by GARY DARBY
4
After considering Phigby’s dire pronouncement a bit more, I respond in a bit of a protesting voice, “But when the Wilders were chasing us, and we approached that giant wall of theirs—”
“You mean the Colosseun Barrier?” Phigby questions.
“That’s the one,” I respond. “Their warriors didn’t shoot any arrows at us, they aimed for the Wilders. Surely that must mean that they hold the golden in some regard and us with her.”
Phigby glances up the incline toward where the dragons are sleeping. “Possibly. After all, how many strangers come skying along accompanied by a golden dragon? It could be that they made every effort not to kill the golden or those that were with her.”
“Then,” I contend in a small voice, “that must mean that if any giants do show up and they see the golden, they won’t attack, right? I mean because of the queen’s vow?”
Phigby picks up a short stick and draws what appears to be circles within circles in the dirt, each bigger than the last before he raises his head to gaze at me.
“It’s true that actions do speak louder than words. If what we saw at the barrier is any indication, then, yes, perhaps, they still remember the vow, even after all these years.
“But we must not forget that they still have deep-seated recollections of Drach betrayal. And though it was long, long ago, that treachery led to death and destruction that all but razed Golian and Dronopolis to the ground. Not to mention that Malonda Kur come close to slaying their beloved queen.”
He pauses before saying, “What if such memories take on a life unto themselves until they’re ingrained into the very fabric of Golian society?
“Each child, practically from infancy, is taught of Drach treachery and the murderous Wilder rampage that ensued because of our duplicity. In any case, they may hold Golden Wind in some regard, but that may not hold true for us.”
He gestures with his stick toward the towering massifs. “What I do know is that they jealously guard their borders and are ferocious warriors. And it may be that the most we can hope for is a fair hearing before their queen.”
The sun begins to lower, and the tree’s shadows are long and sharp, like black spears laid out in rows on the ground. What few clouds break the blue sky cast an orange glow that deepens even as I watch. None of us speak but we sit quietly, listening and watching.
Being in a land where Golians and Vargs roam and Scamper is missing puts me on edge and I begin to pace. Phigby watches me for a few moments before he gestures toward the log he’s sitting on. “Pacing won’t get Scamper or Helmar or Amil to return any sooner.”
He pats the downed tree trunk with a hand. “Sit, rest.”
I shake my head. “No thanks, Phigby, I can’t sit still at a time like this.”
Master Boren rises to his feet and calls over his shoulder. “I think I’ll take over the guard duty for a bit. Cara could use a little rest, I’m sure.”
Phigby watches him trudge up the incline before turning to me. “Hooper, I’ve got to ask,” his voice is so low I can barely hear him. “How does it feel to be one of the few, perhaps the only person, to have ever skyed on a golden dragon?”
After Master Boren’s earlier tongue-lashing, I keep my voice every bit as soft as his as I answer, “I guess it feels like skying any other dragon, not that I’ve had all that much practice skying on other dragons.”
“Humph,” Phigby grunts. “So she’s still just another dragon? Even after she saved your life, several times over?”
Gazing past the hollow’s rim at the woods, I can barely see Golden Wind’s outline in the dusk. “What would you have me say, Phigby?” I mutter through clenched teeth. “She’s saved my life, yes. But others of her ilk murdered my family, made me an orphan.”
I thrust out my scarred hand and arm while pointing to my face. “Left me with this, caused me to live a life of shoveling dragon dung all day, and with Proga lance scars on my back if I didn’t work fast enough.”
Phigby clasps his hands together tightly. He stares at the ground for a long time before he speaks. Unlike his harsh tone a few moments before, he concedes in a gentle tone, “I’m sorry Hooper, at times I forget—”
“Well, I don’t!”
Just as Cara comes down the tiny hill, I tromp away to climb up the opposite rim. Once at the top, I glower at the forest, my eyes like stone. I know Phigby means well, but he just doesn’t understand.
