by GARY DARBY
I glance once more up at the moons, scratch my head several times and mumble, “I have no idea of what just happened or what it means but we still have to find the falls, and I have absolutely no idea which way to go. Too bad those moonbeams couldn’t have formed a big arrow pointing the way.”
I slowly swivel my head, staring into the gloom looking for any sign to indicate a trail to the falls when I hear, “I can find the way.”
I whirl around, my bow up, and an arrow notched. I eye the nearby scraggly underbrush and trees, trying to spot who it was that answered my question. “Who said that?” I demand.
There’s no answer and after a bit, I decide that there’s no one there, either. “Perfect,” I mutter to myself, “first, we get a moonbeam bath, and now I’m hearing voices.”
I lower my bow. “Well,” I let out, “we’re not going to get anywhere by just standing here, so, let’s go.” I start to walk in the direction of the falls, or at least, I think it’s the right way. I don’t go more than a few steps when I notice that the golden isn’t following. Neither are the sprogs. They’re staying close to Golden Wind.
She’s just standing there, watching me. She hasn’t moved at all. “This way,” I say and point with a finger. “We need to go this way.”
In answer, she slowly turns, being careful not to step on the sprogs, and starts walking in the opposite direction with the little dragons waddling along behind her. “Hey,” I yelp, “where do you think you’re going?”
In a stumbling gait, I run after her until I catch up. I slap at her leg to get her attention. “Stop, you big oaf, you’re going the wrong way.”
I might as well be whacking a strolling boulder for all the good my swats do to bring her to a halt. One of her ears swivels toward me at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t slow or even acknowledge that I’m right beside her.
Now what do I do? It’s not like I’m a Dragon Trainer with a Proga stick and I can prod her into obeying me and going the way I want to go. Stumbling along and after thinking about it for a while, I see I have two choices. I either strike out on my own toward where I think the stream is, or I go with her in whatever direction she’s taking us.
In the distance, a low, mournful wail wafts through the night air. The call of a Dreadwolf. That makes up my mind for me. So much for striking out on my own. I don’t have the faintest notion where the golden is headed, but I do know that at least with her it’s doubtful that the wolf pack will attack. Whereas, if I were alone, well, I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I were caught out in the open by a pack of ravenous wolves.
We haven’t gone far when Regal and Sparkle get in a scrap over something or other. They tussle with each other, then draw apart and try to growl, but what comes out of their mouths sounds like a sick chicken. Then they start spitting tiny fireballs, no bigger than the tip of my last pinkie, at each other.
I stop and stare for a moment. “Huh. Never knew they could do that,” I mutter, before stepping over to stop the two.
“Stop!” I order and shove the two apart, careful not to get my hands in front of their faces. The little glowing globes don’t go all that far, but I suspect that they could leave a nasty burn if one splattered against my skin. I push them toward the golden, and I’m not at all gentle. The last thing we need is for Wilder eyes to see fire, tiny though it may be, in the forest where there shouldn’t be any.
The golden stops, gazes at me for an instant, before she eases down on her belly and stretches out her neck and head on the ground. The sprogs waddle up, scratching and clawing, trying to climb up on her skull plate.
After a couple of attempts, mixed in with several head-over-tail falls from halfway up, I get the idea and one by one lift the sprogs onto her head, where the four settle themselves behind her carapace. They snuggle together and close their eyes. The golden slowly raises her head, rises to her feet, and plods on. I scratch my head and mutter, “Never knew they could do that, either.”
I try my best to match the golden’s speed but her four legs against my two are no contest, and it’s not long before I’m lagging way behind. She stops to eye me as if she can’t understand why I can’t match her pace.
I catch up, but as soon as I do, she moves off again. This time, though, I notice that she slows her stride to match mine, which is good, because my scarred leg is hurting so bad that I have a tough time maintaining even a sluggish speed.
