The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Box Set

by GARY DARBY

  Not all of my lumps and bruises come from Malo, you know.

  I pull the sleeve of my forest-green tunic farther down over my burned, disfigured arm. I know what the scars on my arm and face look like. As if someone had left a sausage on the fire pit coals too long. Hooper the Sausage Boy, some call me.

  One of my many titles thanks to the cruelty of dragons.

  I hear the paddock gate opening and turn to find Helmar entering the enclosure. I wipe at the grit on my face while he eyes me as he sets his bow and quiver to one side. He adjusts his scabbard that holds a sword’s dark hilt and grunts with a small upturn of his lips. “What happened, did you stumble and plant your face in the dirt? You want to be careful, you might find yourself in something else next time.”

  “Yes sir,” I quietly answer. “I’ll try to be more careful.” The smile in his eyes tells me that he saw everything, but I know from experience to keep my mouth shut. When you’re Hooper, the lowest of the low, you have no voice, and you’re barely visible to anyone else, except when they need someone to do the really filthy work.

  I glance over to where Hakon and Arnie are striding away. They’re both the same age as I, sixteen summers going on seventeen, but there the similarities end. They’re tall and well-muscled whereas my skinny and halting body would make a scraggly scarecrow look good. They’re in training to become Master Dragon Blacksmiths whereas all I’m in training for is to become the Master of the Dung Heap.

  Just then, the crimson comes shuffling over. Helmar reaches up to scratch him between his eyes, something dragons love. “How’s Wind Fury doing?” he practically croons to the young scarlet.

  He gestures to the red’s side scales. “Help me check his loop rivets, Hooper, let’s make sure they’re not coming loose.”

  He takes one side, and I take the other. When farm dragons are about two months old, and their scales harden enough, the blacksmiths place small body rivets in front of and behind where the wings join the body. Then, they run lightweight chains through the rivets and bind the wings to the body to keep the dragon from flying off.

  Sometimes, if the dragon is headstrong and wants to climb up and over its stall’s high fence, the trainers will use heavier chains through the rivets and fasten them to a sturdy wooden post set deep in the paddock’s center. The chains are long and loose enough that the dragon can roam freely in its pen, but not long enough for the animal to climb to the fence’s top rail.

  For a red, this youngster is quite docile, so I don’t have to be too wary of his sharp fangs as I get near his head. Even so, a nip from a dragon twice the size of a grown horse and you might find yourself missing fingers or an ear.

  As I finish and move around his snout to speak to Helmar, the red gives me a head-butt. For a dragon, the blow was actually gentle, but still, it almost knocks me over so I slap him hard on his muzzle, right between his soft nostrils. He gets a hurt look to which Helmar says in a reproving tongue, “Hooper, he’s only playing with you, no need to clip him on the nose.”

  I turn and give Helmar a respectful bow. “Master Novice, if you would like to frolic with this beastie, then do so, but I don’t play with dragons.”

  He runs a soothing hand between the dragon’s eyes. “I wish I could, but I’m too busy today, some other time perhaps.”

  Watching him practically croon to the scarlet drake, I can’t help but ask, “Helmar, why do you like dragons so much?”

  He practically sneers at my question. “Dragons are wealth and power, Hooper. And for me, a chance to become a Dragon Master of a Great House, like Master Boren. And that means a fine home, good food, even a servant or two.”

  He checks the wing chain’s last few links before muttering, “And for me the only way up the ladder.”

  I understand his answer. Like me, Helmar is a “cast-off,” someone who wasn’t born under the House of Lorell’s coat of arms. His father, a tanner, took his firstborn son as his apprentice, and sent Helmar, his second son, to Draconstead to be a dragon worker. That was two seasons ago. But in that time, Helmar showed such an affinity for dragons, that Master Boren quickly recognized his talents and gave him more and more responsibility.

  When Daron Dracon, Master Boren’s first and only son, refused his father’s offer to become his novice, he turned to Helmar. If no one else understood Master Boren’s selection, I did. Helmar is tall, strong, handsome, a natural leader with a warrior’s spirit who gets the most out of dragons and men.

