by GARY DARBY
“Certainly not back through the South Pass,” Amil declares. “Not after what our three scouts saw.”
“No,” Alonya states. “There is no way to sneak past even if the Wilders had but a few sentinels watching the pass.”
She turns to peer at the towering mounts behind us. “They must know that they did not completely destroy Golian and that if we were going to try and spirit the golden out of the domain that it would be either through the mountains or along the seacoast.”
I too glance at the nearby peaks where the Dragon Glow is fading, leaving the mountain’s upper and middle reaches cast in bright sunlight.
“Then,” I ask, “if not South Pass, how do we cross the mountains? We can’t follow the coastline; we’d be too exposed.”
“From both above and from the sea,” Phigby notes. “It’s not just the Wilders that are our enemies now. We can’t forget that the Sung Dar may still have their warships in these waters and will be hungry for a plate heaped with revenge.”
“There are other pathways through the mountains,” Alonya replies, “some that I hope are hidden from the Wilders.”
She pauses for a moment as if in thought. “Our challenge is that the dragons cannot walk all of the trails, they are much too narrow, just wide enough for me.”
Crossing her arms, Alonya settles her hands in the crook made by her elbows while staring with a hunter’s sharp eyes at the mountains. “What we need is a trail that hides us from the Wilders, that’s wide enough for dragons and gets us through the mountains swiftly.”
“And is there such?” Helmar asks.
Alonya nods. “Two readily come to mind. One of which I’ve traveled partway, the other Fotina told me about is farther north.”
She raises her face to the mountains northward. “The one that Fotina described is a very high trail and the pass that it crosses is sometimes filled with snow, even during the warmest times.
“Fotina said that it was used in the olden days to spy down into the lowlands and watch for any enemies that tried to cross into Golian but it hasn’t been used for many, many years to her knowledge.”
“And the name of this snowy crossing?” Amil asks.
Alonya turns to give him a wan smile. “The Grim Heads trail.”
“Grim Heads,” Amil voices to no one in particular under his breath. “Wonderful.”
“And the other?” Phigby questions. “The lower pass?”
“Two-Forks,” Alonya replies. “A lower trail but it is narrow, in some places treacherous, and barely wide enough for even one dragon. Sometimes used by Amazos scouts going and returning to Golian from the middle reaches.”
Her face takes on a troubled expression. “I suspect that it was one of the pathways that Katus was warning me about.”
“These two trails,” I ask with a little apprehension, “are they as steep as the one that we climbed getting into the mountains?”
“No,” Alonya answers and I let out silent breath in relief. “Two-Forks winds deep within the Denalians, and the peaks surrounding it are so high that you cannot fly a dragon over.
“The one drawback that I foresee is that the next gap over from the trail is South Pass and I cannot guarantee that the Wilders don’t know of it. If they do, we may have to fight our way through.
“However, it might serve us well as the trail’s backside is a gradual descent and we could cover a lot ground in a short amount of time.”
“So,” Helmar muses, “what you are suggesting is that if we are unhindered it could be a fast way out of Golian and into the lowlands beyond.”
“Yes,” Alonya acknowledges.
“But,” Amil points out, “unless the Wilders know of or find this Two-Forks pass, there’s not much chance of being seen by them from above because of the mountain’s height.”
Alonya nods in reply. “That is my thinking. But I am sure that at South Pass they will have forces in such numbers that we would face defeat if we tried to fight our way through. Fotina told me that past queens would always have these backways patrolled by—”
She stops and a strange look came over her face. “What is it, Alonya?” Phigby asks with a worried expression.
Alonya shakes her head at him, and her eyes take on a far off look. “Fotina used to fill my head with what I considered useless information that I never understood. Or, sometimes she would send me out to a particular place to explore or take me there on her own.”
Her lips curl up in a small smile. “Until now, I never realized what she was trying to do. I always thought it was just her way of keeping me occupied.”
“And now,” Phigby nods, “you understand that she was training a future queen.”
“Yes,” Alonya agrees, “and all that ‘useless’ information is now becoming so—”
“Useful?” Amil offers.
“More than useful,” Alonya returns in a soft voice, “perhaps life-saving.”
“Or even world-saving,” Phigby offers just as quietly.
“Perhaps that too,” Alonya acknowledges.
“And what of food and water?” Helmar asks. “We and the dragons have eaten and drunk our fill now but do either of these trails of yours provide any opportunity to forage for food and will there be water as well?”
“Water, yes,” Alonya answers. “But as for food?”
She frowns just a little. “We might become lucky and bag ourselves a mountain sheep or two.”
“Are they Golian sized?” I ask with a hopeful smile.
“I’m afraid not,” Alonya answers with a rueful smile. “One alone would barely satisfy Scamper. The forage is thin in the mountains and so are the sheep.”
“Then,” Amil rumbles, “we’d best hope that we come across a herd of several dozen so that he’d at least leave one or two for the rest of us.”
“In the meantime,” Alonya replies as she hefts the large cloth sack that holds the trail rations. “We must make do with this.”
I don’t know how he does it but at that exact moment, Scamper comes bounding up followed by the wallowing sprogs.
