by GARY DARBY
Oh. That’s embarrassing. I can feel my face grow warm. I’ve done it again, said something that she considers stupid. “What do we do?” I mutter.
She points to the thick oaken tree that grows at one corner of the shop. Its thick limbs form a natural, if leafy, ladder up to Phigby’s second-story window. “We climb.”
“Climb?” I stammer.
“Sure,” she replies and turns to gaze at me with an amused expression. “You do climb?”
I start to answer that I climb about as well as I ride a dragon, but this time I keep those thoughts to myself and instead reply, “Of course.”
“Let’s go, then.” She dashes across the short open space between the forest line and the oak tree. I do my best to keep up, but I’m no match for her speed. By the time I’m at the base of the thick trunk, she’s already scurrying up the tree as if she were part squirrel.
She gestures for me to hurry and I shake my head to myself, wondering why she’s in such a rush. It’s not like the Book Master is going anywhere. Besides, in my mind, what will happen is that we’ll get to the window, knock, Master Phigby will open the window, see who it is and promptly close and lock the window shutters on us.
And that means Cara won’t get a chance to read Master Phigby’s new book, and I won’t have an opportunity to get at his dragon jewel volume. Which will be disappointing, but at least, I got to be alone with Cara, even if I did have to ride on her smelly dragon.
Ever so slowly, I pull myself along, grabbing onto the smaller limbs and hoisting myself up to the next higher branch. I find that trying to balance on my bad leg while standing on a swaying tree bough while reaching for the next branch is close to impossible. I’m just glad that there’s no stiff breeze because if the tree were swaying, by now I probably would have somersaulted to the ground.
And ended up with something broken, no doubt after nose-diving face-first into the short, prickly grass that surrounds the tree.
Cara is already at the top and peering into the window. I reach up to grab the next limb while tottering on the one I’m standing on when Cara drops some bark on my head to get my attention.
“What’s wrong?” I mouth silently.
She anxiously waves for me to climb up to her perch where she’s wrapped her stomach over one limb while leaning toward the window. Grunting to myself, I pull myself up until I have my belly on the same branch. With wide eyes, she points at the window. I manage to push myself up close enough so that I can peer through the square cut glass.
For a moment, I’m not exactly sure at what I’m looking. Then as if my eyes finally clear, I realize that I must be gazing into the room where Master Phigby mixes his potions and medicines.
Covering one wall is a large bookcase that has a combination of books, jugs, and small bottles on its shelves. Against another wall is a long, low table where several large flasks with thin, crane-like necks sit on round burners that give off tiny flames. From each curved bottle rise small wisps of smoke or steam that curl up almost to the ceiling.
In the room’s center, Phigby is slowly moving his hands above a large, leather-bound book that sits on an ornate pedestal.
I lean even farther, to see better and then I realize that the window is slightly ajar, and I can hear Phigby’s voice. First, it’s quiet and deep, then it rises in pitch and loudness, then lowers again. It stays that way until his speech begins to grow louder and louder. I can hear what he’s saying, but his words sound like he’s speaking in some unknown language. It’s pure gibberish to me.
He raises his hands high over his head, cries out in a booming voice, and in a blur of motion brings his arms straight down. There’s a sound like lightning streaking across the sky and a great cloud of smoke rises from the floor. The smoky haze covers Phigby and most of the room.
When the fog clears, Phigby is holding the book in front of him. He stares at it, and then with an exasperated growl, starts to vigorously shake it back and forth as if he’s trying to jiggle the book open. He does that for a bit before he stops and brings it closer, turning it over slowly as if he’s eyeing every part of the cover and its edging.
As he turns the book on its side, my eyes widen. The pages are sealed. There’s a silver-coated strip, two fingers wide in size that runs from the book’s back up over the front edges where it slips under a gleaming, ruby-colored half orb. The half sphere seems to be some sort of locked clasp.
Phigby pulls and yanks at the silver strap and buckle, but it doesn’t loosen, and no matter what he does, he can’t pry the pages open. Apparently frustrated after several attempts to undo the binding and failing, he slams the book down on the pedestal, blows out his candles, and stalks away.
