by GARY DARBY
I know they’ll hold their ground for a while, but eventually, they’ll tire, and there will come a point when their strength will desert them, and the Vargs will break through.
Alonya stands atop one of the shorter squarelike rocks, and her sword is a whir of motion as she swings and stabs at wolf bodies that are as large as her own.
Before I can yell out a warning, several Vargs come flying from the darkness and hit her squarely on the chest sending her sprawling on the ground. One wolf has her sword arm locked in its vicious fangs while two others have their jaws clamped on a leg.
Amil and Helmar jump to her defense and wade into the fray. Amil’s great ax rises and falls, and a wolf slumps over, its head almost severed from its body. Helmar’s savage thrust runs deep into a Varg’s meaty throat and the beast drops in its tracks.
Before Alonya can stand, several more Vargs spring over the squat, flat rock and she goes down again with two more wolves at her while Amil and Helmar battle their own enraged nemesis. The wolves’ snarls rise to a feverish crescendo, they know that the end is near, and the scent of death blood is in the air.
A sudden loud roaring causes me to snap my head around. More Vargs have broken through and are attacking the sapphires. Cara and Master Boren are slashing and thrusting at several Vargs which are trying to get at the three sapphires while the dragons themselves are using fang and talon to fight back.
Two Vargs come rushing at us, but one swipe from Golden Wind’s tail and they’re impaled on her tail spikes, breathing their last. The golden snaps her tail to one side as if it were a whip and the dead Vargs go flying off to smash into a group of frenzied wolves who are rushing toward the sapphires.
They go down in a heap of tangled legs and bodies which gives Rover and Glory a chance to rear up and bring their front talons down as if they were squashing roaches under their feet.
In this case, very big roaches.
It’s obvious to me that the Dragon Master is about to unleash the sapphires’ dragon fire in a final bid to save the company before they fall to the Vargs. A desperate decision, but he has no choice—more and more Vargs are closing in, their cruel eyes centered on their wounded prey.
I stare at the trees directly across from me. These aren’t Dragonhearts, they’re more like oaken trees only much larger than the ones around Draconstead.
My eyes narrow as I peer at the trees. “If she can do it, I can do it.”
“What did you say, Hooper?” the golden asks.
“I said, that if that witch of a Vay can do it, so can I. You go help the sapphires and Master Boren, I’m going for the trees.”
She eyes the trees. “How? There are Vargs between you and the forest.”
I point to a set of boulders, that look almost like stepping-stones and lead to the top of the tallest rock. “Up there. I’m going to jump. I should be able to land in the closest tree.”
She eyes the distance dubiously. “That’s a long leap for you. Are you sure?”
I perch a little unsteadily on her head. “No. Now lift me up as high as you can before I lose my nerve and then get over there and help the sapphires.”
She stretches her neck out and balancing precariously on her skull plate, I squat and then lunge outward. I manage to sprawl haphazardly on the closest tall rock, scrabbling for a better handhold.
As the golden spins away and charges at the howling wolf pack, I yell as loud as I can over the Vargs’ snarls, “Master Boren, wait! Don’t use the dragon fire just yet!”
He jerks his head up at my shout, but I don’t wait for his answer. I whirl around and scramble from one boxlike boulder to the next. Using hands, arms, and knees I climb up the craggy stone to its top. Breathing hard, I stand only to discover the rock’s high point is not level, but rounded and uneven.
On shaky legs, with my feet spread wide, I rise from my hunched-over position and peer behind me. The Vargs have squeezed everyone into a tiny semicircle. Step by step, the Vargs are slowly advancing, their growls a menacing rumble, their eyes narrow slits of blood-red as they push closer.
The dragons roar defiantly and the wolves answer with their own piercing growls and snarls. For the moment, the wolves are being held at bay, but it won’t last long.
Cara and the others have their backs to the rock wall, their swords held out, waiting for the Vargs’ death rush.
Master Boren peers up at me and places a hand on Wind Rover. I can see on his face that whatever it is I’m going to do, it’s now or never.
