by GARY DARBY
Without the sun, the air has taken on a chilled feeling which I can feel even through my bandages. “Even that little nook will do at this point,” Phigby acknowledges as all but me climb off their dragons.
“Can we chance a fire?” Cara asks as she rubs her hands over her arms to warm herself. “Since the sun dropped, it’s freezing.”
Alonya and Phigby turn to survey the cleft. “If,” Phigby muses, “we had a sprite next to the back wall and the dragons in close, then yes, I don’t see much light escaping. Would you agree, Alonya?”
She studies the cleft, nodding in thought at Phigby’s suggestion. “Yes, if we kept the fire very low, I think it will work.”
At that, Helmar turns and gestures to where the two dead sheep lie astride Wind Glory. With a little bow from the waist to Cara, he declares, “After we skin our supper, would my lady like me to scrape the fleecing so that she has a woolen overcoat to wear against the night air?”
“Mock me all you want, Helmar Stoudtman,” Cara replies, “but it wasn’t your arrowheads that you pulled out of those muttonheads, was it?”
“Indeed not,” Amil rumbles. “And except for Alonya’s hit on the Vargs’ pack leader, I’ve never seen two finer shots.”
Cara acknowledges Amil’s compliment with a quick curtsy to him and an upturned nose and sniff to Helmar. He gives her a little grin and together with Amil, make for the sheep.
Still sitting on Golden Wind I lean over toward Cara. “Those were fantastic arrow flights, Cara, they really were.”
She smiles up at me and whispers, “Thank you. To tell you the truth, I surprised even myself but don’t tell Helmar that. I want him to stew over it a bit more.”
Phigby has walked over to where Amil and Helmar are working on the sheep. He leans down and utters something so low that I can’t hear. The two listen and then with quick glances toward me, nod and go back to work.
Alonya comes over and scoops me off Golden Wind. I start to protest but her response is curt, “Phigby gave orders that you are not to walk, not yet anyway. So, enjoy the pampering while you can, Master Hooper.”
Her face turns serious as she carries me over next to the cleft’s one side. “It may not last long.”
Setting me down on a raised rock, she steps back to motion toward the trail. “I’m going to scout ahead for just a bit and I’ll be back. I’m trusting that you won’t let them eat all that mutton before I return.”
Grateful for her help, I say, “Rest assured, I’ll make sure you get an ample portion. Which means keeping Scamper away from the meat.”
Smiling, she’s off down the trail. I watch as Amil and Helmar work to worry off the sheep’s wooly skin. The sprogs and Scamper sit to one side, eyes avid, mouths open, and tongues drooling.
Cara is arranging the dragons in a tight semicircle at the cleft’s arched mouth. Once done, she and Phigby come over, Cara to sit next to me while Phigby examines my bandages.
He nods after a few moments. “Dry and no bleeding,” Phigby announces. “How’s the pain?”
Not wanting to appear weak in front of Cara, even though the pain is quite sharp, I reply, “Tolerable. The cold seems to help.”
“Hmm,” he replies, scratching at his beard, “well, we should be able to do something about that soon and to help you walk. You can’t spend your life riding around on a dragon.”
“Why not?” Cara quips. “I could, or better yet, skying.”
“Humph,” Phigby grunts. “With you, Cara Dracon, I suppose that would be true.”
He taps a finger to pursed lips for a moment as he gazes at my feet. “I don’t want to give you anything for pain, Hooper, as it muddles your mind and right now, all of us need to have our wits about us.”
Leaning a little closer, his voice is deep, comforting. “Listen, Hooper, many, many people have lost more than you and manage quite well. Rest tonight, but tomorrow, you need to try and walk some.”
I glance sideways at Cara. “Rest, he says, with voices in the night.”
“Yes,” Phigby acknowledges between tight lips, “and that is why we all need our minds and swords sharp.”
With that, he gives me a gentle slap on the leg, straightens, and goes over to stand next to Amil and Helmar to act as a guard between the sprogs, Scamper, and our meat.
I nudge Cara with an elbow. “Did you hear them, too?”
