The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Box Set

by GARY DARBY

  “A company without a captain is like a dragon without a tail. It may be able to lift off the ground for a moment, but it cannot set its course, cannot reach its goal. I too would go to the mountains to protect the golden if that is what is necessary.”

  His face and voice become hard. “But not as a leaderless rabble. We need a leader, one who would bring order to chaos, one who would set a proper and correct course.”

  I can see from Phigby’s surprised expression that Helmar’s words have caught him off guard, and the conversation has taken an unexpected direction.

  But before he can answer Helmar, Cara, who has stood staring at the fire, with her eyes down and her arms crossed, says in a small voice, “I would go anywhere, and do anything to protect Golden Wind.”

  She gives Helmar a sad, disappointed look. “I only wish . . .” she whispers before her voice trails off. I know what she yearns for and why she looks so dissatisfied.

  I hold the gemstone and not Helmar.

  Cara shakes her head and says forcefully, “I will go to the mountains, but only if my father leads us.” She gives me a piercing stare. “He is the only one suited for the task.”

  I can’t help wondering, what is she really saying? Is Boren the only one fit to be our captain, or is she saying that Helmar is the only one capable of carrying the gemstone?

  A night’s rest has not rid Cara of her bitterness that her suitor, Helmar, once named as the Gem Guardian, is not the guardian of Voxtyrmen after all, and I am.

  In many ways, for my sake, and especially for Cara’s sake, I too wish that Helmar was the guardian. But he’s not and there’s nothing I can do to change that or Cara’s bitter resentment towards me.

  “I agree with Cara,” Helmar says as he meets Phigby’s stare.

  His arms are folded, his eyes hard, his jaw set firm. He will brook no argument in the matter, he is determined to have Master Boren lead the company. “If we are to have any success in this venture, then we must follow Master Boren.”

  Phigby slowly pulls at his beard; he doesn’t seem to know what to say to this sudden turn in the conversation. “Amil,” he asks, “what do you say on the matter?”

  Like Phigby, I too am a bit surprised at Helmar and Cara’s words, but in thinking back, perhaps I shouldn’t be.

  Earlier this morning, I roused from my troubled sleep to find Master Boren, Cara, and Helmar hunched around our slight fire, murmuring among themselves. At the time, I didn’t think twice about their conversation. Now I know what they were discussing—the election of Master Boren as our leader.

  I smile thinly to myself. If they had included me, I would gladly have voted for Master Boren or Phigby, for that matter. They are natural leaders, whereas I can barely lead myself.

  Amil lets out a slow, heavy breath as if he is considering Phigby’s question. I can see his eyes flick between Phigby and Master Boren.

  He turns a questioning eye to Phigby and I see Phigby shake his head ever so slightly. I can’t help but feel that some unspoken message just passed between them.

  Amil turns to Boren. “I do not know you, Master Boren Dracon. I know of you and that your achievements as a Dragon Master are known far and wide. If the rest of this company would follow you, then so would I.”

  He leans on his ax and his voice is firm, blunt. “Just remember, though, I am not one of your dragons.”

  “Hooper?” Phigby asks.

  I glance at Cara and she meets my gaze with hard, stony eyes as if she would dare me to oppose her father.

  Mumbling, I say, “I have been under Master Boren for many seasons, why should it be any different now?”

  Phigby brings his fingers up to his lips and pinches his mouth together as he peers at me. He then motions toward Boren. “What say ye, Dragon Master?”

  I can see a bit of satisfaction in Master Boren’s eyes as he rises to forcefully say, “I will go with this company into the domain.”

  His chest swells as he takes in a deep breath. “And I will lead this company as well.”

  Phigby gives a little shrug at his response. “Then it appears that we have elected a captain of our tiny band.” He steps back into the circle, a tacit acknowledgment that Boren now commands our little group.

  Boren steps forward and says, “Now that that’s settled, we all know our situation. From my conversations with Helmar and my daughter, it is quite evident that not only are Vay and the Wilder Horde after the golden, and us too, but evidently King Leo and the kingdom’s Great Houses are as well.”