No one can actually grasp how I feel unless they’d been there and heard the screams, the shrieks of pain; the cries for help or smelled the stench of sulfur and burning flesh.
I glance over at Golden Wind and try picturing her doing such a horrible deed, but I can’t. She’s a dragon, yes, but she seems so different from any other dragon. It’s not just that we can speak with one another. She seems, well, to be genuinely concerned about me.
Isn’t that funny? There are Drachs in our own company that could not care less about me, but a dragon does? I have to admit, my feelings are like storm clouds churning, blowing every which way.
At one moment I’m angry about what the dragons did on that horrendous night of hellfire and the next moment, I glance over at Golden Wind and I can feel my anger slip away no matter how hard I try to hold on to the feeling.
After a bit, I hear footsteps. It’s Phigby. He stands beside me and clears his throat. “I am sorry, Hooper. I’m not as young as I once was and I forget easily, but you’re right, this was something that I shouldn’t ever forget. So, come. Sit with us, I promise no more talk of dragons from me tonight.”
I start to nod when out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement in the deepening dusk. “Phigby, someone’s coming!”
He whirls and we both peer into the shadows. A moment later, I breathe a sigh of relief. “It’s Helmar and Amil.”
“They seem to be carrying something between them,” Phigby observes.
My stomach growls at the sight of their load. “It’s a stag, Phigby, and a big one. We’re not going hungry tonight.”
I scurry over to greet them, but they hasten past without a word. With me trailing the two hunters, they hurry down into the hollow and drop the large, reddish brown deer. Its antlers clatter as its head hits the ground.
Cara takes a step to stand next to Helmar, her hand lightly touching his forearm and her eyes and face filled with relief.
With long strides, Master Boren trods down the incline to join the group. With a deep frown on his face, Helmar mutters to Boren and Phigby, “We’re not alone.”
“More giant footprints?” I ask from behind.
Amil and Helmar turn to me with puzzled expressions. “Hooper and Cara,” Phigby explains, “found a set of Golian prints and Varg tracks down by the river. There was no way to warn you.”
Helmar points to his foot. “At least two times the length of mine?”
“At least,” I answer.
“Could you tell how many Golians there were?” Master Boren asks in a tense voice.
“From the number of prints, I’m fairly sure there’s only one,” Amil responds. “Which could either be bad or good.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because,” Amil explains, “more than likely she’s a scout. As I said before, the Amazos sometimes have lone warriors patrolling their farthermost boundaries. But, on the other hand, if she’s here ahead of a larger party, then that could well present us with serious problems.”
“If we are to plead our case,” Phigby intones, “let us hope it is just the one. I would much rather have to face one Golian warrior than many.”
The others exchange nervous glances in agreement before Phigby rumbles, “But since we do not know what we face, and excessive worrying will not fill our bellies, I suggest we get busy on this deer.”
He turns to Master Boren. “Do you suppose that we can chance a fire? I’m not overly fond of eating my venison raw.”
Master Boren seems to consider Phigby’s question before he nods his approval. “A hot m
eal will do all of us good.”
Helmar and Amil grab the big deer and begin to skin the animal. As they do, I lean close to Amil and ask between his swift knife strokes, “Scamper is missing. Did you see him out there?”
The big man wipes sweat from his brow. “No, we only saw the deer and the Golian’s tracks.”
I shake my head at his answer. “I’m worried; this is not like him. I’m going to look.”
Amil’s hand shoots out like a striking hawk and grasps my wrist. “Hold, boy. I know he’s your friend, but you don’t want to go wandering out there in the dark. Not here, especially.”
“Amil’s right,” Helmar growls. “Besides, knowing Scamper, once he smells roasted deer, he’ll live up to his name and come over that rise in no time.”
It’s not long before the skinned deer is broiling over a makeshift spit. The meat sizzles and begins to darken from the fire’s heat. The dragons gather on the hollow’s rim, heads hanging over the lip, hungry eyes and flared nostrils turned toward the smell of cooking meat.
