by GARY DARBY
“But you do,” she says firmly. “Why is that particular wall darker than the others?”
“I don’t know,” I answer in an exasperated tone. “Can’t you just tell me?”
“I can,” she replies, “but that teaches you nothing. Think, Hooper, what would make that wall so much darker all the way up the tower?”
I let out a sigh, squint my eyes and really peer at the tower. Suddenly, I see tiny flutterings up and down the wall. Leaves, whipping back and forth in the breeze.
“Vines,” I state. “There’s a vine lattice growing up the tower wall.”
“And strong enough for you to climb,” she acknowledges. “You have your answer, Hooper. I have no doubt that our friends are held captive in that topmost room, and now you know how to reach them.”
“Wait,” I protest. “You’re expecting me to climb up that? It’s one thing to sky on a dragon, it’s another to try and climb up a tower that’s over a hundred hands high on little, no, make that tiny vine branches.”
“The vines are intertwined and quite sturdy,” she encourages. “They’ll more than hold your weight. Besides, if it were you in that tower, any one of your friends would gladly climb that wall to save you.”
I can tell I’m losing this argument. I lean forward a little, desperately looking for another, lower, route into the keep. “Can’t we just sky in there,” I suggest in a weak voice, “you hit the guards with a blast of dragon fire, and while they’re scurrying out of the way, I’ll hop off and climb up the stairs to set everyone free.”
I like the sound of my plan except that I need to add one thing. “And, oh, while I’m hurrying up the stairs, you keep the guards distracted.”
I turn and give her a hopeful smile. “A much better idea than me scaling a castle wall, sturdy vines or not, don’t you think?”
She cocks her head to one side as if she’s considering my proposal before she says, “I could do that, but let me ask you this. In a heavily guarded fortress like Dunadain, just how far up those stairs do you actually think you’d get before you joined our friends in that upper room as just another captive?”
I start to reply but she shoves her muzzle so close that I’m staring up into her glistening nostrils. Please don’t sneeze, I think. Dragon snot is particularly icky and smells like burnt garlic. “Not far is the answer,” she growls.
I can see I’ve lost the argument. “All right, all right,” I grouse. “You win. I climb. But once I get up there, then what?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure that out once you’re there.”
“Uh, huh,” I answer. “That’s a big help. And while I’m playing fly on the wall, what will you be doing?”
“Watching,” she answers. “What else?”
“Watching? That’s all?”
She nods and then says, “One more thing, Hooper. Truly, there is more danger here than just archers and men-at-arms, so be on your guard at all times.”
“What do mean by that?” I sputter. “What kind of danger?”
“Just be on your guard,” she rumbles and pushes at me with her muzzle. “Now, go.”
Scamper starts to go with me, but I reach down and hold him back. “No Scamp,” I say and shake my head at him. “You can’t climb those vines with me. It’s too high and too dangerous, you’ll have to stay here.”
“Hooper,” the golden says firmly, “Scamper is as much a friend to Cara and the others as you are. He wants to help. Take him, you just might find he comes in handy.”
Scamper has a pleading expression on his face. “Suit yourself,” I tell him. “But remember, I warned you.” With that, the golden turns and plods away into the forest gloom.
Watching her go, I mutter under my breath to Scamper, “She’s the one with wings, big talons, fangs, and dragon fire and she’s the one staying behind to do what? Watch?”
I let out another long sigh, nudge Scamper, and together, we pick our way downhill through the trees until we come to a shoulder in the hillside. I stop to again peer at the river and the fortress.
From my vantage point, I see several guards, their lances at the ready, pacing along the battlement’s top. Every so often, one of them stops to gaze between the parapets at the ground below. I don’t see any guards outside the walls, just those on the high walkway.
Using the dense underbrush to conceal our movement, Scamper and I move almost parallel to the bastion. We reach a spot where I can easily see the vine-covered tower wall.
