by GARY DARBY
I see Helmar shake his head and wave a dismissive hand before he and Cara enter the hut. Obviously, I think to myself, Helmar must believe that I’m not even good enough for that.
I whirl around, my anger and hurt building inside me. I’d like to see them get lost in the dark, with wolves and trolls lurking in every shadow, ready to sink their fangs in them. Or, worse, a witch just waiting to wrap her claws around their throats and strangle the life from them.
Oh sure, they wouldn’t have gotten up on the golden to ride, they would have stayed loyal to Lord Lorell’s stupid decree to the very end. Well, I’m not one of them. I may have a miserable, rotten, go-away-and-leave-me-alone life, but it’s all I have, and I’m not going to give up on my life. Not for some stinking dragon.
I kick at a clump of grass and trudge toward what appears to be a line of treetops that snake behind a rolling ridge. I hear a snuffling behind me and turn to find Scamper following behind, poking his nose into this and that. He seems to have resolved whatever his argument was with his adversary because his fur seems intact, and I can see that his tummy is a bit rounded, meaning that he’s found something to eat, somewhere.
I’m glad he’s eaten, I just wished he’d shared. My stomach feels like one gigantic empty cavern and at this point, I’d even consider some fat worms dug up by Scamper to fill it.
I make my way up the small hill and stop. At the knoll’s base runs a tiny stream that meanders between two little hillocks before it wanders out of sight. I pick my way down the modest incline and find a small pool where I can dip the flasks under the water.
While the deer hide containers are filling, I set aside my bow and quiver while I cup the water to my mouth and drink deeply before I splash a little over my cheeks and neck. The coolness calms my anger and the flush on my face.
The bubbles escaping from the containers as they fill are almost gone, and I’m about to draw the pouches from the water when a dark shadow falls across the stream.
I try to leap away, but I’m too clumsy. I awkwardly trip and fall before rolling onto my back. Silhouetted in the sun’s glare is a large, dark-skinned man. His open leather jerkin hangs over bulging chest muscles. With arms and hands that look the size of trees, he shoulders a gleaming two-edged ax. I have no doubt of his ability to wield the fearsome blade.
Moreover, I have no doubt that he’s about to wield it on me.
At that moment, I resolve that if I live through this, I’m going to learn how to use a bow.
The question is, am I going to live through this?
17
I reach for my bow, but I’m too slow and fumble away my chance to bring the longbow to bear. The ax swings through the air straight at my head. I can’t help myself, I close my eyes and let loose a scream of sheer terror. Instead of slicing my head open like a sharp blade through a watermelon, the edge of the ax barely kisses my forehead and nose.
I wait a moment before I’m able to open my eyes again, only to find the ax wielder bending over, his eyes fixed and hard while he keeps the blade centered on my face. He leans closer before his mouth slowly turns up into a smile and his chuckles turn into a deep belly laugh.
His smile abruptly ends with a yelp when a gray ball of flailing fury flies out of the air and lands squarely on the man’s broad shoulders.
Scamper sinks his tiny teeth into one ear. The burly man lets out a cry, reaches up, and grabs Scamper by the scruff of his neck.
He swings Scamper around so that the two are eye to eye. Scamper’s four paws are furiously scratching at nothing but air and his black lips curve back in a vicious snarl. Well, as ferocious as he can, which really isn’t saying much. From his mouth comes a throaty growl intermixed with high-pitched chitterings of anger.
The man holds Scamper out, turning him from side to side. “Humph,” the man growls. “You're small but plump. With a good roasting, you might be worth eating.”
That does it. Before he can stop me, I roll away, scramble to my feet and charge straight at the bare-chested man. I don’t even remember to draw my knife as I’m so enraged that he’d want to hurt Scamper.
Before I get close, the man lifts his ax up and holds it out level with the short, pointed wooden end aimed squarely at my gut. I manage to stop and suck in my stomach before he can twist the handle and have the blade bite into my flesh.
His brown eyes are like stone as he stares at me. “Hold, boy,” he rumbles in a deep, bass voice, “before you find yourself missing body parts.”