  Daron is everything Helmar is not. He’s moody, cruel, and not the least bit interested in dragons, or Draconstead. If I know that he’s going to be at the stead, I do my very best to stay as far away from him as possible and with good reason.

  It’s no secret that he has a complete and utter disdain for those who he believes are beneath him. I remember well a vicious kick to my good leg that left me limping for weeks on both limbs because I didn’t get out of his way fast enough.

  Malo said that afterward, I walked as if I were a drunken sailor on the first night in port after being at sea for months. I wouldn’t know anything about drunken sailors or being at sea, all I know is that from that point on, if Daron Dracon was anywhere near the stead, I made a point of being where he wasn’t.

  Helmar turns a serious face to me. “Let me ask you, why do you like Scamper so much? He’ll never bring you any of those things.”

  My mouth works for a moment as I search for an answer. “Because . . . ” I mutter and stop. “Because he’s my friend. He makes me laugh and accepts me for who I am. He’s special to me.”

  Helmar shrugs at my answer. “So are dragons, special I mean. Or, as Master Boren believes, magical.” He pauses and runs a work-worn hand over the red’s scales. He murmurs, “Sometimes I think he’s right.”

  “Magical,” I mutter. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Magical,” he answers, “in the sense that certain dragons can be worth their weight in gold.”

  “You mean like Wind Boomer,” I reply, “and the golden?”

  “Boomer? Perhaps,” he states. “But the golden? She’s another story in herself.”

  “Because of the legend,” I respond.

  He gives me a half smile. “Actually, it’s legends. And the more the merrier, I say. Each just makes her that much more valuable.” He eyes me sideways. “And the more valuable she is, the more the House of Lorell and our Dragon Master gain in stature.”

  And his novice, I think.

  “So,” I say slowly, “do you really believe that if a dragon ever cries its tears will turn into magical jewels?”

  He pulls the red’s head to him and inspects the creature’s four stubby horns, large ears, and cat’s eyes. None show disease so he gives the crimson a solid pat on its neck and shoos it away. He gives me a little shrug. “In all honesty, I don’t know. I’ve never seen a dragon cry, and I’ve never seen a dragon gem.”

  He gives me a lopsided smile. “I know Phigby believes it’s true. Last time I had dinner at Dracon Haus, he was there. I think he and Master Boren could talk for a fortnight on the supposed mystical qualities of dragons.”

  He says wistfully, “With all their talk, I hardly got a word in edgewise to Cara.”

  I feel a warmth creep up my neck, not from the sunlight’s heat, but from his comment. He and the beautiful Cara Dracon together, in the same room, just a few hand widths apart for a whole evening.

  Something I’ve dreamt about for a long time. However, I know that some dreams will never happen, and Cara Dracon is one of those.

  Helmar starts to turn but then screws his mouth up to one side while he eyes me. With a hard edge to his voice, he says, “With the Wilder menace, I’m having the other workers practice their bow and sword skills. Since you’re worthless at both, you’re going to have to take up some of their workload, understood?”

  I keep my eyes averted and duck my head so that Helmar doesn’t see the hurt in my eyes. I swallow to get rid of the lump in my throat and mutter, “I understan
d, Master Novice.”

  With that, Helmar turns and strides away. My shoulders slump, and I glance over at the four sprogs who are springing up and down, trying to capture a large dragonfly that flits just above their noses. Of course, all they accomplish is to get entangled with each other and start squabbling among themselves.

  I watch for an instant before saying to no one in particular, “Did you hear that? I’m worthless.”

  The sprogs ignore me, of course, as catching a fluttering, dancing, green-winged dragonfly is much more interesting than listening to me. I stare at the ground, my shoulders slumped, my eyes downcast.

  “You know what?” I mutter as I slam my muck rake into the ground. “He’s probably right, too.”

  4

  I move from paddock to paddock, and though I hurry so that I don’t miss my deadline to have the new sapphire’s stall ready by sun high, I admit that I stop on more than one occasion to scan the horizon and the dark forest. My anxiety and overzealous imagination has me seeing a Wilder behind every tree and a horde of Wilder barbarians winging over the horizon, their scimitar swords gleaming in the sunlight and their scarlet drakes spouting dragon fire as if a waterfall of fire cascaded from the sky.