Alonya smiles, dips into the sack and tosses a loaf to Scamper. “Here little one, you can have my share today.”
The hard ration bounces once and then both Scamper and Regal pounce upon the ration, tussling with each other, with both claiming the bread as their own.
I go over and separate the two squalling animals, grab the biscuit and toss it to Amil. “Split that, will you?” I ask. “Enough for Scamper and the sprogs.”
With a sideways glance at Alonya, he grumbles, “I’ll try. I just hope I don’t break my blade in doing so.”
With quick swipes of his sharp ax, he cuts the bread in five odd-shaped parts and tosses one to Scamper and the other pieces to the sprogs.
In quick order, Alonya passes out the remaining biscuits to the company until the sack is empty. “That’s all,” she declares.
“Well then,” Phigby mutters, “it would seem that we have little choice but to try one of Alonya’s trails in crossing the mountains and hope the Wilders don’t discover us.”
He turns to pick up the ode book that he had left on the log, but Cara bends down and picks it up first. She runs her hands over the leather covering and then slides a finger around the remaining small depressions on the book’s front binder.
Biting her lip, her voice is hushed, anxious. “Six left.”
“Yes,” Helmar affirms in a grim tone, “and if they hold true as the first two, then six more deaths.”
At that, we all raise our heads and glance at our dragons. Golden Wind, Glory, and Song sit impassive and at ease in the early morning.
The sprites lie with their eyes closed as if asleep next to the golden. The four sprogs, along with Scamper are chomping away on their Golian biscuit.
“Phigby,” Cara asks, her eyes centered on the book, “is there no other way? Does a dragon have to die for a tear-jewel to come forth?”
Phigby tugs on his beard and shifts his weight as if
he’s uncomfortable with her question. “I honestly do not know, my dear. For now, as heartbreaking as it may seem, that may be the only answer.”
Cara’s eyes flash in anger and I can see her hands gripping the book so tight that her knuckles are clear to see. Trembling, as if she’s fighting herself she holds the book out toward our small fire.
“Then I say that we burn it and let the flames consume whatever secrets are left. I for one cannot bear the thought of losing another one of our dragons.”
She takes a breath that brings shudders to her body, “—or of seeing another friend or loved one die.”
Turning to me, Cara’s face holds a fierce expression as if daring me to oppose her.
Returning her piercing stare, I’m at first stunned that Cara, the girl who craves reading, who would walk through dragon fire to find a new book to read, would have such thoughts.
But as I gaze into her eyes, I can see the torment, the anguish. One love battling against another love but for Cara, love of life will always be the victor.
No one speaks as she is peering straight at me. It’s obvious that she wants me to answer—after all, I’m the Gem Guardian, the gemstones come to no one else, and I’m the only one who can open the book.
My mind races, trying to think of how I can reply. Then, one notion finds its way through the maze of other thoughts. “Cara, if it were but me, I would go out into the forest and gather enough wood to have a bonfire ten times over what we have now.
“And I would help you heave that book into the flames. I too, with all my heart do not want to hold another gemstone in my hand that comes to me because of death.”
I stare into her eyes, not blinking. “But your father and Wind Rover died trying to save one person, one soul—your brother.
“What if that book holds the answers of how we can defeat Vay, of how we might be able to save a whole world of souls—not just one person?”
Letting my eyes rove around the group, I say, “Think about what we witnessed in Dronopolis and at Draconton. What if that is going to be the fate of anyone who dares to oppose Vay?
“Would any one of us be willing to make the sacrifice, give up his or her own life to forever defeat Vay’s vileness? To put an end to such as we’ve experienced already?”
No one speaks and the hilltop on which we stand grows still and silent.
There’s not a sound, neither the rush of wind through the sparse grass, or the little scurrying sounds of field mice in the bare underbrush, or the flutter of wings of a bird overhead.
It’s as if all of nature, the forest, the rivers, the hills, and mountains await our answer.
There is the distinctive scraping of dragon scales as first Golden Wind rises, then Wind Glory and Wind Song. The four sprites flutter just above the ground and the four sprogs turn away from their play with Scamper.
The dragons form a tight circle around us, solemn and somber with their gazes fixed on the book that Cara holds above the fire. None of us speaks until Alonya straightens and declares, “I would.”
Amil joins her. “As would I.”
“And I,” Helmar echoes.
Phigby raises himself, peers at the circle of dragons. “And I.”
He sweeps an arm at our circle of dragons. “And, it appears, so would they.”
He then holds out a hand toward Cara and the book. “It would seem that we have our answer, dear Cara.”
Cara hesitates for an instant, then with a sob, thrusts the book at him, before she turns and runs to Wind Song. She wraps her arms as far around the dragon’s neck as she can and presses her head against its scales.
Watching her, I think to myself, it’s so easy to voice brave words, but it’s deeds that tell whether your words are more than just hollow utterances.
And I can’t help but wonder, were my words empty, or do I believe in what I spoke? In time, I suppose, my deeds will answer that question.
With a glance at the sobbing Cara, Amil, Helmar, and Phigby walk over to their dragons to make ready while I gather up the sprogs to put them into their saddlebags.
