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

by GARY DARBY

  As one, we turn with puzzled faces to stare at Amil. He returns our stare. “What? You know what I mean.”

  “How did you find us?” Phigby asks, sweeping his hands at the forest. “This land is wide and you certainly couldn’t have known where we were going to come out of the swamp.”

  Rollo’s face takes on a strange expression and his eyebrows deepen. “I—I, don’t know, really,” he answers. “It was as though something kept pushing me in this direction, so I just followed the feeling.”

  His eyes grow a bit wide and he motions toward the veiled swamp. “And then here you were. But I admit, you rushed out of that fog like ghosts chased you.”

  “No,” Amil rasps, “those chased us earlier, these weren’t ghosts that were after us this time.”

  “Hmm,” Phigby mulls over, glancing sideways at me, “so you ‘followed the feeling.’” He strokes his beard as he peers at Rollo. “It would seem that several of us have followed our feelings, of late.”

  At a sudden thought and with narrowed, suspicious eyes, I turn toward Golden Wind. She meets my accusing gaze with a blank and innocent-appearing stare.

  “Well, Rollo,” Phigby asks, “what else have you to say?”

  Rising, he straightens to his full height. “I will accept any punishment you wish to impose on me, even death if that is your will. However, I plead, I beg of you, to help my comrades. They don’t deserve to be in that prison facing death.

  “It was all me, I was the leader, the one responsible. It was my poor decisions that got us into this and I’m the one that should bear full consequences of my actions, not they.”

  Lifting his hands in an imploring gesture, he again beseeches, “Please, I beg of you, do what you will with me, but save my companions.”

  Amil snorts. “He certainly has a way with words, doesn’t he? Almost stirs the heart.”

  Phigby sighs deep. “Indeed.” Tugging at his beard, he suggests, “I would say that this deserves a council to discuss.”

  “Discuss?!” Amil grunts. “Phigby, you can’t be serious.”

  “A plea for help,” Phigby answers, “is always a serious thing, my large and doubting friend.”

  Turning to me, he asks, “Hooper, do you think that you can convince Scamper to turn aside from his food foraging long enough to guard our prisoner for a short bit?”

  Glancing around, I spot Scamper and the sprogs digging at the base of a nearby tree. “Scamp!” I call. “We need your help.”

  Raising his head, he stares at me with an indignant expression, unwilling to leave his hole and his furious digging.

  “First deer we take down,” I offer, “you have your choice of cut.”

  That does it. Scamper darts in my direction, the sprogs bumbling along behind. As he runs up to me, I gesture to Rollo, “I need for you and the sprogs to guard him. If he tries to leave that spot, you let us know. Good and loud. Got it?”

  Scamper whips around, trots over to Rollo and plunks himself down with a Grrrrr rolling from his mouth.

  The sprogs set themselves in a circle around Rollo, heads down, tails up, little bodies crouched down as if they were ready to pounce on their prey. Or, in this case, Rollo.

  “They may be small,” I say to Rollo, “but trust me, one word from them, and,” I motion over to where the adult dragons sit on their haunches, “you’ll have to deal with those four.”

  Nodding, he answers, “I clearly understand and believe me, I’m not moving from this spot.”

  “Right answer,” I reply.

  With that, Phigby gathers us up with his eyes and marches us over to where we huddle next to a stand of trees, out of earshot of Rollo.

  “I’m not sure why we’re having this council,” Amil is swift to say. “Have you forgotten that they were going to turn us over to Aster?”

  “I’ve not forgotten,” Phigby replies, twirling several strands of his beard between his fingers, “but we cannot forget that it was one of those same Uhlan who saved us. Not only did she warn us, but she opened the doors that let us escape. I suspect that she did that at some personal risk.”

  “If it wasn’t for Marce,” Cara points out, “then it would be us in Aster’s dungeon and not the Uhlan.”

  “I’ll give you that it was one,” Amil grumbles, holding up a finger, “one who didn’t follow their foul plan but that doesn’t excuse the rest and certainly not Rollo.”