  Fortunately, it’s all in my imagination and my morning passes like most all of my dreary mornings. My very own dragon herd, tiny though it may be, follows me everywhere, underfoot and generally making nuisances of themselves. I’d like nothing better than to scoop all of them into my wooden wheelbarrow, dump them on the manure heap and leave them there.

  However, that would probably lead to my head on a chopping block. And though I’m not overly fond of my unsightly face and scarred head, it’s not like I have a spare lying around in case I lose this one.

  Just as I’m about to scoop up another dung pile, Regal Wind starts sniffing at the same stinking heap. I’d like nothing better than to give him a good, swift kick to move him away, but it would be my luck that another worker would see me. You just don’t kick a purple dragon that’s bound for the royal stables.

  You see, purple or violet dragons are rare and only royalty may own or ride a violet dragon once they’re grown. When he’s old enough and trained to Master Boren’s satisfaction, Lord Lorell will present Regal Wind to His Majesty, King Leo. After that, Regal Wind will lead a luxurious life in the royal stables at Wynsur.

  In fact, he’ll live a better life than most commoners in the kingdom. Clean quarters, a giant paddock all to himself, all the goats and sheep that he cares to eat, regular feedings of sugar grass, workers who will scrub and polish his scales to a glimmering finish. Moreover, all he’ll have to do is to be on a team of four or six purples that sky the royal family around in their carriages of state.

  So, as I said, one doesn’t kick a future addition to the king’s stable. So I bend down, pick him up, and place him to one side before I can shovel up the mess. He chirps and chups at me, but I ignore him. When they’re very young, sprogs sound like a cross between a bird and a bullfrog. To me, it sounds something like a warbling screeep or a chuuup.

  Just as I set him aside, there’s a loud, “Hooper!”

  I turn at Malo’s shout. “Yes, sir?”

  He waddles through the corral gate and tosses a small chunk of goat’s cheese and the butt end from a loaf of bread to me. My catch is a juggling act, but somehow I manage not to drop the food. “There’s your mid-meal,” he grouses. “Hurry up and eat. When you’re finished, get to Boomer’s stall, the sapphire’s not coming in today after all. Once you have the dung cleared, wash him.”

  I give him a quick nod. “Yes, Barn Master.”

  “Good, I’ll be by later to check.” He leans toward me, his grizzled face less than a hand’s width away. “And it had better be done right. Understand me?”

  “Yes, Barn Master.”

  I stuff my meal inside my tunic, quickly scrape up the last of the manure, dump all of it on the dung pile, load my herd up in the wheelbarrow, and make for the birthing barn. Once inside, I deliver the four sprogs to their respective mothers and then head for my little corner that I call home. I reach into the straw, and my fingers run across a warm, furry body that’s a bit longer than my forearm.

  A little oval face pokes up through the straw and peers at me with two-midnight dark eyes.

  Threeep?

  I smile at him. “You can sleep some more if you want to, Scamper, but, just in case you’re interested I brought you something to eat.”

  At the mention of food, he instantly pops his head up out of the straw. One thing about Scamp, he’ll always wake up for food. I break off a thumb-sized piece of cheese and bread and hand those to him while I gnaw on what’s left of my meal. It doesn’t take long for the both of us to finish our meager portions.

  Mrrrr? Scamper asks, as usual.

  “Sorry,” I say as I scratch him behind the ears. “That’s all they gave me.”

  With that, he snuggles back under the hay, and I go off to do my chores before Malo comes looking for me to accuse me of not doing my work.

  Wind Boomer is the second pride and joy of Lord Lorell. He’s Draconstead’s legendary red dragon; the biggest and most majestic crimson in the Northern Realm. Because the Dragon Knights covet his offspring for their size and ferocity in sky battles and jousting tournaments, he’s given preferential treatment to keep him in prime shape; the biggest paddock, more food, lighter wing chains and only the Dragon Master skies him on exercise days.

  That preferential treatment also means that along with the birthers’, I clean out his stall every day, instead of the once- or twice-a-week cleaning that the other dragons get. As I approach the paddock railing I call out, “Hey! Boomer!”