We haven’t gone far before I’m limping more and more with each step and it’s so painful that I have to force myself to keep moving. I’d like nothing better than to sit and rest but I don’t think I could make the golden understand that I need to stop.
Besides, we need to keep moving, away from Draconstead and the Wilders. I’d like to think that we’re making our way toward the falls, but I’m totally lost and have no idea where we are or where the golden is headed. Surprisingly, for all her girth, the golden moves quietly through the forest and seems to blend into the shadows.
After a bit, my bad leg is so sore and stiff that I can barely lift it over the occasional log we come across. The fact is, I’ve put my legs through a lot tonight, and it’s obvious that they’re just not used to all the walking, running, climbing, crouching, stooping, and yes, hiding that I’ve had to do.
If we are indeed heading toward the brook, at the pace I’m moving, it could be several sunrises before we finally arrive.
After struggling over several slanted and broken tree trunks, I have no choice but to sit and rest my leg. The golden notices I’ve stopped and comes to a halt too but remains standing on all fours. Her head swivels as if she’s searching the forest, but for what I don’t know. For some reason to have her so close is actually comforting.
I wipe away the sweat that beads my forehead with the back of my hand. The wetness is both from exertion and from the agonizing pain in my leg. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going tonight before I absolutely have to stop and wait until morning.
My head droops and I realize just how tired I am. This night seems like it has gone on forever, yet I know from the moon’s being almost straight overhead that it’s not even half over. The golden swings her head down and stares at me before she lowers her body and thrusts one of her front legs out in a bent position. My eyes widen and my jaw drops.
I’m stunned that she would know that particular position since no Dragon Trainer has ever taught her riding or skying commands. So, how does she know to offer her leg to a rider? It’s a puzzle for which I have no answer, and I can’t help but stare in amazement.
When she was born, Lord Lorell decreed that the golden would never know rivets for reins or saddle. She would have wing chains, of course, but that would be all. He also commanded that no one would ever ride her, either on the ground or in the air.
But there is no doubt in my mind of what she is doing. She’s offering me the chance to ride her, her legs to become mine. I hesitate and think, what if Master Boren finds out, or worse, Lord Lorell? What if . . .
I stop second-guessing myself and think, who’s going to tell m’lord Lorell? Me? Certainly, not. Then I laugh at a thought. Would Golden Wind tell? And just how would she do that? By pantomime? After all, dragons can’t talk.
My laugh turns to a grimace as another sharp pain stabs my leg. My leg always hurts, but it’s been a long while since it throbbed this bad. I wonder if this is what it would feel like if a drog lance had pierced my skin. The burning shoots up my leg until it’s like someone is drawing a knife through my flesh. I bend over from the agony, and I can’t help the small moan that passes my lips.
The pain wipes away any hesitation on my part. “All right,” I say to the golden, “you win. I accept your offer. If the sprogs can ride, so can I.”
As with Wind Song, my climb to the natural saddle just behind the golden’s skull plate is clumsy and slow. I finally settle myself in her neck notch. “Sorry for the delay. This is all new to me.”
At a sudden thought, I say,
“And I guess for you, too.”
I make sure that my longbow, arrows, and knife are all secure. I shake my head to myself and draw in a deep breath. I’m not only riding a dragon; I’m riding a Golden Dragon. “Very, very new,” I murmur to myself.
The sprogs are asleep and don’t even stir from my awkward movements to seat myself. Without any prodding from me, the golden begins a steady gait through the forest. After a bit, I have to admit that the golden seems to know where she’s going, as she’s staying on a relatively straight line. Maybe she’s thirsty, and her need to drink is leading us to the stream.
While I wouldn’t mind a long drink from a cool, clear brook, that’s not what’s first on my mind. Now that I have time to think instead of having to concentrate on just moving, I realize that even if we do reach the falls, I’m being naïve and foolish in thinking that Cara and Helmar will be there.
I feel the bile rising in my gullet and a stabbing pain in my stomach. What was I thinking? Cara won’t be waiting for us at the falls. There’s no way she was able to escape from the Wilders with their dozens of dragons.