He cocks his head to one side as he sizes me up. “You be no Wilder, and this,” he says as he gives Scamper several hard shakes that sets him off to chittering again, “is no Wilder dragon.”
Holding a snarling Scamper out to one side, he asks, “What you be, boy?”
I take a deep breath and lick the sweat off my lips before I stammer, “I be a Hooper.”
The man grunts at my response. “And what exactly be a Hooper?”
I eye his double-edged ax. He holds it straight out as effortlessly as if he were holding no more than a dandelion. But I’m sure that if I make the wrong move, he’ll have it slicing through my flesh before I can take two steps.
I decide to take a chance. “I, uh, well, a Hooper is someone who lives deep in the forest many leagues from here.” I swallow and go on in a rush of words. “We Hoopers are fearsome warriors and we don’t take kindly to one of us being hurt or killed, you know.”
I gesture toward Scamper. “That is a symbol of our tribe — a sacred symbol that we hold in high regard.”
The man snorts, eyes Scamper and then me. “Seems your tribe takes to liking things on the small size if you ask me.”
I manage to muster the sternest expression I can. “Maybe, but, just so you’ll know, there are lots more Hoopers just over that hill. That yell I let out was our war cry, calling for hundreds of warriors to come to my aid. If I were you, I’d best be going before they show up. And, oh, without killing or hurting me, or our sacred symbol, of course.”
The man stares at me for a long moment before his face cracks into a grin so wide I think it’s going to split his face in half. His laugh is more of a roar that starts deep in his belly and ripples up and out of his mouth. He lowers his ax and steps back, all the while letting out one rolling belly laugh after another.
After a bit, his guffaws simmer down to loud chuckles. I always thought of Helmar as being a big, strong man. However, this fellow is a Helmar and a half. I feel like a tiny twig next to a giant oak tree.
Scamper is still furiously wriggling in the man’s grasp. He’s not used to being handled in such a rough manner. The man glances at my bow and knife while firmly saying, “Now, boy, tell me the truth. I’ve walked this forest from one end to the other, and unless they’re invisible, there’s no ‘Hooper’ warrior clan.”
I start to stammer, but just then my eyes catch movement over his shoulder. With as much bluster as I can, I say, “Well, you might want to rethink that because our clan elder and two of our warriors are on the hill behind you with arrows pointed straight at your back. And most likely there are more on their way.”
Without letting go of Scamper, he turns halfway around so that he can see who’s on the knoll’s crest. Phigby, Cara, and Helmar stand almost shoulder to shoulder. Cara has an arrow notched while Helmar and Phigby stand with swords in hand.
Phigby stares down into the little vale and then, for some reason, reaches out and pushes Cara’s arrow down before his sword disappears under his robe.
The big man seems to study the three for several moments before he turns back to me. “You say the long-beard up there is your clan leader?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply stoutly. “And he’s a very powerful wizard, too. Why just last night he slew a huge goblin with just one of his mighty spells.”
“Goblin, eh?” the man says. “And a big one, too? Well, now, I’ve always wanted to meet a powerful sorcerer.”
He takes his ax and points up the hill, his meaning clea
r. He holds a still struggling Scamper off to one side as we trudge up the small knoll until we reach the top.
“Your warrior here tells me you’re a great shaman,” the muscular man says in a mocking air to Phigby. “Able to slay a good-sized goblin with one spell. I have to admit that’s quite a feat, it usually takes me a half dozen good swings of my blade before I can bring down one of the bigger brutes.”
He gives Scamper a little shake causing him to start chittering loudly again. “He also says that this is a sacred symbol of your tribe.”
He casts a sideways glance at me. “What did you call it, again? Oh yes, the ‘Hooper warrior clan.’”
He snorts and says, “So, magician, give us the truth, did you actually slay that oversized barrel of pig’s fat with one spell? As I said, it takes me a few swings before I can cut one down to size.”
Phigby stands a little straighter and says, “Then maybe you should sharpen your blade so that it cuts better.”
The ax man lifts his blade up as if to inspect the edge. “Hmmm,” he replies. “You may well be right; it does look as if it’s getting a bit dull.”