  “No,” Phigby acknowledges, “it doesn’t excuse their behavior and I’m not arguing that we necessarily consider their plight.”

  “You’re thinking of Marce,” Alonya states.

  Phigby nods at her. “I am.”

  “A brave act on her part,” Alonya affirms, “to stand against not only her fellow Uhlan but her brother as well, knowing what was at stake for the rest of her people.”

  “Yes,” Phigby agrees, “and one must wonder what we would have done if we were Rollo. As he stated, could we have said no to Vay under the same circumstances?”

  “You’re accepting his story as truthful,” Amil states.

  “This time,” Phigby replies, “I don’t think he’s being an Umriah. I admit, he fooled me before but not this time.”

  “I agree,” Cara joins in, “I can feel his sincerity and his anguish. I remember feeling a bit uneasy with him when we were on the boat. But not this time, I don’t think there is any deceit on his part.”

  “It would seem,” Helmar offers, “that if we accept his story, then the question is whether one person is worth risking our whole company over, not to mention our quest to protect Golden Wind.”

  Shaking his head, he mutters, “I’m not sure that it is.”

  I’ve not spoken, trying to corral my unbridled thoughts, to make sense of this dilemma. However, Cara is not content to let me stand silent for she turns and questions, “Hooper, you’ve not said anything. What do you think?”

  Running a hand over my face, I try to sort my thoughts, my feelings. Licking dry lips, I lift my eyes to gaze at Alonya. “It seems that we risked the whole company, including Golden Wind, when we went to war to save a domain.

  “Though, really, weren’t we fighting just to save the one? Aren’t domains, kingdoms, and nations really nothing more than a collection of individuals bound together? Some good, some not so much. Yet, it’s really just about the one individual.”

  I hesitate for a moment. “Isn’t our quest, our fight really a battle to save not just all of us, but each of us? If that’s true, and I think it is, then I can’t see how we can turn aside from Rollo’s pleading. For, if we turn away here, what do we do the next time there is a cry for help?”

  My eyes meet the questioning stares of my comrades. “Even if it’s a plea uttered by just the one?”

  Thoughts of Golden Wind

  Even if it’s a plea uttered by just the one?

  Well said, Hooper Menvoran, well said.

  How important are the many, but how utterly vital is the one.

  With your thought—no, with your call to to action, you’ve shown that you are pushing away the other man and taken a virtuous step on our path back to where you must be in order to finish our journey.

  To reach for the power of compassion is not always an easy thing. Not even for the strongest among us for it calls for the one thing that we are too often loathe to give up: ourselves. To many, to much of he world, compassion is considered a weakness.

  It is not.

  When coupled with the spirit of action, it can raise one up to accomplish great and long-lasting deeds.

  Compassion causes you to look past your own needs and consider those who stand in greater need.

  Consider the Drach mother who has one slice of bread and four hungry mouths to feed. Her love and compassion for her children will have her cut the bread in four equal pieces, leaving none for herself.

  Or consider the father who tills the fields from dawn to dusk only to come home and find his wife ill. Though exhausted, does he not tend to his wife and his children,
seeing to their needs first and foremost, pushing his fatigued self to perform one more task?

  Is compassion but another way to spell love?

  Hooper, my hope is that you will move past the initial stirrings of compassion, which are pity and sympathy. Instead, you will put aside the other man and reach for the strongest and most powerful form of compassion: empathy.

  Once you have done that, once you learn to think, to feel, to even bear the emotions of another, then you will be ready for what lies ahead on our path.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Cara’s eyes are gleaming, and Phigby is nodding in an approving manner but Amil’s furrowed eyebrows, the lips pressed tight, and his stony eyes tell me that he is anything but pleased with my comments.

  “I’ll say it again,” he stammers. “You can’t be serious. Do you realize what waits for us at Hanfeld’s Grotto? This isn’t some small royal keep like Dunadain. No, this is a fortress with thick walls as hard as dragon scales.