Cara died tonight, along with Scamper, Master Phigby, and most likely Helmar. They’re all dead.
I can see Cara’s face, every curve, every dimple. For just a little while, she was in my life. But now, I won’t ever see her radiant face, her beaming smile, the delightful way she crinkled her nose, the gleam in her eye when she became so excited over Master Phigby’s new book.
Never to hear her melodious laugh again.
In one brief, wonderful moment, she made me forget the harshness of my world just by being close. Just with a smile — the touch of her hand.
No more Scamper, no more laughing at his peculiar little antics, no more having the furry warmth of his body close when it’s cold, or feeling the way his little paws tickled me when he searched my pockets for food. No more knowing that there’s someone in the world who accepts me just the way I am.
I put my head down. I haven’t cried in a long time, but I admit I’m having a hard time holding back the tears. It doesn’t matter that I’ve found the golden — how could I have forgotten Cara, Scamper, and Master Phigby? Yes, and Helmar, too.
I stare straight ahead. My sorrow isn’t done, there’s still plenty left in me, but there will come a better time and place to let my grief wash completely over mind and body. Cara wanted me to get the golden away from the Wilders, I have to do that first, and then I’ll let the anguish pour through my body, let the tears flood my eyes.
I study the darkness around me, only broken by the shadowy, dark forms of tree and brush. Then it hits me in a sudden realization. I don’t have to go to the falls now, there’s no real reason to make for the river anymore. I could go somewhere else.
But where?
I’ve never been outside of Draconstead except to Draconton. Though I’ve studied some of the maps in Master Phigby’s bookstore, I still wouldn’t have the faintest idea of where to go or how to get there.
Unlike Phigby, who seems to be familiar with the whole world, Draconstead and Draconton are all I know. I finally decide that if the golden is indeed headed toward the falls, it’s as good a place as any for now. At least, for the moment, I have a place to go, and that gives me purpose in what I’m doing if nothing else.
The dragon’s walk produces a soothing sway that eases the pain in my leg. At her pace, it shouldn’t take long to find the creek and then make our way to the falls. I wonder how many people have ever ridden a golden dragon? History doesn’t say. Who knows? I might be the first and only Drach to have ever ridden on a one-and-only dragon.
I glance down, and my eyes catch a dull glint in the pale moonlight. It’s the golden’s wing chains. They’re still on, constricting her wings into tight bundles at her side. I’m not sure why, but the sight of her chains causes me to ponder for a long time before I come to a decision. If the House of Lorell can’t have the golden, then I’m going to do something that will fulfill Cara’s last wish and ensure that the Wilders will not have her either.
I squirm around until I’m holding onto her by one horn and dangling over the side in an awkward fashion. I hope that she understands my message and stops. She does, and I drop to the ground, emitting another small moan from landing on my hurt leg.
“Hold on,” I say to her. “I’m going to do something that I really, really shouldn’t, but just in case the Wilders or drogs show up, you should at least have the chance to escape.”
I don’t mention that if the Wilders or drogs show up, I probably won’t have an opportunity to escape.
I’m not sure if she’ll understand my command or not, but I’ve got to try. “Golden Wind,” I speak firmly, “down.” To my surprise, she slowly lowers herself until she’s lying on her belly. I work on the chain’s link latch on one side until I’m able to slide the chain through the rivets and then completely off.
Her left wing spreads out slowly, and I trundle over to the other restraints. Moments later, the second chain falls to the ground, and the golden fully spreads both wings. She beats them up and down, and I can feel the rush of wind lifting my hair and cooling my face.
For a few heartbeats, I think that she might sky away, leaving me stranded on the forest floor. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. Instead, after a few more beats of her leathery, batlike wings, she tucks them against her body. She swings her muzzle close so that we’re practically nose to nose.
“Thank you, Hooper, that feels so much better.”
