by GARY DARBY
She takes her knife to point far down one line. “A fortnight ago, I camped near the Springs of Silver Dale. A clear stream runs from the spring a quarter-league to empty into the Wolven.
“In the night, I heard odd sounds and went to investigate. There was a ship at the mouth of the stream and its sailors were pulling up buckets of the clear water.
“I have seen the river boats that you Drachs use for fishing and trade and this craft was not such a ship. This was far larger and from the number of those who carried bows and scimitars on its deck, I’m sure I spied upon a warship.”
“A warship!” Helmar exclaims.
We glance at each other and I’m glad that the others have as deep a puzzled expression as I wear.
Amil frowns as he says, “To get that far up the Wolven Floden, they would have had to beat up the river from where it meets the Lorell. That is a tough go against a strong current.”
“True,” Alonya acknowledges, “nevertheless, they were there.”
“Wait,” Cara says, “warships on the River Lorell? Are we at war with someone?”
“Not that I know of,” Amil answers, with eyebrows furrowed. He turns to Alonya. “Could you describe the vessel and its sail, m’lady?”
Alonya nods slightly in response. “Somewhat, though I did not get a good look as I was peering through thick branches for concealment. The vessel was large, sleek, with running boards high above the waterline, and had a bank of oars to each side.
“It had one blood-red square sail set amidships with some sort of sketch or pattern, set in white, drawn onto the canvas.”
Amil leans forward and asks intensely, “The drawing, what did it look like?”
“I could not see that clearly as the sail was set at an angle to my line of sight,” Alonya replies slowly. “But from what I could tell it appeared as if I were peering at the head and body of a horse, but with the tail of a fish.”
Amil’s intake is like a hiss. “A Morag.”
“A what?” I ask. “What’s a Morag?”
“A water horse,” Phigby explains. “Or as some call it, a sea horse.”
“Unlike the MerDraken, who ride sea dragons,” Amil, wide-eyed, expounds upon Phigby’s statement, “the Selkie Folk are said to ride them and gallop over the ocean waves.”
“Selkie Folk?” I question.
“Half sea lion, half Drach,” Amil explains, “that ride Morags and love to eat the flesh of drowning sailors and drink their blood.”
He rubs a hand over his bald head and says, “But more to our discussion, they are the Sung Dar’s tribal symbol.”
“The Sung Dar!” I’ve never seen Master Boren with such a startled expression. “I have heard of them, but they belong to the Great Southern Ocean, hundreds and hundreds of leagues from here.”
“Aye, that was once true,” Amil affirms, “but there were rumors coming out of the royal house of encounters with Sung Dar vessels off our coast.”
Amil nods toward our giantess and adds, “What with Alonya’s sighting, I would venture to say that we are not dealing with rumors anymore.”
“These Sung Dar,” Cara questions, “I don’t recall reading much about them. Aren’t they sea traders?”
“Once, long ago,” Amil answers. “But no longer. Now, they are tribal mariners who travel in great fleets like floating cities on the ocean. They do not come on land except to raid and pillage. If they have come to these waters, you and we have more than just the Wilders to worry about.”
“Their weapons,” Alonya asks in a demanding tone, “what do you know about them?”
“Only what is rumored,” Amil answers in a honest tone. “I have heard that their ships carry enormous catapults that can fling massive fireballs made of an unknown substance great distances.
“These orbs of fire hiss and spit flame and embers when they strike an object, burst into gigantic firestorms that consume everything they touch.
“Each ship also carries a tremendously powerful ballista that can shoot a spear as thick as my arm through dragon scales. Their ships carry archers that are so accurate that they can knock a flying fish out of the air at a hundred steps.
“Their swordsmen carry scimitars sharp enough to slice through fine silk with a single swipe.”
I glance over at Phigby and see that he is working his mouth as if he has bitten into a bunch of sour mush-grapes. He leans toward Alonya and asks with just a hint of sarcasm, “My lady, I was wondering when was the last time that you used the moons as target practice with your bow?”