She nods and draws in a deep breath. “They were awful, like a hundred snakes hissing at each other.”
Her shoulders shudder. “I think I’d rather face a whole host of Wilders than what’s behind those voices.”
“Maybe tonight will be different,” I respond, my voice hopeful, “and we’ve left them behind.”
“Maybe,” she answers but I can tell she’s not convinced that the phantom-like voices won’t return.
The evening deepens until there’s but a bit of light when Helmar and Amil have finished their task and hunks of mutton meat lie on one sheepskin.
Before Phigby can stop them, Scamper and the sprogs get into a tug-of-war over the other sheepskin. With Cara’s help, he’s able to retrieve the wooly skin and rolls it up to tuck under his arm for safekeeping.
Before the sprogs and Scamper can raid the small mound of mutton meat, Helmar and Amil throw each of them little pieces to keep them busy while they take what’s left of the sheep’s skeleton and guts and feed that to the adult dragons and sprites.
When they’re finished, they drag the meat over under the cleft. Amil grouses while looking at the pitiful pile of meat chunks. “Those were two of the skinniest woolies I’ve ever met. There’s just enough for a few mouthfuls.”
“If you don’t want yours,” Cara smiles, “I’ll trade you for what’s left of my share of Alonya’s bricks to gnaw on.”
“Please,” Amil answers and rubs at his jaw. “I’m not sure my teeth can stand another round of chewing just to get one mouthful down.”
At the approaching sound of Alonya’s heavy footfalls, he’s quick to turn and call out, “Not that I’m ungrateful to have such a tasty morsel to break my teeth upon.”
“You’re just not hungry enough, Traveler,” she retorts. “Starvation makes warrior bread sweet and delectable to the palate.”
“Hmmm,” Amil muses, “starvation or a broken jaw and teeth. A weighty decision indeed.”
“No decision for me,” Phigby grumps as he hooks a thumb at the meat. “Hooper, call one of your sprites so that we can have both warmth and the roasting of meat.”
“Dazzle,” I call and the orange sprite scuttles over. I point at the back wall. “Can we have a small fire, please?”
In answer, the orange dragon shuffles next to the nook, begins to glow, and then small flames start to flow over his body.
Cara smiles in delight. “I just can’t believe that they do that.”
“Well, believe it,” Amil answers with a little gleam in his eye, “for I have an idea.”
He holds out a hand to Cara. “An arrow please from the Mistress of the Hunt.”
She gives him a pleased smile, reaches over her back, retrieves a sharp-pointed bolt and hands it to Amil. He skewers a piece of meat and holds it over Dazzle.
In moments, the smell of roasting mutton fills the small cave. Dazzle holds his head up just as a drop of mutton grease falls from the broiling meat.
“I’d say that’s an even trade,” Amil jests, “his fire for my mutton grease.”
The other sprites must have seen for they come waddling over, to jostle for position next to Dazzle. They lend their flames to his and raise their heads, eager eyes and faces turned upward.
Cara laughs and points to the other sprites. “Looks like they want to get in the act, too.”
She reaches back, slips out two arrows and holds them up to me. “Stay put, Hooper, I’ll be back with some hot and juicy meat for the both of us.”
It’s not long before everyone but me has outstretched arrows cooking their meat over the four sprogs. In turn, the little drag
ons get a steady drop of mutton fat as it drips off the flesh.
Soon, Cara and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder gnawing on our small pieces of meat. The sprites, except Dazzle, turn off their fire and curl up next to Scamper and the sprogs. As Night’s Curtain falls over us Dazzle’s heat is just enough to keep the chill off the mountain air.
With my belly somewhat full from the mutton and warmed by Dazzle’s fire, I forget about the pain in my feet and in my heart.
“Tomorrow early,” Alonya explains after swallowing the last of her sheep meat, “we’ll reach the fork in the trail.”
“Right back where we started,” Amil frowns.
“Yes,” Phigby answers over his shoulder from where he has sat for some time with his back to us.
He seems to be working with the one sheepskin that he saved and other than the sounds of scissors clipping now and then we have no idea what he’s doing.