Gathering myself, I launch off the rock—and immediately wish I had wings. Instead of soaring like a dragon or bird, I fly as well as the stone pillar I just left.
My jump, though, is just enough that at the last instant, I reach out and grab onto a branch with both hands, only to find that my bad hand has let me down.
I lose my grip, doing a somersault in midair and hit another tree limb.
Hard.
The smaller shoots and leaves whip at my face, arms, and hands. I taste blood in my mouth. But to my great fortune, I’ve somehow managed to land belly first.
There’s a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach and dancing lights seem to twirl and spin before me, even though I’ve closed my eyes tight.
Abruptly, I realize that I’m sliding off the limb just as I hear savage snarls just below me. I open my eyes and wish I hadn’t.
A half-dozen Vargs are springing up and down, their jaws snapping just under my feet, and they’re so close that I can see the white foam drooling from their snarling black lips.
If I slip, a Varg will clamp its fearsome fangs on my foot or leg and drag me down to the ground where it and its pack mates will tear me apart.
One leaps up, its jaws snapping so close that I swear I feel wind at my ankles. I manage to scoot myself higher and glance down.
The Vargs appear to be fighting among themselves as to who gets to be the first to bring me down.
A sick feeling sweeps over me. Could a Varg climb the tree I’m in? Some of the branches sweep fairly close to the ground. I whip my head around thinking that I should get higher up but there’s nothing close that I can get a foothold on, and if I slip off this branch . . .
It’s now or never.
Steadying myself with my hand, I pull the gemstone out of my tunic, hold it high and cry out in a loud voice, “Vald Hitta Sasi Ein! Power Comes to this One!”
I all but stab the gem into the tree limb. I feel power surge through my body, and then an intense, bright light like an emerald wave explodes outward from the jewel and washes over everything in its path.
I hold the dragon gem tight against the rough bark for several heartbeats before I feel the tree shudder as if it’s coming awake from a long and deep sleep.
The trees are swaying, rustling back and forth. I can hear a creaking groan from deep within the wood. Tree limbs shiver and rattle as if some giant hand is shaking the tree’s trunk sending tremors all the way from the roots to the tallest branches.
There’s a wrenching sound as if the ground below is splitting apart. I glance down, and my mouth hangs open.
The trees are walking.
Well, walking isn’t exactly the right word. It’s more like the trees are gliding over the ground like when you slide across a frozen pond. The Vargs that were at the tree’s base spring away in fear and try to flee, but it’s too late.
The first line of trees bend over until their treetops are just above the wolves. Snaky limbs spew out and wrap themselves around the wolves’ giant bodies. Then, like a catapult, the trees flip upright, snatching the Vargs off the ground and sending them arcing high over the treetops and into the distance.
I hold on tight to the swaying, weaving branch, thinking that if riding the golden at a gallop was bad, this is going to be even worse.
Another tree seizes two wolves and begins to smash them together repeatedly as if it were pounding two rocks together until the Vargs are limp and lifeless before the tree sends them flying through th
e air.
Off to one side, one tree has a wolf ensnared in its branches while next to it another tree has a wolf grasped tightly as well. The two trees whirl as if they were spinning tops and smash the two Vargs together. Wolf blood sprays over limb and leaf before they too go sailing overhead.
Still another tree catches a fleeing Varg with a sinewy branch, tosses the Varg straight up into the air before it catches it on the way down before it hits the ground. It does the same thing again, only the Varg goes even higher. Twice more the Varg sails higher and higher into the air.
Only, on the last throw, instead of catching the whimpering Varg, the tree lets it smash into the stone barrier. The dead body lies draped over the rock, blood dripping from its mouth. Almost casually, the tree glides over, picks up the slain wolf and flings it through the air.
More and more trees seize the wild beasts who are now running every which way to escape, but it’s a futile effort. Within moments, it seems like the air is full of skying wolves, only they don’t have wings, and when they land, it’s not gentle.