  He slowly unlimbers and lumbers over to where I’m standing. He gives me two quick sniffs and turns away. He knows me well enough that I’m surprised that he smelled me twice, as once is his usual. Unlike the golden, who followed my every move, Wind Boomer lowers himself back down and closes his eyes as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Which, from where I stand, he doesn’t.

  Once I’ve shoveled up his mess, I grab several buckets of water, a long handled stiff brush and start scrubbing the beast. I no sooner finish under his bony left wing than he lazily lifts a rear talon to scratch at the place I’d just cleaned, leaving a wide, dripping streak of mud down his side.

  I roll the brush handle in my hands, thinking how badly I’d like to smack the creature up side the head, but that wouldn’t do, of course. Someone would see and I’d be feeling the Proga lance several times over. No matter how much you’d like to, you just don’t go around clobbering Lord Lorell’s dragons, at least, not if you’re Hooper.

  I finish with Boomer and move from paddock to paddock, shoveling dung, scrubbing dragons as needed while the sun lowers toward the horizon. The sun is almost to the tops of the high hills that make a long arc around Draconstead when I hear what seems to be wind rushing through the air and crane my neck upward.

  Sapphire wings soar over the birthing barn’s peaked roof. It’s Helmar, on his blue dragon, Wind Glory. The dragon swoops over the corrals, makes a gentle left turn and comes to a soft landing just beyond the holding pens.

  Helmar deftly jumps down from his dragon and strides toward Wind Boomer’s stall. He’s still carrying his bow and sword. I duck my head and say, “Good afternoon, Sir Novice.”

  Helmar frowns, apparently not pleased at my meager attempt at a joke. “I’m not a ‘sir’ as you well know, Hooper, so mind your words.”

  I duck my head again, apologetically. “I’m sorry, Master Novice, my tongue wanders at times.”

  “Then I suggest,” he snaps, “that you keep it on a tight leash in the future.”

  He enters Boomer’s paddock, stops, and does a slow scan of the meadows and forest around the stead like he did before. He’s still worried about the Wilders, I think to myself. Well, so am I.

  To try and get back in his good graces, I point at his sapphire. “Getting ready
to sky down to Draconton and then to the Manor House? Do I need to get anything for Wind Glory? Water? Food?”

  “No,” he answers. “He’s already well fed and yes, I’m about to sky down to Draconton, just checking on some last things.”

  I nod appreciatively. “That means that you’ll dine with the master tonight.”

  His lips turn up at the thought as he eyes me. “Yes, and while you’re here supping on turnip stew or potato slush, they’ll force on me roasted venison, sweet squash, fresh bread with honey butter, and cinnamon apples for dessert.”

  He leans forward and murmurs, “And the worst part, Hooper? I’ll have to sleep in a bed with a down mattress, pillow, and comforter.”

  He shakes his head and waves his hand in the air in a cavalier fashion. “It’s going to be terrible, Hooper, absolutely brutal.”

  “Then,” I reply, trying to match his jest, “it’s a good thing that you’re strong enough to endure such torture — a lesser man, such as myself, obviously could not.”

  His laugh is a sharp bark. “A man, Hooper? As I said before, you need to watch your words more carefully. Your tongue does indeed wander for there’s no one around here that would call you such.”

  I bite down on my lip, trying to hold my face as impassive as I can, though it feels as if his words were a knife twisting into my insides. He walks over to Boomer’s stall, makes a quick check of Wind Boomer’s chains, inspects the paddock railings, ensures his water trough is full before he turns and glances at the forest, his eyes hardening. “Well, I’m off. You may not be carrying a bow or sword but I’ve ordered the other workers to keep a sharp lookout, and that goes for you, too. Understood?”

  Pretending that his words didn’t hurt, I snap my shovel up against my side as if it were a lance. “You can rely on me, Master Novice. My razor-sharp shovel and rake will always be at the ready, along with my trusted wheelbarrow steed. We’ll protect m'lord's lands to our last breath.”

  Helmar snorts and laughs lightly at my mockery. “You do that, Hooper.”