by GARY DARBY
“So Boren,” Phigby asks, “what would you have us do?”
Master Boren runs a hand through his graying hair. I can see the weariness on his face, and I suspect it’s not all from a night’s skying. “Our bellies and the dragons hunger. It will be first light soon, and we need to hunt. After that, we’ll see about walking the river vale. If we are unsuccessful at meeting a Golian there, we’ll discuss going to the village.”
We make our way over to the bowl-like hollow, settle the dragons in the forest just beyond, and while Cara and Helmar stand guard, the rest of us try to sleep on the scraggly grass that covers the low spot.
Muted voices and footsteps crunching through the grass waken me. I feel as if I haven’t slept at all, but the brightening around me tells me that dawn is not far off. Working the stiffness out of my limbs, I think that even my musty straw bed in the barn was better than this.
I turn as Helmar says to Amil. “It’s light enough, what say you and I see what this forest offers in the way of food?”
“Agreed,” Amil replies while he surveys the thick trees with a wary expression. “Besides, I think in this woodland, two sets of eyes will be better than one.”
“Hooper,” Helmar orders, “lend Amil your knife.” Amil tucks my knife into his waistband, and with Helmar at his side strides away into the forest.
“Cara,” Master Boren orders, “check on the dragons. Make sure that they can’t be seen and keep them away from the river for now. It is much too open.”
“Yes, Father,” Cara readily answers.
Phigby holds the water flasks out to me. “I know,” I sigh, “water and wood.”
Cara turns to me. “After I check on the dragons, I’ll gather the wood, you get the water.”
“Thanks,” I smile gratefully at her but instead of returning my smile she dryly says, “The faster we can get wood and water, the sooner I get to hunt.”
I acknowledge her curt comment with a little nod and make for the river. The trees are thick and close together and of a type that I’m not familiar with. Their branches start head high and what passes for leaves are thin and prickly, and end in a needle-sharp tip.
Even though the sky is cloudless, only a little sunlight reaches the ground, and it’s gloomy in the woodland. I don’t know how well Helmar and Amil will fare as I don’t see any life in this dark and dreary woodland. Which, after Amil’s and Phigby’s description of the Vargs might just be a good thing.
No prey means no wolves.
It’s not long before I hear the rushing river. I step out from the last line of trees onto a narrow stone-lined riverbank. The morning’s first light is a subdued glint off the water as the odd appearing turquoise hue seems to soak up the sunlight instead of the glitter off normal water that I’m used to seeing.
Kneeling, I scoop up a drink as I’m curious to see if turquoise water tastes the same as the clear coolness of Draconstead’s stream. It does. Perhaps a bit colder, though. Movement in the shallows catches my eye.
Minnows! Darting close to several moss-covered rocks. I smile, knowing that from experience where there are minnows, there are bigger fish. All we need is a way to catch them. I lick my lips in anticipation of eating fresh fish broiled over an open fire.
As I dip the water flasks into the river, I glance over at the rocks and mud at the riverbank’s edge to see if there are more minnows darting in and among the stones covered in the watery grass.
And spring upright.
Tracks!
Even in the dusky light of sunrise I can make out several sets of prints set deep in the river mud along the waterline. I take several steps and bend over to study the deep-set impressions.
It takes less than a heartbeat for my eyes to widen. I’m staring at enormous paw prints. I’ve seen the tracks that Dread Wolves make, but these I can set my hand, fingers spread apart, and still have space around.
I glance in the direction the tracks take and almost drop the flasks.
Footprints!
Gaping, I set a foot inside one print and see that I could almost set my other foot next to it and barely overlap the track’s edges.
Both traces are fresh and recently made. I have no doubt of just whose footmarks I peer at, and there’s little guesswork as to what made the paw prints.
We have a Golian giant and a Varg somewhere close by, and here I stand in the open without even a knife to defend myself against either.
The cracking of a dead branch on the bark-strewn forest floor spins me around. I reach for the only weapon I can think of, a thick, rounded rock that fits snugly in my hand, just made for chucking at the head of a Golian or a Varg.
