by GARY DARBY
“Did you forget the Sung Dar, Master Phigby?” Alonya grunts.
“No,” Phigby returns. “I merely thought it was a given that we must avoid them at all costs.”
“Wolves above and wolves below,” Cara declares.
I have to agree with her. In my imaginings, I see the fast little ships as if they were water wolves rushing along the river while below the ripples and waves lurk packs of lethal Tyger Eels, both just waiting to sink fangs into unsuspecting flesh.
It’s no doubt that the smaller, faster ships are patrolling the river and looking for us.
And among the other craft are the Sung Dar. They do not deviate from their set course, nor do they slow. Instead, they make the other vessels get out of their way.
Phigby leans forward again, as if his eyes have caught something he didn’t see before. “That’s new,” he states.
“What?” Cara asks.
“Look at the bow of the Sung Dar ships,” he replies. “What do you see?”
Like Phigby, I too lean forward, squinting to get a better look. “Looks like an enormous toothpick,” Cara half-laughs.
“A deadly toothpick,” Phigby answers. “That long, heavy spar is used to ram and rip the guts out of other ships. Very dangerous in close-in fighting between vessels and in the hands of a skilled captain can split a ship in half.”
“Interesting,” Amil returns. “Do you think they plan on a sea battle here?”
“Umm, no,” Phigby answers, “I suspect that those ships are part of their ocean-going flotilla and were brought in to help blockade the river.”
“Blockading,” Helmar returns, “as in preventing us from crossing the Lorell.”
“It would seem so,” Phigby replies.
“Well,” Alonya quips, “no need to try and find a ship for me. Those below are packed so close together that I’ll just use them as stepping-stones and make my way across.”
I glance downstream and ask, “Are those lights InverFloden?”
“Aye lad,” Amil returns. “That be InverFloden and its port. And you don’t need to look close to see where the Wolven Floden joins the Lorell.”
Nodding in agreement, I gaze at where the two rivers flow side by side, their colorations distinct and noticeable. One, the Lorell, flows dark, while the Wolven is a light, pale blue-green.
From what Phigby has told me, the two stay that way for over five leagues downstream until the Lorell, being the larger and more powerful, sweeps the Wolven Floden’s turquoise hue under its dark brown waters as it rushes out to the sea.
“You had the right idea, Amil,” Helmar replies and motions toward the Lorell. “For us, if it weren’t for the Wilders, we could sky across, but not so for Alonya.”
“Yes,” the Golian queen growls, “and I have no intention to try to swim across that. Not after—”
“No m’lady,” Phigby hastens to reply, “we would never suggest that you try that again. We’ll have to find another way.”
He tugs hard at his beard. “For all of us,” he grumbles.
“Even if we could get back across the Wolven,” Amil grunts, his eyes never leaving the moonlit river, “with the Wilders above and the Sung Dar below it’s not like we can march to the port and say to the first likely-looking ship’s captain, ‘Pardon me, good sir, but we need to hire your craft to ferry a Golian giant across the river to the other bank. What would be the fee and how much to keep your lips sealed’?”
“If only,” Helmar returns. “More likely the captain would take our money and then turn us in for the reward or had you forgotten that King’s Warrant with its bounty on our heads?”
While listening to the conversation, I stood near Cara and she, like me, seems to be studying the river. My eyes scan the near bank. I stop at where the shoreline is split by a ridged knoll that juts far out into the water.
The river is narrower at this point but there is something odd in the water and I lean forward to get a better view.
Cara, next to me, whispers, “What do you see, Hooper?”
I point down and to the left, at the rocky hill’s base. “That big mound, jutting out of from the riverbank—”
“The one that looks like a giant loaf of bread?”
I nod as I realize why the rock looked familiar. Cara’s right, it does appear like a loaf of rising dough.
“Yes. Look at the base. There is something that cuts the waterline.”
Cara, too, has to bend a bit to get a better view. “A ship in the shadows,” she nods, “and a rather large one.”