I wait a few moments before whispering, “What was that all about?”
“I don’t know,” Cara murmurs. “I’ve never seen him act that way before. Whatever it was, it has something to do with that book. And I’ve never seen anything quite like it, either.”
She turns to me, and her eyes are full of a mischievous gleam. She breathes out, “A sealed book that he can’t open.”
She gives me a sly look and grins. “But maybe we can.” She pushes herself up higher on the branch and reaches for the window edge. I almost fall from the tree as I gurgle, “Wait, what are you doing? You can’t go inside, Master Phigby didn’t invite us.”
“Hooper,” she whispers, “I’ve got to get my hands on that book. I’ve heard of such things, but I’ve never seen one before. Isn’t this exciting?”
“Wait,” I stammer, realizing just what she’s saying. “You’re going to steal it?”
“Keep your voice down,” she orders. “I’m not stealing it, I’m borrowing it. Phigby lets me borrow his books all the time.”
She gives me an impish smile. “Besides, I’m his best customer, he knows I’ll bring it back first thing.”
“Cara,” I implore, “this is not a good idea. What if we get caught?”
“Oh, bosh,” she replies. “I won’t get caught. He’s a sound sleeper.” She stops and tilts an ear toward the window. “Hear that? He’s snoring already.”
I lean closer to the window and cock an ear toward the opening. “I can’t hear anything,” I say accusingly. “You’re making that up.”
She shrugs. “I can’t help it if you can’t hear him snoring, I certainly can.” With that, she reaches out, puts her fingers through the small opening, and slowly pulls the window open. She has it almost wide enough for her body to slip through when the window lets out a loud creeeaaak . . .
We both freeze in place, not moving, not daring to breathe. We wait. I’m entirely sure that Phigby will come roaring back into the room to see who’s trying to break into his home. Once that occurs, I’m also quite sure that absolutely nothing will happen to Cara, but as for me, well, in all honesty, can it get any worse?
Yes, it could. I could be spending the next fortnight in the penance stocks in the middle of the town square. The villagers threw rotten tomatoes at the last fellow they had bound between the wooden planks.
I have a sudden image of me with my head and arms through the stocks’ holes. I’m being pelted with spoiled fruit, it’s moldy red pulp and slimy, foul juice flowing down my face and into my mouth.
I reach out to stop Cara, but before I can, she has the window wide open. Then, as if she’s been a practicing burglar all her life, she’s through the window and standing in the room. Silent as a cat, she tiptoes across the chamber until she reaches the pedestal. Her hands glide over the book as if she’s lovingly caressing the leather covering. She picks up the manuscript and turns, holding it triumphantly aloft.
I frantically wave for her to hurry back outside as I’m certain we’ve pushed our luck to the very limit. She gives me that impish grin of hers again, retraces her steps back to the window and holds the book out for me to take so that she can clamber out. I hesitate, but Cara gives me a death look so I reach out with both hands and grasp the leather-bound volume tightly.
&nbs
p; It’s surprisingly light, which is good, because my balancing act on the limb is causing me to sway back and forth. I’m one misstep away from mimicking a baby bird trying its wings out for the first time as it heads straight down to the ground.
Cara climbs out, grabs the book from me, and practically races down the tree. My trip down is a lot faster than going up, mainly because I want to get out of that tree as quickly as possible. By the time my feet hit the ground I’m sweating and sucking in air as if I’ve just pushed a hundred wheelbarrows of dragon dung up a steep mountainside.
Cara isn’t even breathing hard. She pulls at my arm, and at a stumbling pace, I follow her mad dash to the tree line. Once inside the first stand of trees, I huff, “Cara, where are you going? You said you just wanted to look at the book.”
“I do, silly,” she answers. “But in the light. It’s too dark in here to see anything. C’mon, quit dragging your feet.”
