by GARY DARBY
Phigby shakes his head at Amil. “He didn’t say. I suspect that he gave Wind Glory her head, and somehow she found her way through the hills and mountains.”
He gazes over at the dragons and muses, “Perhaps she knew where to look because of the other dragons.”
Pulling at his beard, he softly says, “Sometimes I think that they can talk to each other, even over great distances.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if they could speak to us,” Amil jests, “think of the stories we could share. Maybe they could teach us how to fly.”
I cringe a bit and lower my eyes at Amil’s comment about dragons talking to Drachs. If he only knew how close he was to the truth.
“Perhaps so,” Phigby replies. “But not just stories, Amil. Dragons live long, long lives—think of all the lessons that they could teach us, an accumulation of experiences that would take generation upon generation of our lives to collect. And if they were able to pass along their experiences to each other . . .”
He draws in a deep breath. “What amazing wisdom and insight they could accumulate over their lifetime.”
I sneak a peek at Phigby, but he’s not staring at me, his eyes are on the fire as if he’s deep in thought. No one speaks until Amil mutters, “So Helmar’s lucky dragon canceled out the Wilder’s lucky shot.”
Phigby again peers toward the resting dragons, clustered together near the hollow’s opening. “Did luck have anything to do with Wind Glory finding her way here?” he asks.
The fire casts both light and shadow across his face as he murmurs, “In all honesty, I’m not so sure that it did.”
“Will he be all right?” I ask.
“Yes, I think so,” Phigby returns and then chuckles. “The wound is deep but not as deep as his anger for taking a second Wilder arrow almost in the same spot as the first.”
With that, and a little food in our bellies, everyone begins to find places to sleep. Phigby moves a bit away from the fire and tosses his bag down to act as a pillow.
I follow him and seeing that everyone has settled down with their eyes closed, lean and whisper, “Phigby, Alonya, and Desma, how is it—”
His hand is like a blur as he pulls the front of my tunic down so that his lips are against my ear. “Not now, Hooper,” he hoarsely whispers. “That is one pot that definitely does not need stirring right now, so go to sleep.”
With that, he lets go of my tunic, puts his head down on his haversack and purposefully turns his back to me. I get the message and stand, my lips pinched together in frustration.
Except for the two sets of Golian guards who stand vigilant near the grotto opening, everyone’s eyes are closed, so I wander over into the darkness of the alcove and put my back against the golden’s front leg and slide down.
She and I are shielded from everyone’s view by Wind Glory and Wind Song so she swings her face close to mine. I whisper, “Alonya, and Desma, they’re—”
“Twins,” she murmurs. “I know.”
“But, how—”
“Now is not the time for questions, Hooper, nor answers. Now is the time for sleep. The answers will come soon enough, and when they do, the kettle will most certainly boil over so take advantage of this quiet time and get some rest.”
I shake my head at her. “You and Phigby and your pots being stirred or boiling or whatever. I think you two are in a conspiracy together and only answer my questions when you feel like it.”
She gives me a little smile before laying her head down and closing her eyes. I grumble to myself, “They know something, but will they share it with me? No. I may be the Gem Guardian, but I’m still just Hooper.”
Knowing there’s nothing else I can do, I lean back and close my eyes. I’m as tired as I thought I was and even though murderess Mori doze nearby, sleep easily finds me.
With the day dawn, I’m already awake, Scamper having woken me when he took it upon himself to search my pockets for food. Finding none, he darts between several Golian legs and makes for the stream to try his luck at fishing or perhaps finding a water bug or two.
Alonya, who is awake too, lets her lips curl up in a tiny smile as she watches him gallop away. “That one seems to think of nothing but food.”
“Oh, not just food,” I explain. “He also thinks about sleeping, but between those two I’m not quite sure which is more important to him. Food, most likely.”
She nods in answer and turns, and I follow her gaze to see that Phigby is tending to Desma. Fotina and Krista stand to one side, but most of my view of the princess is blocked by the bulky bodies of several Amazos.