Our eyes meet and I can see she has the same idea. “Big enough to carry Alonya,” she states.
“Eh?” Phigby asks as he moves closer to Cara and me. “What do you see?”
“Down there,” I point, “up against that rounded rock that juts out. There’s a large boat in the shadows. See it?”
Phigby bends at the waist and squints at where we point. “Yes, I do indeed.”
“Everyone,” Cara calls low over her shoulder, “come see this. We may have our answer for getting Alonya across.”
With the others crowding close, Cara points off to one side. “That rounded hill. Look at its base where it meets the water and the deepest shadows lie.”
Amil stiffens and stammers, “That is the most—”
“Massive ship I’ve ever seen,” Helmar finishes for him. He turns to Alonya. “Is that one of yours? It looks like it would be something you Golians would build.”
Alonya shakes her head. “We don’t build ships. Or, at least, I don’t think we did.”
“Maybe Gru had something like that built,” Amil replies, “and you never knew about it.”
Alonya shakes her head in response. “It’s possible, but from everything I know, we never wasted good timber on sea-going vessels. Stout wood was hard to come by and used mainly for buildings and farming implements and the like. Never for ships.”
“Well,” Amil questions, “if your people didn’t build it, who did and what is it used for? You could put a dozen Trader ships in that thing and have room left over.”
“Or a dozen Sung Dar vessels,” Helmar adds.
“Or a Golian and three dragons,” I emphasize and glance at Phigby. “Plus a few others.”
Phigby rubs at his chin. “Yes,” he nods, “a Golian and three dragons—”
“Plus a few others,” Cara reminds him.
Next to me, Amil contends, “If that is a merchant vessel, she’s the biggest one ever built.”
“If so,” Alonya questions, “why is it sitting there and not at the port?”
Amil lifts one shoulder and his face scrunches together in thought. “Maybe the captain didn’t want to pay the port fees. After all, that thing would take up three or four wharfs easily, so they tied her up here instead.”
“If so,” Phigby answers, “then his poor purse may be to our benefit.”
“I don’t see any lights on the deck,” Helmar observes, “and there’s no movement. Is that normal?”
“Could be the crew’s all asleep,” Amil replies, “though I admit that on every vessel I’ve sailed there was always someone on watch. Even when tied up in port.”
“Then,” Helmar says in a suspicious voice, “that may not be what we think.”
“Perhaps,” Cara offers, “it’s been abandoned.”
“No,” Amil answers, “you don’t just go and forsake a vessel like that. At the very least, the owner or captain would try and sell it and the way to do that would be to tie up at the port wharfs.”
“Dark, no movement,” Helmar rumbles, “and just sitting there as if—”
“We were meant to find it,” Phigby finishes in a hard tone.
“A trap.” I state.
“It reminds me of the Death Nettle,” Phigby sighs.
“Uh, oh,” Amil mutters. “People, gather round for Professor Phineas Phigby is about to spout wisdom on our behalf.”
He gestures to us and bows. “Go ahead, professor, I’ve drummed up so
me business for you. What lesson would you teach us today?”
Glaring at Amil, Phigby explains, “The nettle is a beautiful and fragrant flower that has a sweet nectar in a small basin-like pod. A bee or butterfly goes to the nettle and crawls into the flower to get to the nectar.
“However, as it moves along, behind it, tiny, but sharp hairs flip open until they’re an impenetrable barrier that the insect cannot escape. Eventually, its efforts to flee the trap exhaust the thing and it drowns in the sweet nectar.”
“Well,” Amil quips, “at least it gets a sweet-smelling death.”
Alonya points to the large boat. “You’re implying that is our nettle waiting for us.”
“What I’m implying,” Phigby rejoins, “is that once you see the decomposing body of a trapped bee in a nettle, you never forget that sometimes even the most nefarious of traps can be both pleasing and tempting to the senses.
“Or in this case, appealing to the sense of urgency and desperation that we all feel.”
“I have to agree with Phigby,” Cara says, “the more I think about it, the more it does seem awfully coincidental to have that craft down there just when we need a boat of that size.”