Actually, I’m only dragging one foot, but I’m not going to argue the point and follow her as best as I can in the darkness. It’s not long before we push through the last bit of brush into the small meadow where Wind Song has lain waiting. She raises her head to stare intently at us. One good thing about dragons is that once a dragon bonds to its rider, they can somehow sense that person from a long way off.
If not, and Wind Song hadn’t recognized us, there’s a good chance that she would have done something bad, like whip her tail around and skewer us with her twin spikes.
I stumble over to the beast, breathing hard, and lean up against one leg, trying to catch my breath. Cara looks at me and laughs. “Now, that wasn’t too hard, was it? We’re a good pair of burglars, Hooper.”
“Sure,” I reply, “as long as you don’t get caught, you’re a great burglar.”
She laughs again, but before she can reply, Wind Song suddenly springs to her feet, knocking me to the ground. Her ears and head swivel toward the town and from deep in her throat comes a menacing snarl. Cara’s smile instantly evaporates. She puts a hand on Wind Song’s neck. “What’s wrong, girl?”
In answer, Wind Song rips up the ground with her talons and growls long and low again.
Then I hear it; the most dreadful, horrible sound in the world and the one thing that I never, ever want to hear in my life again.
Dragon fire.
And the screams of those caught in its fiery, scalding stream of death.
8
From beyond the dark line of spruce trees, a blazing crimson torrent spews from the sky, then another and another. The brilliant streams of fire cast the slim trees in garish, spiked shadows. A deafening hissing fills the night as if the dragon breath is scorching the very air. Fireballs of red and orange erupt from exploding buildings sending fiery fragments that arc outward like shooting stars before they sputter and dim as they float and waft over the treetops.
Cara doesn’t hesitate but darts toward the village, leaving me to follow as best as I can with my limping gait. I push through a last overhanging branch to join her at the tree line where we both stare in shock and in disbelief.
Tongues of fire leap skyward from thatched roofs where an inferno of scarlet and orange flames consumes a whole row of sideboard houses. Just moments before, they wore bright paints the color of red cherries, golden tassels of corn, and sky blue.
Now, their outsides turn black from the blistering heat. Charcoal-colored molten slag oozes to the ground from those few houses with actual glass windows. In the rooftops’ spreading flames, I can see more dark shapes swoop down, spraying fire into the helpless town.
Cara grabs my arm, her fingers tight and hard against my skin. “Wilders! They’re attacking the village!”
I can’t tear my eyes away from the dragon fire, and my whole body starts to tremble. I can hear screams of pain, shrieks of terror, but they’re not from the townspeople. Seemingly, in the distance, I hear a ghostly voice urgently calling, “Run, Hooper! Run!”
I whirl and dash back toward the meadow. I push through thicket after thicket trying to escape not just the firestorm behind but the inferno that fills my memories. I rush past a scraggly bush and from the shadows a hand grabs my tunic and spins me around.
Cara holds me in a fierce grip. I struggle to get away, but she won’t let me go and tightens her grasp even more. Her mouth is moving, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I know she’s speaking, but I don’t listen to a single word. My heart is pounding, I can’t breathe, and I feel as if everything around me is whirling, spinning, and I can’t make it stop.
I stare at Cara as if I don’t recognize her before she shakes me so hard that my head snaps back and forth. Cara’s voice is so loud that it startles me. “Hooper, what’s wrong with you? We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Out of here?” I murmur. “Yes, of course, we’ve got to run, get away.”
“Run?” she snaps. “No, we’ve got to get back to Draconstead — now.”
“Draconstead? No . . . No,” I hurriedly mumble. “We’ve got to get away; the dragons — the dragons are coming for us.”
Cara stares at me and shakes me again. Her lips are pinched together, and there’s a hardness about her face that I’ve never seen before. “Hooper, I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Wilders aren’t after us, they’re after the golden. C’mon, we’ve got to get to Wind Song.”
Cara loosens her grip and races away. I try to keep up with her, but my stumbling steps are no match for her frenzied dash. I finally catch up with her in the meadow. I stop to catch my breath and run a hand over my face; it comes away so covered in sweat it’s as if I’d dipped my hand in a bucket of water.
