fire ghosts that materialize out of the fog as if the cloud itself burned; ready to sear your body into nothing but a lump of charcoal.

  “Monstrous rats, bigger than horses, ready to rip your heart out with claws sharper than an eagle’s talons. Poisonous vapors that suck the breath out of you leaving you clutching at your throat as you try to take one final breath. And quicksand so deep that it would cover Aster’s giant dragon until not a scale was to be seen.”

  He draws in a breath and scowls so deep that I think he’s going to break his jaw. “That’s what you’ll find in that infernal marsh where no sane person would ever venture.”

  I can’t help myself and cast a sideways glance at Phigby. “Amil the Embellisher or Amil the Truth Teller?”

  Phigby glances at the big man and gives him a small smile. “A little of both perhaps. The rats aren’t near as big as horses, more like good-sized hogs.”

  “What?!” Cara sputters. “You can’t be serious!”

  Phigby gives her a little smile. “Nothing that a healthy dose of dragon fire couldn’t cure, I assure you.”

  “That may be,” Helmar offers, “but what possible reason would we have to undertake the journey and enter such a terrible place?”

  For some reason, Phigby casts a quick glance my way as he scratches at his cheek. “The answer, Helmar, rests with the ode and the swamp’s nature.”

  “Explain, Master Phigby,” Alonya requests.

  Phigby nods and begins in a solemn voice. “The Swamp of Lost and Tormented Souls, or as Amil called it, the Wailing Swamp is a place where only the gods can see, or rather, can see into.”

  “Mortals, such as ourselves, and those from the Upper and Lower Realms cannot gaze past the veil that surrounds and covers the quagmire.”

  He sighs. “It is a place that is cut off from the world, and what happens therein is known only to the gods themselves.”

  “So,” I ask, “you’re saying that if we take Golden Wind into this marshland, she will be hidden from Vay or anyone else for that matter?”