“But be grateful that we’re alive,” he goes on to say. “We could have lost more than just a few days of travel time.”
“Trust me,” Amil rumbles, “the longer we avoid that accursed swamp the more grateful I become.”
With that, Phigby turns and holds up what he’s been constructing. A pair of boots made of wooly sheepskin. With a smile, he comes over, kneels in front of me and unlaces the first.
“These,” he begins as he slips first one and then the other on my wrapped feet, “will be both warm and soft and shouldn’t hurt your feet too much.”
He laces them snug. “Though firm enough that you’ll be able to walk soon.”
“Phigby, thank you,” I choke. I swallow hard to clear my throat. “They’re wonderful. So soft and—”
Before I can finish, the dragons are on their feet snorting. Scamper whirls on all four paws to snarl toward the darkness while the sprogs start screeping.
From the blackness beyond Golden Wind and the sapphires come eerie, raspy voices growing louder in an angry, stomping chant.
Death. Death.
Death to invaders.
Death to dragon lovers.
Death to who would steal our gold.
Chapter Nine
The others fly off their seats like an arrow shot from a bow. Cara, Helmar, and Alonya have arrow shafts notched by the time they reach the snorting, pawing dragons who face the mountainside from where the eerie, chilling chant sounds.
Amil with his ax and Phigby with a gleaming sword is right behind the three. I grimace as I set feet to ground though the pain is not as bad as I expected and hobble forward, Galondraig in hand.
Coming to stand next to Phigby, I peer outward into the darkness. He lays a firm hand on my shoulder. “Good lad.”
The starlight is such that I can just make out the craggy mountainside across the way but what I see causes my eyes to widen and I suck in a draft of air.
“Phigby . . .” I start to gurgle to which he answers, “Easy, Hooper,” and strides forward to join the others who stand poised with drawn bows.
I step over next to Golden Wind who’s pushed her head forward, her cat eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are they?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer but swings her muzzle from side to side, her eyes fixed on the shadowy slopes and what seems to be coming out of the mountain’s bowels.
Rising from the mountainside, like ghosts from a dark graveyard, are eerie, wavy figures.
My eyes grow bigger than Scamper’s appetite as I watch what seems to be a whole host of the creatures sweep down the mountain.
Dozens upon dozens of shapeless, wispy beings float just above the ground. For several heartbeats, they seem to take the shape of a Drach, before they again seem to dissolve into glowing, formless spirits.
I take a few steps forward to stand closer to my companions. Galondraig’s hilt feels sweaty in my palm and I can’t help but wonder if cold steel and arrow bolts will do any good against these ebon wraiths.
Without a sound, the apparitions rush up and stop several dragon’s lengths in front of us. From deep, dark eye sockets, the phantoms turn black orbs on us.
In their hands are swords that seem real and hard one moment, and then shapeless, without form the next.
A tremor passes through me for it’s apparent that these are not friends, either of Drachs, dragons, or Golians, for that matter.
In fact, somehow I know that they are no friend to anyone living.
I lean toward Phigby and hiss, “What are these things?”
“What General Katus warned us about, I’m afraid,” he returns. “In the far north, they’re called the Bergster, while farther south they’re named the Jallhugr.”
“Jallhugr?” Cara calls over her shoulder.
“Mountain spirits,” Phigby answers. He shakes his head. “Irrespective of their name, they should not be here.”
“Really?” Amil snorts. “If they’re not here then what is it that I see in their hands? Unreal swords?”
“Whatever they’re called,” Alonya growls, “they don’t seem friendly.”
“Trust me, they’re not,” Phigby replies, raising his voice a bit. “Keep your hands tight on your weapons and your senses alert. We may need both in due time.”
He starts to take a step forward, and I reach out a hand to stop him. “What are you doing, Phigby? You just said that they weren’t friendly.”
“I did, Hooper,” he replies, “but one can always hope that such things as these will act out of character to avoid bloodshed.”
“Aye,” Amil agrees stoutly, “let’s avoid bloodshed, especially ours.”