Cara’s picked up Phigby’s book that she dropped and is climbing up Wind Song’s leg toward her saddle. “Cara,” I call out, “what are you doing?”
“I told you,” she snaps back. “I’m skying to Draconstead. The Wilders are here to steal the golden, but I’m not going to let them.”
“The golden,” I mumble, trying to clear my head.
“If you’re coming,” Cara orders in a no-nonsense tone, “then get up here. Otherwise, I’m leaving you behind.” She slaps the book into the leather pouch that hangs to one side of her saddle, tightens down the straps that hold her bow and quiver, and peers at me. Her eyes are narrow and hard. She’s determined to go, with or without me.
“Cara,” I plead, “wait.”
I hold up my hands, imploring, desperate to stop her. “It’s one thing to sneak into Master Phigby’s house, it’s another to go against armed Wilders. We haven’t got a chance. Don’t do this, please.”
I take a few steps forward, still imploring. “Besides, that’s what the drogs and the king’s knights are there for, remember? They’ll protect the golden.”
From Wind Song’s saddle, Cara leans down, her long hair almost covering her face. “Hooper, I can’t depend on the drogs or the knights protecting Golden Wind, so I’m going.” Her eyes soften just a bit, and she murmurs, “I could really use your help to save her.”
She pauses for a moment before saying, “And if I remember right, don’t you have a special friend that you’d like to save?”
My breath catches. Scamper. In my confusion and fear, I’ve forgotten about Scamper. My own fright, the ghosts that haunt me, pushed Scamper completely out of my mind. By now, he should have made it back to the barn, the same barn where the rampaging Wilders will be if they’re after the golden. Will he stay hidden or will his curiosity bring him out in the open, an easy target for a Wilder arrow?
In my mind’s eye, I see Scamper’s lifeless body, pierced by a Wilder shaft and left behind, perhaps to be found by a drog, who would think nothing of eating him on the spot. A flame of anger ignites inside of me.
I climb up Wind Song’s leg and slide in behind Cara. “Let’s go,” I say firmly as I wrap my arms around her waist. “I have no doubt that we’re both going to die, but I can’t just leave Scamper. He wouldn’t leave me . . . ”
I suck in a breath. “I w
on’t leave him.”
Cara settles into the saddle deeper. “We’re not going to die,” she states, “but if I get the chance, I know some people that won’t see another dawn.” She strokes Wind Song’s neck and commands, “Sky, girl, sky.”
We shoot into the air, and Cara immediately dips Wind Song’s wings away from the burning town so that we won’t be cast in its blazing light. We flew just above the forest before, now we’re so low that Wind Song’s dangling talons slash through the topmost thin branches leaving a wake of shredded leaves and broken limbs behind.
I glance over my shoulder at Draconton. Against the red sky, I see dozens of dark crimson bodies and wings circling over the town, like vultures above a dead or dying animal. I pick out Master Phigby’s shop. Roof, gables, walls, all are in flames. For several beats of Wind Song’s wings, the fire mesmerizes me, as I know exactly what the inferno means. I drop my gaze in sadness at the loss of Master Phigby.
Cara has her eyes forward, guiding Wind Song over the trees. She must have sensed that I was looking back because she asks over her shoulder, “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” is all I reply.
“Can you see my home?” she asks with a catch in her voice.
I glance back again. Dracon Haus, set apart with its manicured lawn and twice as large as any building in Draconton is easy to pick out in the firelight. “Yes,” I answer. There’s no need to say more, like everything else in the village, the Dracon family’s ancestral home is burning from thatched roof clear to the ground.
I can feel Cara take several shuddering breaths and a little sob escapes her lips. Then her body stiffens, and she asks in a hard voice, “What about the Wilders?”
“They’re everywhere, but, I don’t think they see us, no one’s following.”
I peer ahead toward Draconstead. I’m grateful to see no fires and no dragons in the air, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Red dragons are very hard to see at night unless there’s moonlight, which there isn’t just yet.