by GARY DARBY
Three to guard the cutter’s son
And for him tis the hilted stone
Emerald of power to hand and bone
And from this jewel, the gift to grow
Life itself it may control
Voxtyrmen to give with final breath
Voxtyrmen to bestow upon his death
And for this, I gladly do my part
A willing spirit, ready to depart
Always together, never apart
To remember ever, the sacrifice of the heart.
Phigby leans back and strokes his beard slowly before saying, “Well, I guess that indeed settles it.”
“Settles what?” Helmar questions.
Phigby points to the page. “That the guardian must be a cutter’s son.”
Helmar starts as if surprised. “My father,” he says slowly, “was a tanner.” He returns Phigby’s stare. “He cut leather.”
He lets out a long breath. “I am indeed a cutter’s son.”
“And the jewel is to go to a cutter’s son,” Amil mutters. “It appears that would be you, Helmar.”
Cara squeezes Helmar’s arm. “The Gem Guardian,” she murmurs, holding him with her eyes before she turns and asks, “Phigby, what does it mean, ‘Voxtyrmen to give with final breath, Voxtyrmen to bestow upon his death’?”
“Every dragon tear jewel,” Phigby explains, “has a unique name and special powers. In the Old Tongue, Gaelic or Gaelian as some call it, Voxtyrmen roughly translates as the Jewel of Growth. If I understand the ode correctly, its power is over the greenery of Erdron, plants, trees, grass and the like.”
“An emerald gem with power over the greenery,” Cara murmurs. She turns to Phigby, her face scrunched together as if she’s thinking hard. “So — does that mean that there are other dragon jewels, with different powers?”
Phigby nods and slowly replies, “I believe that would be a good assumption.”
Cara glances sharply at me before saying, “And does that mean that a tear jewel only comes from a dragon who is about to die?”
Phigby strokes his beard several times as if pondering her question before taking a deep breath. “I can only assume from the way Hooper was given this jewel and from how the ode speaks of a sacrifice of the heart that that may well be the case.”
No one speaks for several moments before Amil places his big hand on Helmar’s shoulder. “Well, what now, Gem Guardian?”
As if answer, another gust of wind whips the book, and another page appears. This time, the lettering doesn’t hover above the page, it seems to float up through the page before it firms itself in lime-colored lettering outlined in black. Helmar swallows and reads,
While many will choose the life of slavery
Others will elect to fight back bravely
From Erdron’s four corners an army will march
Hearing the sounds of freedom, they will hark
But just a few at first to join the light
But many will come to stand at the last great fight
But until that time, until that day
When might and right shall battle against Vay
One deed alone must be done
One act to ensure that victory is won
For in that time when the gate is riven
Unto you, a golden is given
And unto you, she shall be
The one who holds victory’s key
For if she falls into Vay’s vile hands
Then evil and death shall sweep the lands
To hide the golden from Vay’s many eyes
A journey to take from mountains to isles
There is no trail, no easy way
The burdens that come most heavily weigh
But before you lies the first path to take
To the giants you now must make
And remind them there with humblest bow
Of Escher’s promise and Queenly vow.
With that, the book snaps shut.
“Well,” Phigby mutters, “that’s certainly clear enough.”
“What do you mean, Phigby?” I ask.
“Weren’t you listening, Hooper?” Amil answers. He turns and points off to the west. “We’re very close to the Golian Domain, the land of the giants.” He motions to the book. “If we can believe that, then that’s where we’re supposed to go.”
“Only, we’ve already been there once,” Helmar points out. “Is this saying, we’re to go back?”
To Amil’s puzzled expression, Phigby recounts the battle between the Wilders and the Golians. Amil sucks in a breath. “You’ve been to the Colosseun Barrier and lived to tell about it?”
“Yes, my friend,” Phigby answers, “indeed, we have.”
Amil glances at us and mutters, “You must have had more than just luck on your side.”
“Why?” I ask.