  He sweeps his hand around our circle. “And what do we have to hold them off with? An army of Dragon Knights riding fiery red dragons, armed with shield, lance, and bow soaring on the wind and coming to our rescue? No.”

  Master Boren gives a little shrug. “Instead, what we have is a company of six Drachs armed with three longbows, some dozen or more arrows, swords, a double-bladed ax, several knives, and four dragons.”

  Amil mutters, “Don’t forget the four sprogs and Scamper.”

  Boren skews his mouth to one side. “Of course, how could I forget such mighty beasts that add to our company.”

  “Not to mention,” Amil says with a wry smile, “Phigby’s bag, which you have to admit has provided some entertaining and timely moments.”

  He chuckles to himself, muttering, “What we need is for the bag to swallow Golden Wind. I mean, who would look for a dragon inside an old cloth bag?”

  Phigby runs a hand over the coarse outside of his ever present bag, with its faded drawings of rounded moons and pointy stars, and grunts. “If it were capable of such a thing, yes, it would solve a great many problems. However, I’m afraid that, for now, we’re on our own to hide and protect Golden Wind.”

  Amil runs a hand over his bald head and muses, “Then, just how exactly are we to hide or disguise a giant lump of glittering, shimmering gold that’s twice the size of a large cottage, has two giant wings, one long tail, and makes a Percheron draft horse look like a stable pony?”

  Phigby turns and points at the mountains that seem to tower higher than even the clouds. “By getting her across those and into to the heart of the Golian Domain.”

  Master Boren eyes Phigby, strokes his own beard and in a knowing voice questions, “You’re thinking of invoking the Queen’s Vow, are you not?”

  Phigby nods several times vigorously. “That I am.”

  “The Queen’s Vow?” Cara questions. “Which is . . .”

  “A risky and dangerous venture,” Phigby swiftly replies and before Cara can ask further questions, adds, “as the Golians don’t tolerate trespassers and particularly if they are Drachs riding dragons.”

  His eyes twinkle. “And more so if they are Wilders, as at their Colosseun Barrier.”

  “But,” I point out, “the giants didn’t shoot at us, and we were riding dragons.”

  “Sapphire dragons,” Phigby notes, “and not scarlet like the Wilders. It’s my thought that it was the Queen’s Vow that protected us when the Wilders attacked at the barrier.

  “The Golians surely know of the golden, they saw her, saw us accompanying the golden, and those two things protected us from their arrows.”

  Master Boren rumbles, “If so, then the precedent most decidedly works in our favor.”

  “Precedent? Queen’s Vow?” Cara blurts in an exasperated tone. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I,” I rejoin.

  Master Boren nods toward Phigby. “Tell them the story.”

  Phigby takes a step forward, straightens himself, and addresses us as if he were in the center of a classroom and we his students.

  “The second golden dragon that came to our world, Noble Wind, gave birth to Crimson Fury, who grew into the mightiest red dragon of all time. He carried Lord Bravestone to final victory against Malonda Kur’s Wilder Horde.

  “What many have forgotten about that struggle is that the final, monumental battle took place when the Wilders attacked Dronopolis. Or as some call it, the City of
Queens, the capital of Golian.”

  “Phigby,” I say, “you talk as if this actually happened, but it’s just legend, isn’t it?”

  In annoyance, Phigby shakes his head. “Hooper, you know that in all legends—”

  “I know, I know,” I sigh, “there is always some basis in fact.”

  “That’s right,” Phigby grumps. “Now, as I was saying, at the time of the rampage, when Malonda Kur’s Wilders swept across Golian, their numbers were practically countless and not even the Amazos of Golian were able to stop them.”

  “Amazos?” I question.

  Before Phigby can answer, Amil explains, “One of the few things that is known of the domain, is that it is a matriarchal realm. Their warriors and leaders are all females, and fearsome in battle even if they weren’t giants. They call themselves The Amazos.”

  “Yes,” Phigby goes on, “but fearsome or not, they weren’t able to withstand the Wilder onslaught when it came, for their numbers were too few.