  “And the keep? Built inside the grotto itself and it makes Dunadain look like a straw hut. Twice as high with walls as thick as the dungeon is deep. There’ll be no climbing up some vines to get inside. No, the only way in is through a frontal assault and a deadly one at that as Hanfeld was designed to withstand a siege by an army for a year.

  “Did I mention that the outer parapets have catapults that can toss boulders half a league? And six ballistae on each wall, any one of which can shoot four arrows at a time that are as big as Alonya’s shafts.

  “Devil’s Fire launchers. Four of them, one at each corner bastion. Each can hurl a giant ball of Devil’s Fire that can devastate a whole company of soldiers at one time.”

  He begins waving his arms, his ax wheeling around like it was a sail on a windmill. “And archers enough that they have triple lines on the castle walls all the way around. One flight of their arrows fills the air, blots out the entire sun.

  “They have so many men-at-arms that they have to eat in shifts every other day and sleep standing up because there’s no room in the barracks.

  “They’re as tall as Alonya and can—”

  “Throw a spear so high into the sky,” Alonya chuckles, “that they use the moons as target practice?”

  Seeing our amused expressions, Amil closes his mouth, lowers his arms, and mumbles, “Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit on the men-at-arms, but the rest is all true.”

  “You know,” Helmar rumbles, “Rollo may well be telling the truth and this still could be a trap.”

  “Not only that,” Alonya agrees, “but we could be risking our necks for corpses. He admits that he doesn’t know if his comrades are still alive or not, including Marce. What if they’re not? What would we accomplish then?”

  “Obviously, nothing,” Phigby sighs, “but what if they’re still alive?”

  “How would we know beforehand?” Helmar questions. “We can’t just go in there blind without knowing their fate.”

  We share looks but none of us has an answer to Helmar’s question.

  We seem to be at a crossroads and none of us know which path is the certain one to take.

  Then, Cara, in a hesitant voice suggests, “What if we journey to Hanfeld, find a good hiding spot for ourselves and the dragons. We scout the castle, see if there’s any sign of the Uhlan, or barring that, maybe find a way to sneak in and determine if they’re alive or not.”

  “You’ll not be sneaking into Hanfeld Castle, lass,” Amil hastens to reply. “It’s too well guarded. But, I admit, going there would certainly beat staying here.”

  He hooks a thumb in the Wailing Swamp’s direction. “And the farther we get away from that, the better I’m feeling about life in general.”

  Phigby lays a hand on Cara’s shoulder. “I think Cara’s idea is an excellent one. We don’t have to commit to anything just yet —and it allows us the possibility of gathering more information before we have to make a decision.”

  He nods in Amil’s direction. “Besides, I agree with Amil, let’s get out of these marshes and away from the swamp as swiftly as we can. We’ll just do it in the direction of Hanfeld, that’s all.”

  Three days later, after traveling by night through dark forest ways, Phigby and I wait with the dragons in our hidden camp. We’ve set ourselves deep in a thick forest behind a line of rolling hills. On the mountain’s other side lies the fortress at Hanfeld’s Grotto.

  In secret, Rollo, Amil, and Helmar are out making a circuit around the castle while we await their news.

  Cara and Alonya are doing a bit of hunting close by, hoping that they might add some substantial fare to our recent poor diet of rabbits and berries that sustained us on our journey to Hanfeld. I’ve not had any opportunity to make good my promise to Scamper of venison to fill his belly and I’ve had to endure his constant grumbling reminders of my failure.

  It’s just past midday when Alonya and Cara return, empty-handed. “The good news,” Cara sighs as she slumps down to sit, “is that we saw deer tracks and leavings. The bad news is that we saw only deer tracks and leavings.”

  “We’ll go back out at dusk,” Alonya declares in a confident tone, “we’ll get our deer.”

  The afternoon grows late when our three scouts walk into camp and seat themselves on the fallen logs that we’ve drawn up. Helmar’s weary sigh puffs out his cheeks.

  “We couldn’t see much from ground level so we climbed a nearby high hill to spy down into the fortress. I’ve never seen so many men-at-arms or archers.