Alonya’s eyes narrow as she studies Phigby’s face for several moments before avowing with a straight face, “Last evening I hit Nadia so hard with one of my arrows that I knocked a large piece off her face. It could well be that we have five moons now and if so, I claim rights to call our new moon, Alonya, the Strong, Fierce, and . . . Beautiful.”
The two stare at each other for several heartbeats before both smile and begin chuckling. With their chortles, I can feel the tension ebb in our camp.
Phigby gives Amil a mischievous sideways glance to which Amil grumbles, “I was only saying what others had. Not that I trusted in it myself.”
Turning to Alonya, Phigby says, “Nevertheless, my lady, the Sung Dar are fierce raiders who have wreaked havoc on many coastal cities and trader fleets, destroying many a life and leaving behind burning towns and ships.
“They are ruthless cutthroats and have been a scourge to those who dwell next to the Southern Ocean. If they have come to these waters . . .”
His voice trails off as he stares into the flickering fire. His gaze is so intense; I wonder what he sees in the dancing flames?
The hellfire and the destruction of our home and which by his very words the Sung Dar may well bring to this land?
His voice is taut as he muses, “The unknown enemy always has the fiercest dragons, the fastest ships, the mightiest warriors, and the sharpest blades.”
Phigby glances over at Amil with a little smile. “But then again, we should never underestimate an enemy; to do so invites disaster.”
“If what you say is true,” Alonya asks, “would they dare attack Golian?”
“It is my understanding,” Phigby answers, “that to the highest bidder, or if the prize is worth the risk, they will attack anyone.”
Cara sucks in her breath. “The highest bidder! Are you suggesting that they were able to come up the Lorell and then here because—”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Phigby returns. “I am merely answering Alonya’s question.”
He turns to Alonya and in a respectful tone asks, “My lady, you also said that you thought entering Golian and invoking the vow may have no merit. If our way back to our own kingdom is indeed closed, why do you say that our way into Golian would be the same?”
Alonya pokes a stick into the fire and watches the embers spray upward, like tiny fireflies that prance and dance in the night air. She stays silent while running her stick over the glowing coals. I have the feeling that she is weighing many things in her mind.
In measured words, she answers slowly in a low rumble, “You have given me much to consider, and now my thoughts are as numerous as the stars in the sky.”
She runs a hand over one long braid of her flaxen hair, twirling the end in her fingers. “I have listened carefully to what has been said here, and this is what I have to say.
“I was taught early in life of Queen Escher and your Lord Bravestone, and of her vow. Nevertheless, to bring the golden dragon before the queen who now sits in Dronopolis would be a fruitless effort.”
“And why is that, my lady?” Phigby insists.
“Because she who sits on the Warrior’s Throne is a usurper,” Alonya mutters harshly. “She is not of Escher’s line. The vow has no hold on her.”
She draws in a breath, and her words are like a Dread Wolf’s growl, “And even if it did, she would not pay heed, for Gru is a murderess and thief, and honor has no hold on her or her followers.”
6
Alonya’s fiery words startle me. For some reason, I had it in my mind that all Amazos were fiercely loyal to their queen, but obviously, in Alonya’s case that is not true and I have to wonder why. Is she, like us, an outcast? Perhaps, she’s a criminal, or worse.
But there is an even greater troubling matter. “But,” I sputter to the others, “if the queen is not of Escher’s line, then why were we—”
“Hooper!” Phigby’s snarl is close to Alonya’s, and I realize my gaffe as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
Phigby wants no mention of the gemstone book to essentially a stranger even though in a way she seems friendly enough to us and especially to Golden Wind.
Still, he’s right, and my careless mouth and undisciplined mind may have put us in a precarious position.
Alonya looks from me to Phigby and back, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes questioning. “Why were you what?” she demands.