As if that would do any good.
“What?” Cara sputters. “Are you going to put a lump on my head with that rock? I know father was harsh with you, but don’t take it out on me.”
“Cara,” I let out in relief, “it’s only you.”
“Yes,” she replies slowly while giving me a puzzled stare. “Were you expecting someone else? I was a little worried since you went off without a bow or a knife.”
I dare to spin her around and point to where the water is lapping against the riverbank’s fist-sized rocks. “Look.”
Cara sucks in a breath as her gaze finds the footprints. “And over here, too,” I say as I prod her a little farther upstream.
Her eyes flick from one set of prints to the other before she whips out an arrow from her quiver and notches it in her bowstring. While she scans the nearby trees, she orders, “We need to get out of here.”
She’s talking to a hole in the air because I’m already gone.
At my best hobbling gait, I push through the woods, Cara right behind me. We hurry back to the hollow and in rushed, clipped words, Cara describes what we found. “Two sets of tracks by the river, one made by a Golian, the other is a Varg.”
Phigby, sitting on a small log, and tending to a little fire, rises to cast a worried look at the nearby dark trees. “The prints,” he asks, “could you tell how old?”
“Fresh,” Cara answers.
I nod in agreement and glance over toward the dragons. I can just barely make out their thick bodies through the dense tree branches. “Maybe we should bring the dragons in closer. They’re the only protection we have.”
“What about Helmar and Amil?” Cara asks in a concerned voice. “We’ve got to warn them somehow.”
Master Boren lays a hand on Cara’s shoulder. “We don’t know where they are by now. Besides, they can take care of themselves, and I doubt if they’ll venture far.”
His eyes roam the surrounding tree line. “The wolves around Draconstead hunted mostly at day dawn and at dusk. Phigby, can we say the same of these wolves? Or are they of a breed that hunts only in the early morning?”
“I suspect,” Phigby answers, his eyes still on the surrounding forest, “that they follow the same pattern as their cousins around Draconstead.”
He runs a hand over his beard and rumbles low, “The Golian, however, is a different matter.”
Phibgy gazes in the dragons’ direction before saying to Master Boren, “I think Hooper has a sound idea. We can bring them in a little closer, and they’ll still be hidden. Besides, they’ll give us fair warning if we are approached.”
Master Boren nods to Cara and me. “Go get them, just make sure they can’t be seen.”
It doesn’t take Cara and me long to resettle the four adult dragons closer to our temporary camp. The sprogs are awake and making sounds that they want out of the saddlebags so I ask, “Do we take the chance and set them down? They could wander off, you know.”
Cara shakes her head while peering at the restless sprogs. “I doubt if they’ll go far, but baby dragons aren’t known to be exactly quiet when they’re active, you know.”
“How well I know,” I mutter. “But if we leave them in their bags, they’re just going to bleat that much louder.”
Cara screws her mouth to one side. “You’re right. I guess we don’t
have much choice.”
Once the sprogs are loose, they waddle in and among the adult dragons who are slowly chewing on some brush that they’ve pulled up. The sprogs munch on the occasional leaf that falls from the dragon’s mouths.
“I think they’ll be content for now,” Cara says.
We hurry back to the shallow basin where Phigby has let his small fire die until it’s but a wisp of a flame. I glance at the puny blaze and say in a somewhat nervous voice, “Uh, don’t you think we should build the fire up a bit?”
Phigby shakes his head. “No Hooper, in fact, I would have no fire going if it weren’t for the fact that I need to boil up a potion for Boren. His head must have bounced off the paving back at the Keep, and it pains him.
“Once I have that done, we’ll have no fire and no smoke to either be seen or carried on the breeze and whiffed by a Golian or Varg nose.”
“Oh,” is all I answer in understanding. The scent of wood smoke carries a long ways and if we do have unwanted neighbors prowling the forest, the less they can see or smell of us, the better.