He smiles at Phigby and points his ax at him. “Maybe I should sharpen it on your scraggly, old beard. It looks as rough and coarse as any grindstone.”
“You, sir,” Phigby answers as his fingers stroke his whiskers, “would find my beard to be more than a match for that thin, rusty blade you claim to be a goblin slayer.”
Uh, oh, I think to myself. That does it. We’re all dead. Neither Cara nor Helmar are going to get their weapons up in time, and Phigby isn’t going to be fast enough to dip into his bag of tricks before the ax man lops our heads off with one swing.
As if reading my mind, the man lifts his cleaver, no doubt readying it for the fatal blow. Who will be the first to lose his head? Me, no doubt.
Phigby and the axman stare hard at each other, their eyes locked as if blinking would somehow show a lack of courage. Neither speaks, both stand glowering, less than a body’s width apart. Then, the big man starts to chuckle. A moment later, Phigby is chortling.
Then, broad grins appear on both men’s faces along with gales of laughter. Helmar, Cara, and I exchange puzzled glances. A moment ago, I was sure that Phigby had provoked this man into attacking us, now they’re laughing as if someone had told an excellent joke.
The man holds Scamper up. “Professor, what am I to do with this ferocious beast? He almost left me with but one ear!”
“Hooper,” Phigby orders, “retrieve your beastie. It’s not polite to gnaw off a friend’s ear.”
“Friend?” I choke as I gather Scamper in my arms.
“Friend, indeed,” Phigby replies. “And well received, too.”
He spreads his arms wide and says, “Amil!”
“Phigby!” the man heartily replies and gives the old man a bear hug. It’s so enthusiastic that I’m afraid he’s going to snap Phigby in half. Both men are laughing as Amil lets Phigby go and stands back.
“So,” Amil says as he nods his head toward me, “this one tells me that you are now the grand chief of the entire Hooper warrior clan, and here I thought you had retired to the quiet life of reading books and mixing your potions.”
Phigby’s eyebrows rise noticeably. “Chief of the Hooper warrior clan?” he asks me in a long-drawn-out questioning tone.
With my head lowered, I can barely meet his eyes as I mumble, “Had to say and do something, I was afraid he was about to slice me open with that huge ax of his.”
Phigby shakes his head as if he can’t believe what he hears and gestures towards me. “Amil, this is Hooper, and that furry rascal he’s holding is Scamper. And these two are Cara, daughter of Boren Dracon, and Helmar, novice Dragon Master to Boren Dracon. All good and true friends of mine.”
He pauses before saying in a more serious tone, “We’ve come from Draconstead.”
Amil’s face turns serious and he eyes the three of us. “Draconstead,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “There was a news crier in the village. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or spreading rumors, even if he did wear the king’s colors.”
“Unfortunately, they are not rumors,” Phigby answers. “And it is amazing how fast news can travel, especially bad news. The Wilders attacked Draconstead and left it burning, forcing us to flee.”
Phigby eyes the lot of us before he gestures to Amil and says, “There is more to tell, but not here.” He glances upward. “We’re out in the open, let’s get back to the cabin.” He motions toward the stream. “Hooper, retrieve your flasks, I, for one, thirst.”
Phigby whirls, his robes swishing around him and heads back to the hut. I grab the full flasks, and hurry after them. I notice that Phigby’s route avoids the thick grove of trees that hides the dragons. Amil may be Phigby’s friend, but he’s not revealing that we have a golden dragon, at least not yet.
We enter the cottage and Cara, Helmar, and Phigby sit on the makeshift bed while Amil takes the chair. I get the bare ground to rest upon.
Phigby is quick to ask Amil, “By any chance do you have any food to share? We’re a bit on the hungry side. Besides, I would consider it an honor to break bread with you again, old friend.”
Amil shakes his head. “Sorry, no. I came into the forest hoping to find a fat rabbit or two, but I’ve come up empty-handed.”
“And we haven’t had a chance to hunt either, I’m afraid,” Phigby answers. He then asks, “Is there a village nearby that we might find food?”
He pauses before saying, “We had to run before a pack of Wilders early this morn and to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly sure where we are.”