The sprogs are almost dancing around the fire pit, mouths open, muzzles turned up at the wafting scent of hot meat.
Like the dragons, I’m anxiously hungry, but I’m more apprehensive about Scamper. With the light all but gone, I tread once more to the hollow’s top. I’m past worried, now.
It’s true that Scamper strays at times, but he never stays away this long. He prefers my warmth and the food I bring him. I’m not sure how well he can take care of himself on his own in a strange new place.
On top of that, Scamper has a tendency to stick his nose in places he shouldn’t. It would be just like him to get into trouble. I cup my mouth to call out for him, but just as I do, a rough hand grabs my shoulder and swings me around.
“Young fool,” Phigby spits out in a gruff tone. “Would you bring danger down upon all of us for the sake of one overly curious beastie?”
Phigby’s first words cut, but his last comment brings anger. “He’s not just a beast! He’s my friend. Wouldn’t you care if your friend went missing in a strange place?”
“Of course,” Phigby retorts. “But I would also worry about my friends who don’t deserve to be put in danger for foolishness’s sake.”
“What would you have me do? Just leave him out there, alone, maybe hurt?”
Phigby lets out a breath. “I would have you eat, and then if he hasn’t returned, I’ll join the search with you.”
I don’t answer, just stare into the dark.
Phigby reaches out and grasps my arm. “Come,” he orders. “I’m worried about your furry friend, too, but let’s get some much-needed food in you first.”
Phigby leads me back to camp though his words don’t soothe my anxious and sullen mood. With skillful slashes of the knife, Amil cuts ample roasts from the deer and throws one to each dragon.
He slices four much smaller pieces and tosses one to each sprog. The two sapphire sprogs promptly get into a tug of war over the same portion while the purple runs off with two slices.
“Just like royalty,” I mutter. I glance up at the others. “Or at least like a certain prince who’s not satisfied with all that he has, just wants more of everything.”
I see a hurt expression on Cara’s face, and I immediately realize my blunder. I could have easily substituted Daron for Prince Aster in my terse words.
Amil cuts two long strips off the back straps, lays them over a log, and slices off liberal pieces of meat that he doles out to each of us.
Without a knifepoint to hold the meat on, I have to toss the steaming meat from hand to hand, blowing on it to cool it before I can take a bite. I wolf mine down, not only from hunger but also from my need to begin searching for Scamper. Before I can stand, Amil slices off another piece and thrusts it into my hands.
“If need be, you’ll go faster and farther on a full stomach,” he mutters, “than a partially filled one.”
Amil wipes one cheek with the back of his knife hand. “As you’re so eager to chance a dark woodland and since you already know about the Vargs, let me tell you what else might be out there.”
Using the tip of his knife, he points toward the dark woods. “This is not only Golian land, there are mountain trolls that sometimes wander down from the heights, and they make that Night Goblin you bounced against look like a little pup in comparison.”
He holds his knife up. “Fangs twice as long and sharper than this blade. Talons for fingernails and as sharp as any dragon’s. They’re so strong that they could rip out one of those trees over there and break it in half. They’re so fast on their feet that—”
He never does get to tell me how fast a mountain troll was because just then, the dragons spring to their feet, their eyes peering intently toward the woods. Their ears twitch forward and a rumble, almost like far-off thunder rolls from their throats. Except for Phigby, we all leap up as well.
Something is drawing close enough that it’s put the dragons on edge.
Helmar and Cara notch an arrow and hold their bows with the bowstring taut, ready to unleash an arrow in an instant.
Amil holds his ax in both hands, his eyes flicking from one end of the tree line to the other, ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.
Master Boren holds his sword pointed downward, but he’s taken several steps to stand alongside Cara, his head up, alert at the forest sounds.
I haven’t moved as I’m not sure what to do, whereas the sprogs cluster around my feet. They too sense the nervous edge of the larger dragons.