I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I just stand there and gawk.
A dragon just spoke to me, and I understood every word.
First the golden aura and now this. It’s too much for me. My knees buckle, and I slowly sink to the ground. “You . . . you . . . talk,” I sputter.
“Yes,” she responds. “I do.”
It takes me a moment, but I finally gurgle, “But — But you’re a — ”
“Dragon and dragons aren’t supposed to talk, is that right?”
I nod several times, unable to speak. It’s a good thing the wind isn’t blowing, or my mouth, which must be as wide as the dragon doors back at the birthing barn would catch every blowing leaf in the forest, and I’d strangle on the leaves.
She lowers her head a little more. I never noticed before just how big her golden eyes were. Up close like this, each one must be as big as my head. Maybe bigger. “Well, I do, and for now, only you can understand me.”
I swallow and manage to gurgle, “Just me? Why — ”
“Because,” she answers, with what seems to be a smile. “You’ve got something hidden in your tunic, don’t you?”
My hand goes to the hard lump next to my chest. I start to answer “no” but I can see in her eyes that she knows that I have a dragon tear jewel. “How — ” I stammer, “did you know about the — ”
“Dragon gem?” she replies. She seems to have a way of knowing what I’m about to say even before I can finish my sentence. “Let’s just say that dragon tear jewels are unique and very special, Hooper. They carry the life-essence and the power of the one who gave it to you.”
Her eyes become sad, mournful. “It is good that you carry it so close to your heart, for it was indeed a sacrifice of the heart from an honored one. And one whose life-force I knew well.”
I blink several times, still not quite believing I’m having a conversation with a dragon. “You mean the old green dragon?”
She pulls her head back as if she’d just whiffed rotten, soured cabbages. “Old green dragon,” she replies somberly. “You say that as if you’ve just bitten into a peeled lemon that’s been sprinkled with salt.”
I don’t know how to answer her. She gazes at me for a moment before saying in a subdued tone, “Pengillstorr Noraven was an extraordinary dragon, a noble king of the greenery.” She lowers her head until she is again less than a hand’s width from my face. “And for all of his long life, a protector of the Drach Menschen.”
“Protec
tor?” I choke out. “You’re not serious.”
“I am most serious,” she answers. She swivels her head around and surveys the dark forest. “We should go,” she states. She rises and thrusts out her leg. “We’ve tarried too long, and we’re still too close to those who would do evil to both of us.”
She glances skyward before saying, “We’ll have to stay on the ground. It would not be wise to take to the sky. I can hear other dragons in the far distance.”
“Wilders?”
“That is my thought for they do not sound like the wings of those I knew at our home. And if so, then it would be wise for us to quickly continue our journey and not chance a meeting.”
Mentioning the Wilders is like a slap in the face, it focuses my attention on what we’re trying to do and for the moment, I put aside all my doubts and questions about a talking dragon. “I can say for a certainty let’s not chance it,” I respond. “I’ve had all the Wilders for one night, no, make that for one lifetime that I ever want to have.”
I put a hand on her leg, but a sudden thought stops me, and I walk around to face her. “Uh, one thing. If you need to sky away to save yourself, then that’s all right with me. Cara would want you safe and not a Wilder captive.
“So, if you need to leave me — ” I take a sharp breath and let it out. “Then do it. She would understand. After all, that’s what she . . . ” I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say, “died for.” It’s too painful, too hurtful to acknowledge that Cara’s life is over.
And I can’t let my anger and hatred of all dragons overcome Cara’s last wish. Cara died saving this dragon, and I will do my best to honor her unselfish act.
Golden Wind swings her head down close, eyes me for a moment and then says, “That’s very gallant of you, Hooper. But I don’t think that I shall need to sky, as you call it, anytime soon.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know, just in case.”
“Thank you. Now, let us go, we need to get even deeper into the forest.”
I do a better job of getting aboard this time and settle myself on her neck. She waits and then asks, “Ready?”