“Coincidental?” Phigby snorts. “I would say incredible is a better term.”
“Just add it,” I reply, “to the basket of incredibles that we’ve seen along the way.”
“Yes, indeed,” Phigby answers. “Well, it seems that we have a choice; we either treat that ship as a trap and look for another way across, or—”
“A couple of us sneak aboard,” Amil declares, “and see for ourselves if it’s a nettle with sweet nectar or not.”
“That’s . . . not exactly what I had in mind,” Phigby responds. “But I admit, it is an option.”
“What if,” Cara begins, “we go further upstream. Find another port; buy or steal a boat for Alonya and the rest of us sky across.”
“A good thought, Cara,” Phigby acknowledges, “but one I’m afraid that’s not going to work.”
“And why not?”
Phigby sweeps a hand toward the river at the skying Wilders and the constant parade of patrolling vessels. “I’m quite sure that this is the work of Aster,” he explains, “and if anyone knows this river, he does.”
“That’s true,” Amil affirms. “King Leo put Aster in charge of anything and everything to do with the Lorell. Building defenses, port maintenance, collecting taxes and docking fees, trade agreements. Phigby’s right, Aster would know this river like he knows a lie. Very well.”
“So, he knows the river,” Cara shrugs. “What exactly does that mean?”
“That what you see down there,” Phigby answers, “is most likely what you’ll find at every port and possible crossing all the way from the river’s mouth to its headwaters in Dinaster Lake.”
“You think he can actually cover close to a hundred leagues, Phigby?” Amil sputters.
“I think he better,” Phigby retorts. “I suspect that Vay is losing patience with him and being out of favor with Vay is like sleeping in a nest of vipers.”
He again sweeps an arm toward the glimmering river. “The Lorell is a natural barrier to us and he knows it. He may not know exactly where we’re going, or where we would end up on its banks, but I suspect that he knows we’re headed this way.
“Furthermore, I believe he’s placing every asset he can lay his hands on to buttress this water wall so that not only do we not get across, but that he captures us as well.”
Bending, Phigby points down. “See? This is the narrowest point across for several leagues up and down the river. I would wager that if we went to the next narrows, we’d find a similar boat waiting.”
“Like snares for foxes,” Amil offers, “set at several points around a chicken coop.”
“Yes,” Phigby replies, “and we need to find a way to avoid those traps and still get Alonya across the river.”
Amil turns to Alonya. “What you need is a dragon to fit your size.”
Alonya glances around and asks, “I’m sorry, but do you see any around here? If you do, I’ll gladly hop aboard and sky across the river with you.”
The adult dragons are behind us, hidden under a full canopy of lush trees and dark thickets. The sprogs, with Scamper, are nosing around nearby.
Regal, for some reason, seems to have taken to Alonya lately and become somewhat of an annoyance to her by being always underfoot when he’s loose.
Amil points down at the purple. “Give him some time and an extra helping of food every day and he may well grow to giant size.”
“Perhaps,” Alonya acknowledges, “but, right now, I don’t think we can wait that long.”
As if he knows that we’re talking about him, Regal crowds up against Alonya’s ankles, acting almost like a cat, butting his head against her legs and weaving between them.
“Besides,” Alonya replies as she reaches down and moves Regal off to one side, “if I’m to have a dragon of my own, I prefer one that’s not such a nuisance.”
We turn our attention back to our dilemma. “I don’t see any way around it,” Helmar utters in a hard tone. “Amil and I will just have to go down there.”
“And do what?” Cara snaps. “Get yourselves captured or killed if it is a trap?”
“Now Cara—” Helmar begins before I speak over Helmar, “I think we should all go. Even the dragons.”
“What?” Amil sputters. “We don’t need every—”
“Look,” I say and edge closer to the knoll’s cliff-like edge. “I’ve been studying the shoreline and the woodlands that go right to the riverbank.”
I point down at the vessel. “See where part of the ship’s stern is against those big, flat rocks?”