  “They called for aid, and it was Lord Bravestone and his dragon army that answered. The battle raged for three days and three nights, but in the end, Lord Bravestone vanquished the Wilders and drove them back from whence they came.”

  “If that’s so,” Cara asks, “then why are the Golians so secretive? From what I know, they have no contact with anyone and don’t allow Drachs to cross their borders. You’d think they’d be a bit more grateful.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Amil declares. “A few scattered villages along the border have sporadic dealings with the giants, mostly to trade, but nothing beyond that. I know that King Leo has tried for years to establish a diplomatic mission with them, but without success.”

  “But,” says Phigby, “the answer to your question, Cara, lies in what happened before the Wilder invasion of Golian. You see, in those days, we Drachs had regular trade routes and other relations with the Golians.

  “But sadly, it was later proved that some Drach traders acted as Wilder spies and collected information about the Golian’s defenses which they sold to the Wilders.”

  Phigby’s mouth turns down in a dark scowl. “Malonda Kur exploited the domain’s weak points and devastated vast swathes of the Golian realm.”

  “So,” Cara breathes out, “they blame us for the destruction and are afraid that more spies will enter their territory if they reopen their borders to us Drachs.”

  She peers at Phigby with a puzzled expression. “But just how does that help us find sanctuary with them now?”

  “During the final battle,” Phigby explains, “Malonda Kur captured Queen Escher, the royal monarch of Golian. Lord Bravestone personally rescued her and killed Malonda Kur.

  “When peace finally settled over the land Queen Escher made two vows. First, because of Drach treachery, she vowed that no Drach would ever set foot in their land again under pain of death unless they had a royal decree permitting entrance.

  “However, she also promised Lord Bravestone that for as long as her line sat upon the throne, if ever a golden dragon appeared again, and we Drachs had need of the Amazos, we could call upon their sword arm for help.”

  Helmar shifts in his stance before he asks, “And what do we know of the Golians’ current queen? Is she a descendant of Queen Escher?”

  Phigby turns to Amil. “Well, Traveler, can you answer that?”

  Amil shakes his head. “Of that, I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone knows.”

  “So,” Phigby answers in a matter-of-fact tone, “we have one piece of the puzzle, a golden dragon, but we do not have or know the second piece—whether or not the current queen is Escher’s descendant.”

  “And if is she is not of Escher’s line?” I ask. “Or, what if she is and doesn’t care to honor Queen Escher’s vow?”

  “Then,” Phigby replies somberly, “it may be that we will experience firsthand the Amazos’ ferocity, and our blood will join with the Wilders’ who met death at the barrier and whose life fluid still stains the ground.”

  2

  I swallow hard several times. I can still see the Wilders and their crimson beasts fall out of the sky with a dragon-piercing arrow embedded in scaled neck or body. I have always thought dragons were virtually invincible except to each other. Now I know better, and I can’t help but think that if that’s what a Golian arrow can do to a dragon, what would one do to my body?

  Split it in half?

  Amil may have been thinking the same, for he says, “Well, I would prefer not having my lifeblood spilt any time soon but if that is our course, just how do we go about it? I would not recommend just riding up to the Amazos and announcing that we’re here to invoke Escher’s vow. Methinks we might be greeted with arrows and lances.”

  He eyes us and mutters, “A deadly barrage of arrows, I might add.”

  “Agreed,” Boren replies. “We need to be a bit more subtle than that.”

  He gestures at the distant high hills that lead to the mountains and asks Amil, “Traveler, what can you tell us about our surroundings? Is there a place where we can both hide and find some way to get a message to the Golian queen in hopes of an audience with Her Majesty?”

  Amil stands but doesn’t immediately answer. His head follows the length of the pinnacled mountains before he gestures to the west and north. “If we follow the mountains farther upriver, there is a vale that comes down out of the hills which, supposedly, the Golians sometimes use to send scouts down to survey this side of the river. If we could make contact with one of them—”

  “Then we might be able to persuade her to take a message to the queen,” Phigby finishes.