Amil’s voice is a low, grim rumble. “Because, the Golians’ Iron Maidens or Amazos, as they’re called are as skilled and brave as any Dragon Knight of the realm. In all of my travels, I’ve never met or heard of anyone who’s ventured into the domain and lived to tell about their experience.”
He swings his arm around at the surrounding forest. “It’s said that their bows are made from the heart of dragon wood trees that are as old as Erdron itself. Their arrow shafts are thicker than a man’s arm and can shatter a boulder into a hundred pieces.
“They can shoot an arrow so high that it almost reaches the stars. In fact, it is said that they use the moons for target practice, and the dark spots on Osa’s face are where their arrows struck.”
He leans toward me and makes a slashing motion in the air with his knife. “The swords they carry can fell a stout oaken tree with one swing. They can run for three sunrises and sunsets without stopping for food or drink.
“They’re so strong that they don’t march around mountains — they merely push them aside so that they can pass through. They guard their lands with a fierceness that few can match, and they never miss with bow, lance, or sword.”
His eyes take on a wild look, and his voice lowers to a fierce whisper. “And did I forget to mention that when they can get their hands on it, they relish the flesh of roasted Drach and dragon.”
He starts to go on, but Phigby reaches out to stop him with one side of his mouth turned up in an amused smile. “And did I fail to mention that our new friend is not only known as Amil the Traveler but also Amil the Embellisher?”
“I was just trying to explain,” Amil grumbles, “what we would face in going to that cursed land.”
“And a good explanation it was too,” I murmur with wide eyes.
“Only,” Cara begins, “the Golians did miss us with their arrows, remember? And we skyed right over them and their barrier. That speaks well of our chances with them.”
“Yes,” Phigby muses slowly, as he strokes his beard and eyes the golden. “That seemed to be the case, didn’t it?”
His eyes narrow and he murmurs, “Once before we were directed toward the west, and now,” he taps on the book, “a second time.”
Helmar slowly says, “It would appear that we’re being guided in that direction for a reason.”
“Yes,” Phigby nods as he pulls at his beard. “So it would seem.”
“No matter the reason,” Amil replies firmly, “the giants will not welcome us with open arms, but with drawn bows, instead.”
“Oh, bosh,” Cara answers. “What’s a few giants? Once they see we have a golden dragon and more importantly,” she lays her hand possessively on Helmar’s forearm, “that we journey with the Gem Guardian, I think we’ll have no trouble from them.”
It’s obvious that whatever thoughts that Cara had for Helmar before have only been strengthened. Now, she has a Gem Guardian as a suitor.
Helmar hands Phigby the book, which he promptly deposits in his satchel. Helmar holds the gem for a moment before tucking it securely inside his tunic.
Phigby straightens and says, “Cara, when it comes to the Golians,
I believe that they will take notice of the golden, but as far as Helmar is concerned, I wouldn’t — ”
He abruptly stops when Cara jumps to her feet and rushes over to me. And a good thing too, for suddenly, the ground under me is trying to slide away, and I’m swaying from side to side.
“Hooper,” she says as she grabs one arm to steady me, “are you all right?”
Phigby is quick to my other side, holding me up before I fall flat on my face. “Yes, I think so,” I answer. I blink a few times at Cara. “In fact, I must be really dizzy, or my eyes aren’t working right. I could swear that tree over there just moved. Like it was walking.”
She smiles lightly. “I think you must be still feeling the effects of Phigby’s medicine. Trees don’t walk.”
The words are barely out of her mouth when the dragons jump to all fours, their heads up, and with low growls coming from their throats. Scamper huddles against me, pawing at my legs.
At a creaking, groaning sound, Helmar is on his feet, his sword in hand. Amil steps over the log, his ax up and ready.
“Wha — ” Cara begins when a sinewy branch flies through the air and strikes her in the head.
She slumps to the ground, lifeless.
23
“Cara!” I shout and drop to one knee next to her. All around us, I hear a ripping, popping noise. The giant trees’ roots snap out of the ground, sending clods of dirt and grass spraying skyward. They writhe and thump as if the very ground were on fire and they were trying to escape the heat.