“Yes,” Phigby nods. “Almost like a platform leading to the vessel. That’s how the crew must get on and off.”
“Right,” I rejoin, “and past the rocks going back up to the forest what do you see?”
Phigby cranes his neck, moving his head this way and that. “Appears to be a sharp ravine, most likely a stream that’s carved out a steep bed.”
“Which,” I point out, “runs clear back into the thick woods.”
“We can walk the dragons,” Alonya states as she turns and studies the rolling hills, “behind the ridgeline, cross the crest where the woods are deepest, drop into the arroyo and follow it down to the riverbank.”
“Once there,” Cara goes on, “we can leave the dragons hidden while the rest of us sneak aboard the vessel, hopefully unobserved. If we get in trouble, we’ve got the dragons close for help.”
I’ve been listening to the conversation while surveying the long, flat rocks that jut out toward the massive ship and ask, “Can a dragon crawl?”
I turn and see Cara and Helmar peering at each other with questioning expressions. “I . . .” Cara begins in a surprised tone, “don’t think I’ve ever seen . . .”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Helmar answers, scratching at his head. “What command would you use? It’s not anything we train them to do.”
Cara turns to me with a little shrug. “In other words, we have no idea.”
“Neither do I,” I reply, “but from what I can see, it looks like the banks lower to where their heads would be sticking up and not hidden. So, if we could get the dragons to crawl that last little bit, we could get them right up to the ship before—”
“We scoot across and out in the open,” Cara asserts, “and if something goes wrong, they’d be right there to help.”
“Are we sure about this?” Alonya questions. “Wouldn’t the boat rock the moment, we, or rather, I stepped aboard? The ship rocking or the loud creak of a plank would alert anyone onboard.”
“Umm,” Phigby muses, his eyes on the darkened boat. “That’s possible. All right, you’re the last aboard m'lady and while we rush onto the ship, you cover us with your bow.”
“All right,” Alonya answers, “let’s say we get on the ship without a fight and manage to hide
the dragons. What then? Are any of us sailors? How would we sail a craft that size?”
Phigby pulls at a few strands of his beard, eyeing the ship. “I don’t know, Alonya, but what I do know is that we can’t stand here forever. So, either, as Hooper suggested, we continue upstream hoping to find a way across, or we chance that craft.”
Alonya doesn’t answer right away, but stands peering down at the giant vessel as if sizing up the idea one more time. With a sigh, she turns while unlimbering her bow, “You’re right, I don’t like it but unless someone else has a better idea . . .?”
She glances around but no one answers. Like me, I can only see the two courses. Neither of which offers a sound solution to our problem, but for the moment, they’re all we have to get across the river.
“If we do get in trouble,” Amil begins, “let’s not use the dragons unless we must. Once they light up, everyone in sight is going to know it’s us. We’ll have every Wilder, Sung Dar, corvette, sloop—”
“We get the idea, Amil,” Phigby replies and glances around. “Everyone set?”
With no further discussion, he sighs, “Then, let’s get on with it.”
In haste, we trudge back to where the dragons lie curled in sleep. As we approach, they awaken and raise their heads.
A shaft of moonlight catches their catlike eyes, highlighting the bright blues in Glory and Wind Song, the striking gold of Golden Wind.
Without warning, Alonya whirls, her sword up and out in a flash. She goes into a fighting stance, her eyes centered on a dark patch of woodland to our left.
Cara and Helmar have arrows notched and aimed in the same direction while I unsheathe Galondraig and join Phigby and Amil, who stand next to Alonya.
“Our skulkers?” Phigby whispers.
“Yes,” Alonya whispers back.
“Can you see them?” Amil asks.
Alonya shakes her head. “Like before, no. I have no idea what or who they are but I swear they can turn themselves into a tree or a bush in an instant and disappear from sight.”
Twice before on the trail to the Lorell River, Alonya’s sharp eyes and keen hearing have sensed someone following us, keeping just out of sight. Once, we tried to set an ambush, but whoever or whatever trailed us didn’t fall for the bait.