  “Aye,” Amil answers, “but I don’t know how long we would have to wait before a giant shows up. It could be days or even weeks and there is still the matter of hiding the golden, finding shelter for ourselves, food . . . ”

  He stops and rubs his stomach. “Especially the question of food.”

  “How do we find this particular valley?” Helmar questions.

  Amil nods and says, “I can take us to it. The Valley Where the Waters Meet.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “There’s a small river,” Amil explains, “the Crawven, that cuts through the valley.”

  “The Crawven?” Cara questions. “I’ve never heard of a river named after a bird.”

  “Crawven eyes are what color?” Amil asks Cara.

  “Um, black with yellow specks,” she answers. “Rather odd, as I recall.”

  “This stream’s color,” Amil returns, “is black with bits of yellow sprinkled in the flow.”

  “You mean yellow, like the color of gold?” Cara replies. “I’ve heard that some rivers and streams carry gold, but—”

  “Not the Crawven,” Amil smiles wide.

  He holds up his thumb. “Fish. The Yellow Dapper and about the size of this. But you and many other gold-seekers have been fooled by the same thought.”

  Amil pauses and then says, “It’s called the Valley Where the Waters Meet because when the stream enters the Floden, on one side you have the turquoise of the Wolven Floden, on the other it’s completely dark. They stay that way for about a league or so until the waters blend.”

  “Interesting,” Phigby says. “At another time, I would be sorely tempted to see this sight but my interest is more in meeting a Golian instead. You say that the Golians use this valley as an entryway to the Wolven?”

  “Aye,” Amil replies, “though I never saw one as I passed through four seasons ago.”

  Master Boren asks the group. “Does anyone have a better idea? I for one do not.”

  No one speaks in dissent so Master Boren declares, “Then if we travel by day, we use the forest paths. If we sky, we do so only at night. That will make it harder for those who search to find us.”

  He pauses for a long time as if considering something on his mind before turning to me. “Hooper, for your courage at Dunadain in saving all of us, I have no words that can adequately express my gratitude. I thi
nk I can speak for all of us when I say thank you.”

  I’m embarrassed as Master Boren has never spoken so kindly to me before. What’s more, even Cara gives me a tiny smile, too—a hesitant and forced smile, it appears; still, to have her smile at me makes me feel as if I want to wiggle and jiggle in delight just like a puppy when it greets you.

  Then Master Boren’s expression hardens, and his mouth turns down in a scowl. “Be that as it may, Hooper, I have serious misgivings regarding your riding Golden Wind. Helmar and I have spoken at length over the matter, and though I understand that Lord Lorell is dead, and his decree regarding Golden Wind died with him . . .”

  He pauses before saying firmly, “Still, I represent House Lorell, or, at least what’s left of it, and as the leader of this company, it is my wish to honor my former master. Under the circumstances, I have no doubt that someone has to ride Golden Wind.”

  Boren again pauses and fixes me with a set, hard stare. “But to honor Lord Lorell and Golden Wind, her rider will certainly not be the least of his former stable hands.”

  His frown deepens. “Even if you are this so-called Gem Guardian—a matter in my mind yet to be determined—you are not to ride the golden. Is that clear?”

  “But Boren—” Phigby begins but Master Boren snaps up a hand to quiet him. “Phigby, I count you as friend, but you have no say in this matter.”

  He sweeps a hand at the dragons. “These are Lorell dragons, and I am their master. I will decide how they are used and by whom.”

  Master Boren turns back to me. “I have taken Cara’s and Helmar’s counsel in that you and they were placed in unique circumstances, and it goes without saying that your deeds at the keep saved us.

  “Therefore, for now, I am going to overlook your willful disobedience in riding the golden before we knew that Lord Lorell had died. However, I will not be as forgiving or understanding if there is a repeat. Is that understood?”

  I can only mumble a weak response and nod numbly. If Master Boren had given me a tongue-lashing in private, that I could accept—after all, verbal beratings has been my lot for years. However, for him to castigate me openly in front of Cara, that cut deeper than anything I’ve ever felt before.