The remaining wolves are yelping, snarling, growling in a frenzied attempt to flee, but a ring of tree trunks hem them into a tight circle. Each meets the same fate; a sinewy limb whips out from the shimmering green light, seizes the brute and sends it soaring over the treetops.
It’s not long before the last wolf is a dark speck sailing over the trees into the distance. I let out a deep breath and let a satisfied smile play across my face.
“They may be sleek and fast in the forest,” I mutter to myself, “but they’re pretty clumsy at skying and they really have to work on their landings.”
The trees gather themselves and slip back to where they were before their incredible feat started. Roots jab themselves deep into the soil and within moments, the oaken trees and the forest grow quiet again.
Slipping the emerald back into my tunic pocket, I slowly clamber down from my life-saving limb. I hurry over to where the others are, who, for the most part, lean up against the cliff face, breathless from their fight to the death.
The golden and the sapphires swing their heads from side to side, surveying the forest to see if any more Vargs will dart out from the gloom.
Scamper sticks his head up over the golden’s carapace and chitters at me, telling me that he’s alive and well.
Smiling, I give him a quick wave and hurry over to where Cara is bent over, using her sword to prop herself up. “Cara,” I ask anxiously, “are you all right?”
Gasping for breath, she doesn’t answer but raises a hand telling me that except for needing to breathe, she’s fine.
Helmar straightens from his hunched-over position and waves me off, letting me know that he too hasn’t suffered any serious wounds.
I hear a rustling of clothing and turn to find Phigby kneeling beside Alonya, who has slumped to the ground. “M’lady,” he says, “you bear the deepest wounds among us; let me look after you first.”
She starts to object, pointing and staring at me with round, questioning eyes. “What is he? A sorceror of some kind?”
“No,” Phigby curtly answers, “after we’ve tended to our injuries, we’ll have Hooper explain all. Now, quit moving around so I can get to these wounds.”
Alonya settles back but her eyes are narrow and sharp as she peers at me. “I’ll wait, but after what my eyes witnessed, I think that the tale you wove earlier will pale in comparison to what he has to say.”
9
Wiping blood and sweat away from his forehead, Amil coughs, “Another moment, and either we’d all be inside some Varg’s stomach or Master Boren would have had to light up the night sky with a torrent of dragon fire. Then, we’d have the Wilders on top of us for sure.”
A broad smile crosses his face. “There were too many even for me to handle.”
The big man lays a beefy hand on my shoulder. “I have no idea how you sent those Vargs flying, but you have my gratitude.”
“And mine,” Phigby says over his shoulder.
“Aye,” Amil returns and his grin widens. “I cannot wait until I tell my fellow Travelers this tale at the Wanderer’s Inn. Trees moving as if they had legs, branches acting like hands to pick up those wolves and fling them through the sky.
“They may not believe me at first,” he growls while he hefts his ax and shakes it, “but I’ll make them believe.”
He stops, cocks his head to one side with a puzzled expression and demands, “Hold on, what am I saying? Just how did you do that?”
Before I can answer, he laughs again and claps my shoulder hard. “Never mind. If I had my doubts before, I don’t now, Gem Guardian.”
He turns away, still chuckling to himself, “Skying wolves . . .”
Master Boren gives me an odd look as if he can’t make up his mind to thank me or not. As it is, he says nothing but turns to his dragons, crooning softly to them.
I’m left with Helmar and Cara. Helmar gives me a begrudging shrug and mutters, “And I will add my thanks to Amil’s.”
With that, he turns to the wolf carcasses and begins pulling arrows out of dead bodies to reclaim as many bolts as he can for his quiver.
Cara stands gazing at me, a hesitant expression on her face. Finally, she says, “What happened to you? We went back to search, but we couldn’t find you or the golden. Then those devil dogs closed in on us, and we had to give up the search.”
For an instant, there is an expression of concern on her face. “I thought that they might have found you first.”
“Uh, no,” I mumble in return. “I sort of took a wrong turn and got lost. I heard the fighting and came as fast as I could to help.”