I too gaze toward Cara who still stands with her head pressed against Wind Song.
“Please,” I whisper to Golden Wind, “tell me, for Cara’s sake, that Wind Song will not die. I don’t think Cara can stand another broken heart.”
The golden blinks several times, her sad eyes toward me. “I cannot, Hooper. That is something that only the Fates know and a secret that they never reveal. But I can tell you that Cara’s heart will mend and her grief as well as her anger will someday subside.”
Turning my head to gaze over at Cara, I see that Wind Song has brought her head down and for all the world it appears that the sapphire is nuzzling Cara as if to try and soothe her sorrow.
I raise a corner of my mouth in a tiny, grateful smile. If anyone can ease Cara’s pain, it will be her beloved dragon and friend.
At a sound behind me I turn to find the sprites have settled themselves on the ground and now sit, staring up at me. “It seems that we have added four more to our little company.”
“Yes,” Golden Wind answers, “it would appear so.”
I turn to her with a mock glare in my eyes. “And I wonder just how they got here?”
Golden Wind looks toward the mountains. “Oh, I suspect the same way we did, through the mountain passes and then into—”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
She swings her head down toward me. “Hooper, just be grateful that we have friends who will stand by our side, even when things seem to be at their worst.”
“I am very grateful,” I reply and stroke her muzzle, “more than you know. Especially since it appears that we must enter a dark, dismal swamp where Vay would feel right at home.”
I glance over at the distant angry red line that marks the fires still smoldering in Dronopolis. “I just hope it doesn’t turn out as badly.”
She curls her head around to stare at the churning smoke that appears to rise as high as the nearby mountains that surround the once proud and imperial city.
“So do I, Hooper, but it is not a murky swamp that we should fear, it is those whose lives have become dark and loathsome. Those who turn from the light and of a willing heart tread in the shadows.”
She remains silent as if she’s reluctant to go on, but then murmurs, “And they do not hide in a swamp but walk in the open among us.”
I nod in understanding before I again peer toward Cara, who has stepped back from Wind Song but still strokes her dragon’s neck with one hand.
Watching her, I think to myself, there are times I wish I had been born a dragon by the name of Wind Song and could feel such love. What could be grander than that?
In my mind—nothing.
Chapter Four
There is no more discussion of our path, as it seems that we have only one road to take and a dangerous one that will grow more perilous with each step.
Our preparations to leave are quick and brief as we have little that needs preparing for the journey. Like vagabonds traveling down a dusty country road, what we carry is on our persons or in the case of the sprogs carried in saddlebags tied to a dragon.
Cara helps me get the sprogs into their carryall atop Golden Wind and as she does, I pause and ask, “Are you all right, now?”
She sniffs a little and there’s still a glisten in her eyes as she answers, “Yes, it’s just so hard to accept that those you love will someday die and you won’t have them in your life.”
Stopping what she’s doing, she murmurs, “When my mum died, I realized just how much I had taken her for granted as if she would always be there and now . . .” she chokes, unable to go on.
“I know,” I whisper. She gives me a little smile and we hurry to lash down the sprogs while Scamper takes up his usual place on the golden’s head as if he were a sailing ship’s master at the helm.
Settling in behind him, I snug Galondraig down in its scabbard, and soon we’re plodding behi
nd Alonya on the same trail that Desma and her cohort have taken earlier away from Dronopolis.
The four pixie dragons fly alongside Golden Wind for a bit before they land on her back scales and settle in for the ride.
Glancing back at the two yellow and two orange dragons, I ask Golden Wind, “Is it all right for them to be back there? It seems to me that you’re carrying a load already. I mean with your sprog and all.”
She replies with an indulgent chuckle. “It’s fine, Hooper. I invited them, and besides, they add very little to my ‘load’ as you call it. Remember, I pulled Alonya’s litter for a long way.”
“That’s right,” I admit, “you did.”
I then ask in a hesitant voice, “Are you and your sprog all right? You’ve been doing a lot of flying and fighting—and other things of late, like dragging Alonya. It hasn’t been too much, has it?”
“No, Hooper,” she answers. “I’m well and so is she.”
I jerk upright. “She?” I stammer. “You know she’s a she?”
“Of course,” she answers in a nonchalant tone.
“Oh,” is all I can answer at first. Then, after thinking about it for a bit, I ask, “Do all dragon mothers know if their sprog will be a girl or a boy?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Oh,” I answer again. I work my mouth from side to side for a moment as I mull overe her reply. “I have so much to learn about dragons still.”
“Indeed, you do, Hooper, but you’re learning.”
I glance ahead at our party as we make our way down the pathway. Catching sight of Phigby, I say, “Phigby once said that when he was young, he thought he knew everything and as he got older, the more he realized how little he actually knew about life and the world around him.”
My lips curl up in a small smile. “I didn’t understand what he meant then, now I think I do. I’ve spent almost my entire life around dragons and thought that I knew everything there is to know about your kind.”
“And now?” the golden asks.
“Now? Now, I’m beginning to realize that what I know of dragons is rather small.”
I laugh just a bit. “Maybe more than small.”