Phigby stirs the fire with a long, thin stick and after a few moments speaks barely above a whisper, “I would suggest that all of you lower your weapons and do not make any threatening gestures. We are being watched.”
I can see Helmar and Cara glance at each other before they slowly lower their bows. Amil lets his ax settle to his side.
Phigby’s stirring has caused the light to grow brighter and sends sparks and embers floating upward. He rises to stand behind Cara and whispers in her ear for several moments. She turns to him with a startled expression before he whispers again.
Cara leans in close, listening, while giving him several nods and then takes a step forward with lowered bow. She raises one arm up, with an open palm outward and calls out in a high voice, “Daughter of Golian, proud warrior of the mighty Amazos, we greet you. We are but weary travelers, and mean no harm to you, your kin or your illustrious queen.”
She pauses and Phigby mutters something low before Cara again calls out, “Would you honor us by sharing our fire and our meat?”
We stare in the direction that Cara’s facing. The night has grown still; the air feels thick as if it pushes down on us. There is no wind to rustle the leaves. Even the crickets seem to have lost their voice.
Then to our ears come heavy footsteps. Each pace sounds as if it crushes the needle-like leaves underfoot. Into the pale firelight that paints the hollow’s lip strides a giant maiden. She is twice as tall as Helmar, and more than that in bulk.
She stops, and her deep-set blue eyes peer at each of us. Her yellow braided hair falls to her shoulders and shines against the darkness. By a dark bronze hilt, she grasps in one hand an enormous two-edged sword that gleams and shimmers in the firelight.
She holds it with an easy familiarity as if it’s but an extension of her arm. And I have no doubts as to her expertise in wielding such a blade against her foes.
Over her thick leather jerkin that covers her shoulders and chest down to her slim waist, rests an enormous bow. Behind one shoulder is a quiver that obviously took several deer hides to make.
A gray pleated skirt made of rough material hangs from mid-waist almost to her knees. Thick rawhide sandals shoe her feet. Around her neck is a golden chain that disappears in her undergarment, holding, no doubt, an ornament of some kind, perhaps a talisman of her people or faith.
My eyes glance to what she holds in her other hand. My body goes rigid as I start to stumble forward. Phigby’s st
rong hand reaches out to grab my tunic and stop me in place. “Hold, Hooper,” he fiercely whispers. “Do not move or we are all dead.”
The Golian warrior is holding Scamper.
All she has to do is squeeze her fist shut and my one true friend will be nothing but a lump of fur and blood dripping through her fingers.
“But she’s got Scamper!”
“And she’ll have our heads,” Phigby declares, “if we’re not careful.”
He turns his head slightly, his eyes still on the giant and orders in a small voice, “Now listen, all of you. Keep your heads up, and whatever you do, do not turn your face or eyes away from her. To do so is an insult.”
Phigby really didn’t have to give me an injunction not to lower my head, I wouldn’t have taken my eyes off Scamper for anything.
“Maiden of Golian,” Phigby begins in a firm, but level voice. “We mean no harm to your people for we are not enemies of your domain. Among our own, it is well known that the warriors of Golian are not only mighty in battle, but generous in thought and deed as well. We beseech you to grant us the boon of mercy.”
The giant lets her striking eyes go from face to face. When she gets to me, she peers intently, far longer than with the others. I dare not blink, and I do my best to meet her stare.
She turns to the dragons, and I hear a sharp sucking sound as if she’s drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. She stands perfectly still for several heartbeats before she strides over to the beasts.
For some reason, they don’t seem to mind her presence and stay absolutely still and calm. The giant gives the sapphires only a passing notice and goes straight to Golden Wind.
With the golden sitting on her haunches, her eyes are almost level with the giant maiden’s face. The two seem to peer at each other before the huge female warrior takes a step forward and speaks to the golden in a voice so low that none of us can make out her words.
The golden has her ears pointed forward as if listening to the giant’s every word. After a few moments of speech, the colossal maiden stops. She takes a step back, and to my amazement, bows her head to Golden Wind before she turns to us.