She starts to reach out as if to place her hand on my arm, but then abruptly changes her mind. “Well, wrong turn or not, thank you for what you did. If you hadn’t, Amil’s right, Father would have used dragon fire on the wolves, and if those beasts hadn’t got us, it wouldn’t have been long before the Wilders were overhead.”
“You’re welcome,” I mumble.
She starts to move away, and I hastily stop her. “Cara.”
She turns back to me. “Yes, Hooper?”
I bite on my lip. “Uh, I’m really glad that you—and the others are all right.”
She gives me a little smile, hesitates and then gestures toward where Helmar is collecting arrows and Amil is checking to make sure that the Vargs are indeed dead. “I need to help Helmar gather arrows.”
She turns and makes her way next to Helmar. I let out a long sigh. Cara spoke to me. She actually talked to me without those flashing eyes that match her fiery hair or with a growl in her voice.
If fighting a pack of Vargs was what it was going to take to get her to notice me in a nice way, then bring on another pack of Vargs.
Actually, that isn’t entirely true, I’ve had my fill of giant wolves for one lifetime, but still, it just shows how far I’m willing to go to get the girl of my dreams back in my life, even for a brief moment.
I glance over at the golden and give her a questioning look. She gives me a tiny nod indicating that no harm has come to her either.
Hobbling over to where Alonya sits with her back against the overhanging rock wall, I stand close by in case Phigby needs help.
Alonya’s lips are closed tight and one hand clenches her forearm where blood runs freely down the arm to drip onto the ground. More of her life fluid stains her leg and Phigby has his ever present bag close as he pulls bandages and jars of medicine out to tend to her wounds.
I shuffle closer and mutter, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You!” Alonya snaps. “What magic did you wield that causes trees to move as if they had legs and hands with which to grasp the throats of Skerwolves in a death grip? How—”
“M’lady,” Phigby quickly interrupts, “I promised you a full accounting, and you shall have it, but not until we stop this bleeding, so please lie still and hold your questions for now.”
Alonya flicks her eyes toward Ph
igby and then back to me. Her expression is stern, whereas mine is hesitant, timid.
She lets out a long sigh. “Do what you must and then I will have my answers—but make no mistake, it is apparent that you haven’t told me everything, and before we take another step deeper into the domain I will have my answers.”
Phigby seems to ignore her irate grumblings and goes about rummaging in his bag before speaking to Alonya in a brisk voice, “We have no water to cleanse your wounds. And even if we did, we couldn’t chance a fire to boil up a healing potion.”
She waves a hand and through clenched teeth grinds out, “Get on with it and you’ll have my thanks.”
Phigby shoves a gray cloth into my hand. “Press this down on her leg wounds,” he orders. “Hard.”
I take one look at Alonya’s leg and grimace. A line of deep puncture marks starts just below her knee and go almost to her ankle. Each is oozing bright red blood that seeps down her leg and drips onto the fist-sized rocks underneath her foreleg.
I begin to pat at the gashes with the cloth when Alonya growls, “He said, press hard, not dab. The idea is to stop the bleeding, not wipe away the blood.”
“Sorry,” I mumble and push down firmly on several of the deeper puncture wounds while Phigby slathers a milky white salve, almost like butter, over Alonya’s wounded arm before bandaging it tightly.
I hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t dare turn. I’m afraid that if I do, Alonya might take a swing at me with her good arm, and that would mean Phigby would have more blood to deal with, and it wouldn’t be Alonya’s.
“The sprogs are missing, Hooper,” Master Boren announces in an accusing tone. “They’re not in the saddlebags. Where are they? Are they safe?”
I glance over at the golden, who’s sitting quietly. She doesn’t have a worried look on her face, nor has she bolted from the camp to find the sprogs.
Still pressing down on Alonya’s leg wounds, I twist my head around to face Master Boren. “Sir, I can assure you that they’re safe.”
“Well,” he demands, “where are they? Tell me and I’ll go after them.”