“What Hooper was trying to say,” Phigby answers in a soothing tone, “was that after our escape from Vay at Dunadain, our path led us here by virtue of the golden. We assumed, perhaps hoped that it was because of the Queen’s Vow and there might be sancturary for us in mighty Golian.”
He sighs deeply. “We did not know that your current queen was not descended from Escher. So, in his fumble-tongued manner, Hooper was asking why did we come here, if that indeed is the case?”
I have to give Phigby credit, that’s not what I was going to say, but now it feels as if that’s exactly what I was about to ask without mentioning the ode book.
Alonya glances at me again, before she turns her head toward the golden. Her eyes never leave Golden Wind as she says, “You put great stock in the noble one, you are convinced she led you here, and it wasn’t just by happenstance?”
Master Boren clears his throat and says to Phigby, “May I?”
Phigby gestures toward Alonya and says, “By all means, Boren.”
“I have studied dragons all my life, my lady,” Boren begins, “and I consider them to be wondrous and magical creatures. There’s no doubt that Golden Wind led us here for a reason, and in my mind, it was because of the vow made by your great Queen Escher so long ago.”
He takes a breath as if to collect his thoughts. “I take your words most seriously, still I cannot toss aside the thought that we are to seek an audience with Her Majesty, even if you consider that it would be for naught.”
Alonya considers his words before saying, “It may be for more than naught, Dragon Master. I would also say that not only would the journey be perilous; it may well end in your death.”
She gestures toward Golden Wind. “And that one taken from you.”
Cara gives a little start and leans forward, her eyes glistening in the firelight. “Are you saying that Queen Gru would take the golden from us?”
“I am saying that with Wilders on the Golian border,” Alonya responds, “that not only will you be received with suspicion but your presence will revive old, painful memories and even hatred for what happened in the past.”
“But,” Cara protests, “that was so long ago. We weren’t the Drachs who spied on Golian and conspired with the Wilders. Why should we be judged by their actions?”
“Yes,” Helmar adds bluntly, “judge us for what we do now, not by the actions of long-dead ancestors.”
“Well said,” Alonya answers, “but your words are wasted on me, I do not sit on the throne and judge whether you live or die.”
We share gloomy glances. Notwithstanding the thought of being among giants, I had hopes that we might find a haven, but that evidently is not the case. So, if there is no refuge for us, then why are we here, I keep questioning silently to myself.
I glance over at the golden. After all, she is the one who brought us to this place, but her eyes are closed as if in sleep and she is acting as if she has no interest in our discussion or in Alonya’s dire pronouncement.
Master Boren mutters to Phigby, “Well, we seem to—” he begins, but before he can finish his sentence, the dragons spring to their feet while growling deep in their throats.
They stretch their necks out toward the darkness and center their eyes on a particular portion of the tree line.
Though I see nothing, the dragons are evidently sounding the alarm that danger is close, and we didn’t even have to move from our sheltered hollow before it found us.
Alonya jumps to her feet while scooping up her bow and quiver all in one motion. An instant later, with her gleaming sword held across her body, she charges up the incline.
Cara and Helmar snatch their bows and quivers on the run and sprint up the slight knoll right behind her.
Amil follows closely, holding his great ax near where the wood handle meets the fearsome two-edged blade. “What is it?” I mumble to Phigby as he grabs his bag and makes for the hollow’s rim.
“Most likely a Varg pack!” Phigby barks over his shoulder as he and Master Boren trundle up the slope, leaving me behind by the fire.
The sprogs come waddling down and bunch together near the fire. Scamper is standing on his hind legs with his nose sniffing the air, a low growl coming from his throat as well.
“Scamper!” I order and point to the sprogs. “Keep them here.” I pluck a glowing branch out of the fire and stumble up the rise as fast as I can, being the last to join the group.
At the top of the small slope, I stand behind Helmar and Amil while I peer into the night. I suck in my breath at what I see between the wan moonlight and my feeble torch.