Phigby whirls around and from somewhere inside his robe, he suddenly has a gleaming, silver sword in hand.
With my good arm, I try to lift Cara up by her shoulders. “Cara!” I cry again, but her eyes are tightly closed, and she doesn’t answer. Her head, with its magnificent mane of beautiful, auburn hair, slumps back.
More thrashing roots snake across the ground, and it seems the little meadow is suddenly filled with squirming vines as if we’d walked into a nest of slithering vipers.
The dragons stomp their feet and roar at the thumping stems. They hunch their backs and rip at the dirt, their sharp talons tearing up enormous clumps of grass that they send flying every which way.
I hear a deep rumbling as a ring of trees glides across the ground toward us. “The trees are moving!” I yelp.
I gently lay Cara back down, push myself to my feet and whirl around. The trees have us ringed completely and are slowly, but surely closing together like a vise that’s going to crush the life from all of us.
An icy gust of wind blows through the trees, sending the treetops swaying. From high overhead, a faint, sinister laugh echoes through the swishing branches. You cannot flee, you are mine, whispers a foul voice. A shadow floats through the forest gloom, coming ever closer.
“Vay,” I stammer.
The giant trees are closing, tightening their ring. Scamper is chittering madly, the dragons are roaring, and the sprogs screech, clawing at snaking limbs that slide around them.
I stand over Cara and draw my knife — it’s all I can do to protect her.
A long, thin branch whips through the air and like Sorg’s fist, slams into my chest, sending me sprawling to one side. I suck in a breath from the blow and roll to my feet to gape at what I see.
The branch hovers over Cara, like a snake that raises its head and weaves over its prey before it strikes. I start to dash to her side, but I’m too late. The snaking limb darts downward and wraps itself around Cara. With a snap, it pulls taut and begins to drag her over the ground.
“No!” I cry. I turn to the others for help, but they’re in a battle for their own lives. Branches clutch at arms, legs, necks, trying to pull them down to the ground and choke them to death.
I spin to the dragons, but more limbs come flying from all directions, whipping themselves over and around the dragons. A flurry of leafy tendrils shoots out of the air and before I can move, snatch Scamper and carry him away.
I hear a terrified screeping and turn to find the four sprogs are bound by several thick limbs that hover just over the golden. Golden Wind is tearing at the branches, trying to rip them away before a cascade of leafy arms, like a green waterfall, wrap themselves tight around her and pull her to the ground.
The other dragons are caught in the deadly lattice, their heads, bodies, even their tails ensnared and pinned to the ground. Somehow, I get to Golden Wind and plead, “We need help!”
A thin branch wraps itself around her mouth and with my knife, I slash through the supple vine. “The jewel!” she exclaims, before another brown tentacle whips around her muzzle. She swings her head violently to one side, snapping the branch. “Use the jewel!”
“How?” I shout back.
A branch slithers toward me and before I can move, wraps itself around my ankle, and yanks me to the ground. I clutch at the grass, digging my fingers deep into their roots. The golden clamps her fang-lined mouth around the limb and rips it two.
She whips her head over me. “The Gaelian Fae, remember the Ga—” A massive tendril, thicker than Amil’s arm wraps around her jaws, squeezing her muzzle completely shut.
Just then, I hear a thunderous cracking and splitting of wood and whirl around. A giant tree trunk, almost as thick as a dragon, has been torn asunder. In the hollow’s black interior, I see a glowing face. It’s Vay. She leers at me and curls her fingers inward to beckon the branch that has Cara in its grasp. It slithers toward her, bringing Cara closer to the wicked, cruel fairy and death.
“No!” I scream.
I whip around to Helmar to shout for him to use the jewel, but his wrists are held tight by thick vines, and his arms are being stretched out as if the branches would tear him apart.
Another plant is around his neck and two more squeeze his legs. He’s struggling with all his might to free himself but the he’s held fast.
I spin to Amil and Phigby to seek help, but they are both encased in leafy cocoons and struggling not to be crushed by the smothering limbs.