  “Amil was right. Devil Fire launchers at each corner bastion and by the constant fire in the cauldrons it would appear that they man them day and night. From what I can tell, the foundation blocks at the castle wall’s base must be as thick as a dragon is round and the gate seems as stout as those we saw at South Pass.

  “I’m not sure even dragon fire could bring the walls down or burst open that gate.”

  Hooking a thumb at Amil, he shakes his head. “The men-at-arms aren’t nearly as tall as Alonya, but those lances they carry seem so.”

  Phigby, stroking his beard, leans toward Rollo, who sits with his head down. “I take it, no sighting of your comrades?”

  “No,” Rollo returns, his eyes downcast. “As Helmar said, we got a good view down into the quad. I didn’t see anything of them.”

  He gives a little grunt. “I suppose the good news is that I didn’t see any hangmen scaffolding or chopping blocks.”

  Sighing, he spreads his hands wide and stares at the ground. “Other than that, it was just as Helmar reported.”

  “So, where does that leave us then?” I ask.

  “It would seem,” Alonya notes, “in the same situation we were in three days ago.”

  She picks up her bow and gestures to Amil and Helmar. “Except, the chances for a bit of better eating are more in our favor. There are deer in this forest.”

  In a bit of a taunt to Helmar and Amil, she grins, “Would you care to hunt for some real meat, or are bunny rabbits on your minds . . . again?”

  Helmar snatches up his bow with a hard look at Alonya while Amil straightens and gestures toward the woodlands. “Lead on, m’lady. The game is afoot.”

  He stops and then chuckles, running his hand over his bald head. “Literally,” he laughs.

  In opposite directions, with Cara and Alonya going one way, and Amil and Helmar the other, the hunters stride off into the forest.

  They’ve not been gone long before Cara reappears and in an excited motion, waves to Phigby and me. “You’ve got to see this!”

  Thinking that she and Alonya have found something dangerous, Phigby and I slip our swords out and hurry along behind her, leaving Rollo in camp under the dragons’ watchful eyes.

  She leads us to where Alonya is waiting beside a line of thick gray-leafed bushes that reach up to the Golian queen’s shoulders. The two push through the brush and stop, motioning to what lies on the other side.

  Following close behind, I peer at where they’re pointing an
d after blinking hard several times, ask, “Are those what I think they are?”

  “As Phigby would say,” Alonya smiles, “indeed. Dragon heartwood saplings.”

  Cara dashes ahead and runs a hand across the slender shoulder-high and higher saplings. Their golden luster catches the sun’s evening rays and each slender seedling, no bigger than my pinkie finger seems to have a burnished glow within its wood.

  Smiling, Cara reaches out a hand, holding it close to one of the trees without touching, “It’s as though each one has an inner fire—warm but not hot.”

  “I’ve never seen or even heard of this before,” Phigby marvels. “So many saplings in one place. It’s amazing.”

  Turning in a small circle, Cara whispers, “Almost as if they were put here for us to find.”

  “If so,” Alonya replies, “it is a most welcome gift.” She runs a hand over a slight tree. “You know what this means, Cara?”

  Cara sucks in a breath. “Of course, much-needed arrows!”

  “Arrows?” I question.

  “Oh yes, Hooper,” Alonya affirms. “Ones that will not break and sharp enough to pierce even dragon scales.”

  Seeing the look on my face, she pats me on the shoulder. “Sorry, I did not mean it the way it sounded. What I meant was strong enough to pierce Wilder dragon scales.”

  “But,” Cara asks as her face clouds up, “how do we cut them? Ordinary blades won’t be able to hone or shape their shafts so that they fly straight and true.”

  “No,” Phigby’s voice sounds from behind me, “but the edge of a dragon sword should.”

  We all turn at Phigby’s words and I heft Galondraig to stare at its emerald sheen. “Try it,” Cara urges, “please.”

  I step to the nearest sapling and grasping the wood with one hand, I swing Galondraig, striking at the tree’s base.

  As if I had slashed through a mound of butter, Galondraig slices clean through the sapling, leaving a neat, straight cut. Holding the little tree out, I mutter, “It appears that it does.”