Enormous, dark, muscular bodies slink through the trees, wolflike heads hanging down, with froth drooling from pale tongues that jut between fearsome fangs. Their legs are lean but speak of power and flashing speed.
My head would barely reach their shoulder haunches, and their enormous teeth and jaws could break my leg bone with one savage bite.
With the dragons and Scamper, we are sixteen in number.
We face twice that many Vargs, perhaps more as it is hard to clearly mark how many slink between the trees. I can hear Alonya suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
“Something is amiss here,” she grinds out. “I’ve never seen a pack this large before. Rarely do they have more than five or six at a time.”
I can see Phigby and Master Boren flash each other an anxious glance, and I know that their unease isn’t just from facing the Vargs. Without voicing it, both, like me, are wondering if this is not Vay’s doing.
One beast stops pacing, his four eyes centered on our small group as if sizing up how best to attack us.
Helmar whispers to Alonya, “That one seems to be the pack leader, do you think you can reach him with your bow? At this distance, unless I get lucky and hit him in the eye, I’m not sure my arrow would do much harm on a brute that size.”
“Aye,” Amil mutters in a low tone, “kill that one and the pack will retreat long enough until a new dominant Varg emerges to lead the pack. It might give us time enough to get away.”
“What about the dragons?” I ask in a voice that rises a notch in tenor from the dread that courses through my body. “Can’t one of them just use its dragon fire and wipe out the whole lot?”
“They could,” Master Boren answers in a gruff, chastening voice. “But then we’d light up the whole sky and alert any watching eyes that there is at least one dragon in a land that doesn’t usually hold dragons.”
“Oh,” I answer in a meek voice thinking, dumb question, smart answer.
“Well, Alonya?” Phigby asks.
“I can easily split his throat from this distance,” she answers. “But what after? They will retreat for a surety, but for how long? For me, it will mean a run through the night for I do not think that it will take much time for a new leader to come forth, especially as they smell food to fill their empty bellies.”
Alonya turns to Master Boren and Phigby. “Skerwolves do not forget who slays them, and revenge will be on their minds. Once they have a new leader, they will be on my trai
l until they hunt me down, and I cannot outrace them to shelter and protection from here.”
She gives a little shrug while eyeing the forest. “You and your friends, of course, will be safe enough flying away on your dragons.”
“Skerwolves?” I whisper to Phigby.
“Another name for Vargs,” he explains. “Sker means ‘stone’ in Old Tongue, so naming them Skerwolves means that they are fashioned out of stone; hard in heart, mind, and body.”
He draws in a breath. “And hard to kill, too.”
I gesture toward the wolves. “Could one of those take down a dragon?”
“By itself?” Phigby answers. “No, but a pack this size could kill an adult dragon if it did not sky away or have any dragon fire left. The little sprogs wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Phigby,” I whisper and touch my tunic pocket meaningfully. “What if—”
He instantly shakes his head at me. “Not unless it’s the last recourse we have,” he murmurs.
He glances meaningfully at the Golian warrior. “The fewer that know of what you carry, the better, understood?”
I nod and turn back to gaze as the enormous wolves weave around the tree trunks, their glowing, red eyes never leaving us, never glancing to the right or to the left.
The dragon’s low growls and the Vargs’ snarls fill the night. “Helmar,” Boren orders, “hold the dragons, no dragon fire, not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Helmar rushes over to the four anxious beasts, muttering what I assume are calming words to them, but I have my doubts that they will stay that way if the Vargs come much closer.
“Can we wait them out till the morning?” Cara asks. “Maybe with daylight they will go away.”
“Vargs do not slink away with the coming of the sun,” Alonya answers, “especially when they hunger, and there is meat to be had.”
She gestures toward the Vargs. “So what is to be, Dragon Master? We cannot wait much longer if we are to strike first.”
Boren considers only a moment before he firmly asserts, “Alonya, we will not desert you. You granted us mercy, so if you must hasten through the night to escape these foul creatures, we will be there by your side.”