Two branches shoot through the air, right at me, but at the last instant, I dive and roll aside. I give Cara one last anguished look before I jump over to Helmar.
I try to cut through the limbs, but they’re too thick for my little knife to cut through in time. My eyes meet Helmar’s. His are full of anger — and fear.
I can think of only one thing to do. I stuff my hand into his tunic and jerk the emerald out. It glows bright in the tiny glen, its emerald hue driving back the darkness. I hear Vay screech in fury, but I ignore her and slam the crystal into Helmar’s open palm.
“Use the jewel!” I yell at him.
He struggles to shake his head from side to side, and I suddenly realize he’s saying he doesn’t know what to do. I stare at the gem in Helmar’s hand. He’s got it tightly gripped, and its bright glow calls to me like an emerald beacon, but I’m unsure of what to do next.
I jerk my head toward the tree where Vay appeared. Cara’s head, arms, and shoulders are protruding from the bark hollow. The tree has swallowed the rest of her. Her upper body sags and I can see the gap slowly closing around her, squeezing the life from her.
I see a dozen rootlike tendrils slinking across the glen, coming for me. Sheer, utter terror fills my mind and heart. I have to do something, I have to help, but what?
I jerk my head around at the golden. She’s lying on her side, her eyes on me.
I seem to hear her words again; The Gaelian Fae, remember the Gaelian Fae. A vine wraps around one ankle and then another around my other ankle so tight that I think it’s going to crush my bones.
A sudden, cooling calm surrounds me and in my mind’s eye I can see and hear Osa, Nadia, and Eskar saying, Vald Hitta Sasi Ein, Power Comes to this One . . .
“That’s it!” I shout. I glance up at Helmar’s hand. The vine has squeezed his arm and wrist so tight that he’s barely holding the crystal. I slam my hand against his, pressing the jewel into his palm.
“Helmar,” I cry out, “say, Vald Hi
tta Sasi Ein! Power Comes to this One!”
He doesn’t answer so I yell again, Vald Hitta Sasi Ein! Power Comes to this One!
I’ve barely finished, when, under the vine that’s slipped across his mouth, I hear a muffled repeat of my words.
There is a crackling in the air, the ground shakes and a waist-high wave of grass and leaves erupt outward. The surge of greenery crashes against the trees, almost toppling them and splits the writhing roots in half.
Then, a jade-colored pillar of sheer radiance shoots skyward from the jewel. It blasts a hole through the overhanging branches, letting in silver moonbeams that light up the glade. From the moonlight, the crystal seems to gather streams of light until a shimmering jade sphere grows outward.
The luminance begins to whirl, sucking in grass, twigs, and green leafy branches until there’s a vortex of foliage that seems to spin faster and faster. Where it touches, the trees’ branches pull back as if they can’t stand the sparkling sheen’s touch.
The ensnaring limbs that bind Helmar, Amil, Phigby and the dragons in a leafy cocoon unravel in a blur of speed and slither off.
The sparkling sphere’s luster grows in strength, pushing farther and farther outward. Outside the glowing globe, a darkness grows. It seems to gather in force and then there is an explosion of sinewy branches that writhe against the barrier as if they would pummel it to nothingness.
The emerald sheen touches the tree trunks, and the giant dragon heart trees shudder and shake as if a battle wages over them. The dark mist seems to gather itself one last time while the giant trees bend over the green sphere as if they would crush it.
When the ensnaring branches fall off Helmar, his strength wanes such that I have to hold his arm up. I don’t know why, but I thrust it upward with all the strength I have left.
A burst of emerald light explodes outward, and the trees snap back, away from the barrier. The emerald radiance grows brighter still, blanketing the forest. I hear a wail that rises in pitch until it’s a shriek of fury and rage that trails off to nothingness.
The gem’s emerald glow, like the light that has spread over the trees, dims until it’s gone. Tiny leaves and stems flutter down, like a green snowfall, until the forest is once again quiet and still, with no sign of the apparition or her evil designs.