Once, Lord Lorell visited Draconstead and instead of dragon skying as he normally did, he arrived riding a beautiful palomino horse. Beautifully sleek, the horse pranced as it made its way up the lane that led from Draconton. I remember gathering with the other workers to admire the steed.
For some reason, what I remember most, was how the horse’s flanks quivered in anticipation as if it couldn’t wait for Lord Lorell to release it on a wild, free run through the meadows.
My body trembles and shakes, just like that horse. Not from waiting for a wild dash down to the tower walls, but from the sheer terror of what I am about to attempt.
I put a hand on Scamper’s head. “Ready, Scamp?”
He’s quivering too, only his is from the anticipation of a wild run through the grass and brush to the tower base.
“Hooper,” I say to myself, trying to build up my courage, “the golden hasn’t been wrong before, you’ve got to trust her on this.”
I peer again at the fortress. I slowly survey the stonework and the vine web, trying to decide the best place to hide. I lean forward a little to get a better look, and as I do, I notice an irregular darker spot almost in the vine’s center.
“Must be a little thicker there,” I murmur to myself. “And thicker means a good place to hide from that guard up there.”
Just then, Scamper decides to take matters in his own paws and bounds away, headed straight for the tower. “No!” I hiss as I reach out to stop him, but I’m too late.
Muttering under my breath, I tuck myself low and hunched over, scuttle from tree to tree, hoping that none of the guards on the ramparts will spot me and sound the alarm. If that happens, I will have no choice but to turn tail and scurry back to the meadow.
I stop at the last of the larger trees that can shield me from view and peek around the trunk. I can’t see Scamper anywhere, but there’s one guard at the wall’s junction, his lance pointed upward to the stars.
He scans the nearby grounds and then turns to walk toward the other wall corner. A few clouds slide in front of the moon, casting everything in darkness.
This is my chance.
I take a deep breath, gather myself and rush out. Keeping my eyes on the guard, I stumble along, feeling as if I’m making so much noise that I might as well be riding on a lumbering dragon, thumping talons and all. The walls seem like they’re ten leagues away, and I’ll never get there.
Almost out of breath from both exertion and fear, I stagger the last few steps and brace my back against the stone blocks. They’re rough and coarse, and I can hear a slight raspy sound as my tunic scrapes against the chiseled granite.
I turn my head upward to gauge if the guard spotted me. I hold my breath, waiting for the alarm to sound, but all remains dark and silent.
I edge along the mortared wall, placing each step as quietly as I possibly can. I keep my eyes turned upward while I let my left hand slide along the wall. I haven’t gone far when my hand and arm disappear into thick foliage. I let out a breath, I’ve found my hiding spot until the guard turns for the far tower.
A slight touch on my ankle almost causes me to yelp in fright before I look down.
Two mischievous coal-black eyes stare up at me. I swear he has a grin on his face from scaring me like that.
I glare at Scamper for an instant before I swing my gaze upward. I can see a sliver of light, streaming from the window far above. And in the scant glow, I can just barely make out that the vines go up and around the window. Which is a good thing, I think to mysel
f, I’m certainly not going to sky through that window.
I slide into the thicker growth and just to make sure, tug on the vines to test their strength. They seem stout enough, but just then, I hear brisk footsteps on the wall walkway above me.
I quickly glance up. The guard’s pace is faster than before, and he has his head tilted slightly as if he hears something, but uncertain as to what.
Uh, oh. The watchmen’s hurrying steps tell me that he’s grown suspicious, perhaps over the scraping of my tunic against the stonework. I quietly push myself deeper into the vine lattice until I’m flat against the stones, hoping that the leaves will cover me, shielding me from the guard’s view.
I hold perfectly still, but with my head turned toward the walkway above. A head appears over the wall. The guard pushes himself a bit farther out to peer at the vines. He doesn’t move, just stares at the foliage.
He steps back to bring his lance up, hefting it in his hand. His eyes are focused on my flimsy, leafy barrier, and he cocks his arm as he readies the spear for flight. The lance’s cruel honed point glints in the moonlight; targeted straight at me.