Phigby rummages in his shoulder sack for a moment, brings out a small pot, sprinkles some white flakes into the pan’s bottom, adds a little water, and sets it on two flat rocks by the fire.
Cara is pacing the rim’s rounded top with drawn bow. Seeing that there is little else for me to do, I ask, “I know you don’t want a fire, but maybe I should gather more wood? For tonight?”
“Fine,” Phigby answers. “Make yourself useful, but I wouldn’t stray too far from camp if I were you.”
I gesture over to where the dragons are slumbering. “Don’t worry, I’m not going much beyond those four.”
Phigby turns back to his now simmering pot and I set off to climb the low-set ridge and amble over to where the dragons sleep. The sprogs follow me as I gather a few loose branches. I make my way near where the golden is lying and bend over near her muzzle, pretending to pick up deadwood.
“Pssst,” I whisper. “Golden Wind, wake up.”
The golden sleepily raises one eyelid and peers at me. “You and the other dragons need to be on guard,” I mumble. “There’s a Golian and at least one giant wolf nearby.”
“You woke me up for that? We already know.”
“You do?” I stammer. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“If you were in any real danger, we would’ve,” she reassures me.
She starts to close her eyes, but I continue in an insistent tone, “Wait, there’s something else. Have you seen or heard Scamper?”
“No,” she states. “Now, please, go away, I’m tired.” She closes her eyes and an instant later, she’s asleep.
“Humph,” I grumble, “some help you are.”
I make a circuit of the sleeping dragons while I gather more firewood. Scamper is nowhere to be seen or heard. As the day draws on, I collect wood several times to make sure we have enough for the night but also to keep looking for my friend.
The medicine that Phigby gave to Master Boren seems to work for he dozes off and on through the day, rousing long enough to ensure that all is well before napping again.
Cara and I alternate standing guard but neither of us leave the top of the hollow and that’s where we take turns catnapping. Cara sleeps with one hand on her bow, another clutches an arrow.
Having no weapon, I make sure my footsteps never take me far from Cara and her bow.
As the afternoon wanes and evening starts to fall, I’m becoming increasingly anxious about Scamper. And, I admit a little over Amil, and Helmar.
I make a circuit past the dragons before joining Cara on the little knoll. “Any sign of Scamper? You don’t think he followed Amil and Helmar do you?”
“No,” she replies testily. “That’s the umpteenth time you’ve asked me. Maybe Scamper’s found a place to sleep.”
Slowly, I turn in a complete circle surveying the thickly forested countryside in all directions. “No,” I answer. “Scamper wouldn’t go off to sleep somewhere. If anything, he would’ve curled up next to the fire for that.”
Cara lets out a little breath and bites down on her lip. “I suppose Helmar and Amil have had to go farther afield to find game than they intended.”
I scan the nearby black spruces and pine trees again, but except for a few birds and the occasional squirrel, there’s no movement in the forest. It’s as though Scamper has disappeared. “This just isn’t like him,” I contend in a strained voice. “Something’s happened, I’ve got to go look for him.”
Cara whips out a hand to stop me. “No. The last thing we need is for you to go wandering out there alone. Let’s face it, Hooper, you have about as much woodland skill as a newborn sprog. In a hundred paces you’d be lost and if there are Vargs out there, you’d stand not much more chance against them than a lamb with the butcher in the slaughterhouse.”
It’s not so much what she said as how she said it.
She’s right, of course, I’m a stumblebum in the woods and I have no fighting skills whatsoever, but did she have to make it sound as if I’m so horrible to have around?
We turn at the sound of lowered voices. Master Boren is awake and conversing with Phigby. Cara thrusts her bow and arrows at me. “Here,” she commands. “Stand guard while I go talk with Father.”
I reluctantly take them and stammer, “There’s no reason to give these to me, you know I can’t use them.”
“Then it’s time you learned,” she snaps and runs down the incline to Master Boren.
Holding the bow in one hand and the leather quiver in the other, I retort, “Right. I think I’ll just go out and shoot myself a Varg or two, just for practice.”