Phigby steps in front of the wavering mass and holds up a hand. “We come in peace and only mean to pass through these mountains into the lowlands beyond. We mean no harm to you and yours.”
One of the beings floats closer, its sword gripped tight. “You lie,” it replies in a cold voice. For an instant, the thing’s utterings sound just like Vay at our first meeting in Draconstead’s forest.
However, his voice is louder. Much, much louder and seems to flow in and out of the mountains on all sides.
It raises its dully glowing sword at the golden. “She and the others have come to take our treasure, our beautiful gold! We know that is what dragons do, is it not? To covet and hoard as much gold as they can? To say that you merely want to cross through these lands with such as those is nothing but a lie.”
It waves its blade in front of the golden and Phigby, the menace clear. “But it will not get our hoard, not if you and it want to live. You may return the way you came, but you cannot—you will not go past this point.”
With that, it swings its sword downward and strikes the ground at Phigby’s feet. In an instant, the rocks and soil turn into hard ice that fountain upward into sharp shards that shower over the company.
The dragons jerk back in surprise and paw at the ground with their talons while the rest of us duck and throw up an arm to shield our faces from the cascading ice.
The chief Jallhugr points at the shattered ice. “That is your fate if you try and pass. Go back and do not return. We give you one chance to live, but only one.”
Phigby straightens and his voice is firm. “We cannot go back, that way is closed. There is no way for us to climb over a mountain of ice and snow.”
The thing thrusts his sword toward our dragons. “Then let your foul beasts carry you across! I do not care, only begone and swiftly before I lose my patience and unleash my fellows upon you.”
His voice is as cold as the shattered ice at our feet. “If not, then you will die where you stand.”
Phigby holds up a quick hand. “Wait. We do not seek your gold, and neither do these dragons. You see, they have no need to covet gold for they are guarding treasure that is much more valuable than gold.”
The Jallhugr leader throws back its head and from its round, ebony mouth comes a haunting laugh. “What could be more precious than gold?”
For a moment, I think that Phigby is going to say that the dragons are guarding me, the Ge
m Guardian, and Golden Wind.
Instead, he states, “Souls.”
He draws in a breath. “Precious souls. The greatest treasure that anyone will hold or ever guard.”
“Fool!” the Jallhugr sneers. “With gold’s wealth, you can buy anything, even a soul.”
“Yes,” Phigby sighs, “that well may be true; there are some who will sell their souls for what they perceive is treasure, only to find it worthless dross at Death’s Door.
“It’s then they realize that they held the greatest treasure of all—their own lives—and let it slip away like sand sliding through one’s fingers.”
The Jallhugr laughs again, sounding aloof and amused at Phigby’s words. “Your words are foolish, and so is your cause.”
The other Jallhugrs glide forward, their long, cruel swords shining with a cold hardness. Their chief’s voice is hard as he slashes his blade to one side.
“Enough of this banter. You lie, you want our gold. Everyone wants our gold. But it is hidden deep in the mountains. You will not find it, nor will you pass to take our treasure. Not now, not ever.”
The Jallhugrs move toward us, slow, and it’s clear to see that death lurks behind their bleak eyes. “Phigby,” I growl, “what do we do?”
He snaps his head toward Helmar. “Make ready dragon fire,” he orders, “and the rest of you stand ready to fight.”
I glance toward the golden, and she nods toward the sprites who stand next to her, their fangs bared at the oncoming wraiths.
Her meaning is clear though I’m not sure what four little sprites are going to do against these savage otherworldly spirits.
“The sprites,” I say in a rush to the Phigby, “what about the sprites?”
“Eh?” he growls before his eyes widen. “The sprites! Of course!”
He whips around to grab at my shoulder. “Listen, Hooper, we’ll only get one chance at this.”
In a rush of words, he lays out his plan. “Understand?” he finishes.
In answer, I push away, yelling, “Dazzle, Shine! Follow me!”
The two lope behind me and though my feet hurt, I hurry past the others to the far end of the dragon line where Wind Glory snorts and growls at the apparitions.