It’s aimed right at my olive-covered shell which will become my death chamber if his aim is true. The guard’s arm slides farther back as if he wants to put as much force behind his throw as he possibly can.
My heart is thumping, and it takes every bit of willpower that I have not to scream out for him to stop. I want to break free and flee for my life, but before I make my move, a strong breeze springs up, rattling and shaking the leaves.
The guard stops and leans forward again, his stare intent on the rustling foliage. His eyes are still hard and locked, but then the breeze blows up against him, causing his jerkin to flap in the wind.
He slowly lowers his lance and straightens. With a last look at the fluttering leaves and the nearby countryside, he lowers his lance, turns and retraces his route back to the wall’s far corner.
I let out a long breath in relief and lean my head against the coarse stone. I wait a bit before I step back, and peer intently at the walkway. The guard has disappeared, and I hear the last of his footsteps as he walks his post toward the other watch tower.
“That was close, Scamp,” I whisper to Scamper, who through all of this, has held perfectly still. Something I didn’t think he was capable of doing.
Scamper answers me by standing on his two back paws and clawing at the air. His meaning is clear; it’s time we started our climb. I scratch at my head. The golden said that Scamper might come in useful. I don’t know how, but she must have had her reasons.
With a little sigh, I pick him up and set him into my tunic hood. He settles his little rump in the pocket and grabs my head with his front paws. With the extra weight on my back, I mutter, “Now I know how the golden feels.”
I again check the wall to make sure it’s clear of any guards and start to climb. The limbs bear my weight, but they sway and sag as if I’m walking on a creaky rope bridge. Pushing upward on my bad leg is painful and makes for slow going. It’s not long before my leg is trembling and weak each time I pull myself up and brace my foot on a thick tendril.
I’m not sure how far I’ve come when I glance down. Even with the moonlight, at this height, it’s hard to distinguish small features on the ground below. The vine I’m standing on sags and quivers under my weight, and I whisper to myself through lips that glisten with sweat, “And I thought skying on a dragon was bad.”
I reach up to grasp the next vine when the limb I’m standing on splits, leaving me dangling and holding on with just two hands. I hear a sound like cloth ripping and look up.
The vine I’m holding onto is pulling away from the wall. Before I can get my feet on the closest nearby stem, the plantlike rope rips from the wall, and I’m suddenly sailing through the air.
To my credit, I manage to stifle my yell. I swing off to one side. Leaves and branches scratch at my face as I scrape against the wall. I grab at anything within reach. Twice I come up with a handful of leaves before I finally manage to snag a thick vine and halt my wild ride.
I manage to plant both feet on a branch and hold tight to my saving bough. If anyone was watching from below, they’d think I was hugging the wall, and they’d be right. I try to catch my breath, panting like a dog in the middle of a hot summer. Scamper makes tiny mewing sounds as if he’s regretting his choice to come along with me.
I don’t blame him one bit. I glance toward the battlement walkway and wait, but no head appears over the edge to investigate the noise from my wild ride.
“Must be napping,” I murmur. “If so, I hope it’s a long one.”
I don’t want to move, but I can’t stay here. I reach up, grab the next higher thick stem, and push on, one hand up, one leg up, then the other hand and the other leg.
I decide to keep my face to the wall as looking downward only makes me realize that if I make it to the top, it only means that I may still have to climb down.
I lose track of time. For me, the only thing that matters is grasping the next branch and the one after that, and the one after that. My eyes pick out the next vine, and I reach for it when my hand stops in mid-air.
Voices!
Muted voices, as if someone is speaking in low, hushed tones and so soft that I can neither make out their words nor be sure who is doing the talking.
I glance upward, and a wan smile lifts my cheeks. I’m less than a body length from the window edge. Slower than even before, as I don’t want to make any noise, I climb the last few branches.
I reach the window and slowly edge up to peek around one corner of the windowsill. A big grin cracks my face. Cara and Helmar!