I glance down into the hollow. Cara is sitting next to Master Boren. She holds her head close to his and speaks in a soft voice while one of her hands lovingly caresses his arm. His eyes never leave her face, and I can see from his tender look how much he loves his daughter.
Drawing in a deep breath, I think, what would it have been like to grow up in a family surrounded by love? Amazing, that’s what.
After a bit, Cara rejoins me on the rim. I hand her the bow and gesture toward the forest. “While you were gone I held off a whole pack of Vargs.”
She reclaims her quiver and eyes the bundle of arrows. “Incredible, and without using a single arrow.”
Cara’s eyes search the tree line. “And no dead Varg bodies anywhere.”
She glances around and asks quietly, “Still no signs of Helmar or Amil?”
“No,” I answer. “Or of Scamp, either.”
She slings the quiver over her shoulder and with practiced ease holds the bow with an arrow alongside the shaft.
“I know you want to go look for him,” Cara says, “but if we’re going to risk ourselves looking for anyone, it’ll be for Helmar and Amil.”
Her brisk comment brings a slow burn to my face, but I don’t answer. What good would it do other than getting into a verbal tussle with Cara?
I need to go look for my friend, but where would I start? How do you find one bundle of fur in a murky forest that seems to stretch out forever?
After thinking about it for a moment, I state, “The river, that’s where he is, fishing.”
“Hooper,” Cara chides, giving me a stern look. “You and I know what could be prowling next to that river.”
She lays a hand on my arm, pulls me around to face her. “You’re not going out there, understand me? When Helmar and Amil return and Scamper hasn’t, then we’ll discuss what to do, but not before then.”
Cara’s eyes are fiery, commanding. Helmar’s absence has left her in a foul mood, and it’s obvious that I need to bide my time before I slip away on my own to search.
Seemingly convinced, I mumble, “All right,” but I have other plans if Amil and Helmar don’t return soon.
I make my way down the slight incline. Master Boren begins coughing and with some hesitation and trepidation, I hold out the water flask for him.
He eyes me and
then reaches for the leather canteen. “Thank you,” he mutters. “After drinking Phigby’s potions, a mouthful of cool water will taste that much better.”
As he drinks deeply, I turn to Phigby and quip, “See, I’m not the only one that thinks your concoctions taste terrible.”
“It’s not the taste that matters,” Phigby grumps. “What matters are the results.”
I peer at the tall peaks in the far distance and gesture with one hand. “The Denalian Mountains, are they the domain’s actual boundary?”
“Unlike the Colosseun Barrier,” Phigby answers, “there are no real border markers here, the Denalian heights and the Floden serve that purpose. Both are formidable obstacles to any who try to pass over or through them into the domain’s interior.”
“So we must not be very far inside the Golians’ territory?” I question.
Phigby strokes his beard a few times. “Some say one foot placed inside the domain is one step too far.”
He turns and peers at the imposing heights. “And for good reason.”
“Cara,” I reply, “told me about the lone Wilder that was sent back with the message of ‘Don’t.’ You would think that after being defeated with only one survivor the Wilders wouldn’t ever think of invading Golian again.”
Phigby lets out a long sigh. “Not only do the foolish discount the lessons of history, but they forget the price that was paid to obtain that experience. If we find sanctuary in Golian and the Wilders seek us out, I have no doubt that it will cost them dearly.”
He raises his eyes to the mountains again. “But what if Daron was right and the Wilders are more than they seem and able to mount a vast dragon army such as in the days of Malonda Kur? Will history repeat itself and Golian is devastated? Is that the price they will pay for honoring a dead queen’s vow?”
He strokes his beard and muses, “If that is what is most ingrained in their society’s historical memory, then it may well be that they are unwilling to honor Escher’s vow. If so, the best we can hope for is that the Golians turn us aside from their lands and let us live. The worst . . .”
He doesn’t have to finish his answer for it’s obvious what the worst would mean to all of us. As usual, a weak, “Oh,” is all that I can answer.