“Yes, there’s a small village about a league from here, Deerfield, but I would not be so hasty to enter it,” Amil quickly interjects.
Phigby leans toward Amil. “Why is that, old friend?”
Amil stares at Phigby for several moments as if making his mind up about something before he gives a slight shrug and says, “Well, you might as well hear it from me, rather than the sheriff. There’s a King’s Warrant on your heads. All except you, Phigby.”
“A King’s Warrant?” I sputter. “What is that?”
“We’ve been declared criminals and have a price on our heads, Hooper,” Cara answers dryly. She peers at Amil and asks, “And no doubt the warrant makes no distinction between being brought before the king dead or alive?”
“That’s right,” Amil affirms.
I can’t help but notice that as soon as Amil mentioned the warrant that both Helmar and Cara’s hands went to their sword hilts. Amil, no doubt, sees the same thing for he lays his ax on the ground and raises his empty hands. “I am not here to collect the bounty,” he says reassuringly.
Without looking at either Cara or Helmar, Phigby orders, “There’s no need for swordplay here, you can rest easy.”
“But — ” Helmar begins but Phigby is quick to say, “I trust Amil, Amil trusts me. I owe my life to him — ”
“And I him,” Amil adds emphatically. “If you are Phigby’s friends, then I am not your enemy. Phigby does not easily call anyone friend, but those he does are honest and trustworthy. Which causes me to wonder about that warrant.”
Cara and Helmar glance at each other before they ease their hands off their sword hilts. Cara mutters to Phigby, “A King’s Warrant. How did the king issue such a document so quickly? It’s not even been a full day.”
“An excellent question, Cara,” Phigby replies and eyes Amil.
In answer, Amil’s eyebrows furrow and he says, “A dragon rider came through Deerfield at dawn’s light. I was under the impression that he had ridden through the night. He read the proclamation, it bore the King’s Seal but was signed by Prince Aster on the king’s behalf.
“Once he finished, he stated that his next stop was Brayton at the head of Thomson’s Valley. From what he said, I’m under the impression that His Majesty has news criers, riding sapphires, going to every corner of the Northern Realm.”
P
higby let out a long sigh while saying, “Which means that news of that warrant will be known throughout the kingdom in just a few days.”
“But why?” Helmar growls. “We’ve done nothing wrong. Why would the king post us after we — ”
Phigby holds up a quick hand, stopping Helmar from speaking further. “Amil is a commissioned Traveler of King Leo,” he rapidly explains, “and as such is considered to be one of the King’s Own.”
“A Traveler?” I ask. “What’s that?”
“Amil is a representative of His Majesty,” Phigby explains, “and journeys both within the Northern Kingdom and to other lands. He sees what there is to see and then reports what he finds back to the king.”
“Oh,” I answer, “you mean he’s a spy like those I read about in your books.”
Amil and Phigby share a sideways glance. Phigby murmurs, “Amil carries out his tasks in many ways for the king.” He pauses before hastily saying, “But most importantly, be assured that the Amil I know is a good and trusted friend of mine.”
“All right,” I mutter, not entirely convinced by Phigby’s explanation as what little I know of spies and such are that they are devious whether what they do is in the open or not.
“Amil,” Phigby presses, “this warrant, did it mention why we were posted?”
I notice that Phigby uses the word “we” even though he’s apparently not named on the document. Phigby is loyal to his friends; that I can certainly say of him.
“It did indeed,” Amil is quick to reply. “And I must say, that it will do nothing but provoke the whole countryside to be out looking for the lot of you.”
He presses his lips together. “Stealing a golden dragon that is both the dread and hope for us all is no small matter, Phigby.”
The dragon is out of the bag. We’re doomed. Who’s going to take our word against the king’s?
Nobody.
We may be breathing at the moment, but as soon as we’re captured, our heads will roll. Cara is quick to say, “We didn’t steal Golden Wind. Besides, as my father’s heiress and with Lord Lorell dead, I had a legal responsibility and obligation to protect her against those who did try and steal her, namely the Wilders. They’re the ones who should have a King’s Warrant on their heads, not us.”