Their wrists and ankles are bound, and they’re sitting close to each other on three-legged stools. I edge up a little higher and see off in one corner Phigby, and Amil. Otherwise, the room is empty. It was they whom I heard speaking.
Just as I start to scoot up higher, I hear the door creak open and duck back down. I can’t see, but I hear firm footsteps and then Cara’s sharp, “Daron!”
And then I hear stumbling footsteps and Cara cries out, “Father!”
A gasp almost escapes my lips and for a moment, I almost slip off the vine I’m standing on in complete surprise.
Dragon Master Boren Dracon is alive, as is his son.
Cara is softly sobbing, and then I hear the rustling of clothing and then, “There, there, Cara,” in Master Boren’s deep bass voice.
“Father,” Cara sobs, “I thought you were dead. You and Daron.”
Boren’s voice holds a terrible sadness as he replies, “At least one of us is, daughter.”
“What?” Cara questions. “What do you mean, father?”
Even from outside the window, I can hear Master Boren’s deep, mournful sigh. “When your son goes against all that is right, all that is good; when he kidnaps his own father, holds him captive in a cold, hard dungeon. How can he be anything but dead to me?”
“Father, what are you talking about?”
There is a rustling of clothing and Master Boren says, “Shall I tell her, Daron, or is there still a shred of manhood in you that will acknowledge just what you’ve been doing?”
There’s a sharp laugh from Daron and then, “Oh, don’t be so self-righteous, father. It’s not like you’ve been perfect all your life. You and I know both know of some of the shady dealings you and Lorell cooked up after the golden was born.”
It’s not just Master Boren’s remarks that hold me fast, there’s something in Daron’s voice that keeps me from rising up and revealing myself. Master Boren was firm but there was a very real note of apprehension in his voice.
Daron is neither anxious nor uneasy. His tone is hard, cold, confident. “And if you had cooperated you wouldn’t have spent one moment in the dungeon, but no, you had to be stubborn and self-righteous so you really brought it upon yourself, you know.”
“Daron,” Cara chokes out, “I have absolutely no idea of what you’re talking abou
t but you need to help us. Untie us so that we can get away from here.”
Daron doesn’t answer right away. Instead, I hear footsteps in the room, his apparently, and it sounds as if he’s pacing back and forth. “No,” Daron mutters. “No, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” Helmar rasps.
“Because,” Daron snaps in reply, “we only have half of what we need.” His tone has a tinge of anger, but something else, desperation perhaps.
“Daron,” Cara pleads, “what’s wrong with you? Cut these bindings and help us out of here.”
“Nothing is wrong with me, Cara,” he retorts sharply. “In fact, I’m on the right side, it’s you and your merry little band here that are on the wrong side.
“But let me explain it to you in simple terms. We have one half of what we need and want in father. Now, we need the other half. Cara, for your own welfare, and father’s, I need to know where Golden Wind is, and I need to know now. Where is she?”
Cara doesn’t answer. Instead, Helmar says slowly, “A better question is, why are you doing this? I have the feeling it’s not to protect the golden or your father.”
“Why am I doing this?” Daron replies with a sharp laugh. “That’s easy to answer, Master Novice. Unlike you, I want nothing to do with Draconstench. The golden is my way out from doing nothing more with my life than tending to dumb beasts.
“I wasn’t born to be a mere dragon herder, worrying if they have enough to eat or if dragon bane has made its way into the meadows. Oh no, you and my father may want that life, but not me, not now, not ever. I want more, much more than that.”
My mouth sags open just a bit. I never realized that there was someone else in the world that hated dragons as much as me. But to be like Daron? I shudder at the thought.
For an instant, I hang my head and think, I’m not really like him, am I?
Daron’s voice comes again, shrill and terse. “And I’m going to get what I deserve and want, which is a life away from the smallness and boring life I had back there. Mark my words, it will be mine.”
Gone are the sobs of happiness in Cara’s voice. Instead, she pleads, “Daron, please, please tell me that you didn’t have anything to do with the attack on Draconton or Draconstead.”