I lean close to Alonya and murmur, “Desma?”
Alonya whispers back, “Fotina says that she breathes normally now, though her body is weak from the fever and the spasms that shook her through the night.”
“She’s cured?”
Alonya shrugs while saying, “Cured enough to be giving orders and having her warriors obey her. From what I can see, that’s all the healing she needs or wants.”
Hearing the hostility in Alonya’s voice, I decide to shuffle over to see for myself.
Desma is awake and muttering something to Phigby. He nods at her words before pouring some reddish-appearing crystals into a water skin and has her drink deeply.
When she’s finished, Phigby lifts his eyes up to Krista. “She is cleansed of the poison, but very weak. Walking is out of the question. She will need to be carried.”
Krista points to our dragons. “They should be able to carry her.”
Phigby hesitates before he sees me standing off to one side. I barely shake my head from side to side. I do not want to expose the Voxtyrmen, nor do I want to use its waning powers on building a litter for someone who’s threatened to kill our company.
“No,” he gruffly answers, “one dragon alone does not have the strength to carry her as we ride, nor do we have the means to contrive a litter for a dragon to drag her. You will have to devise something yourself.”
Krista’s face darkens in anger, but before she can speak, Desma lifts a hand and in a gravelly voice says, “Krista sent a runner to South Pass last night. The garrison there will send a litter and more Amazos.
“Besides, I would not ride on the backs of one of those foul beasts even if they could transport me. In the meantime, Krista, have your strongest warriors carry me.”
“But, princess,” Krista protests, “perhaps you should wait here until a proper litter arrives.”
“No,” Desma rasps. “We push on to South Pass before the Wilders can return with even more of their scum.”
Just then, a Golian dashes back into the grotto and whispers to Krista. Krista’s head jerks back and she turns to Desma. “Scarlet dragons, princess, in the distance.”
“We go!” Desma orders. “The Wilders grow bold and encroach upon our lands, but we don’t have the force to hold them off here.”
Clutching his bag, Phigby says, “Not just bold, my lady, but more confident. After all, this land has seen the Wilders once before, long ago.”
“You speak as if you think they would dare attack the domain,” Desma counters in a disbelieving and harsh tone.
Phigby pushes himself to his feet without answering, gives her a small bow of the head and strides away. I think I know why he’s unwilling to respond to Desma’s claim.
There is only one reason the Wilders would attack Golian—they want Golden Wind. Moreover, it is we that have brought the golden here and with it, peril to Desma’s people.
If the Wilders attack, would the Golians mark us as bearing the responsibility for the deaths and carnage that would ensue? And if so, what would that mean to us?
I turn aside those thoughts for they are too grim to contemplate. Even this small contingent of Amazos would be more than enough to bring swift death to the lot of us.
Phigby stops and kneels next to Helmar, checking his bandages. I’m glad to see that Helmar is awake and that his bandage doesn’t bear any blood stains. Phigby nods in satisfaction whi
le saying, “The wound is clean, and there’s little blood loss.”
He turns to Fotina and asks, “Once we’re out in the open, can one of you hand him up to Amil?”
Without a word, Alonya scoops Helmar up and with us trailing along with the dragons we scurry outside, making ready to march away before the Wilders discover us.
After setting Helmar in front of Amil on Wind Glory, I hear Alonya quietly say, “Phigby, I would hear your response to Desma. Do you actually think the Wilders will mount a full-scale attack on Golian as they did in the days of Malonda Kur?”
Phigby glances over, and I follow his gaze. The Amazos are filing out of the grotto, with Desma being carried by two of the stouter warriors. Krista and our guards wait, eyeing us, obviously making sure that we don’t try to escape.
I can see that he is very hesitant to answer, perhaps thinking his response may offend or be critical of Golian.
“What I believe,” he begins in a deep undertone that I have to strain to hear, “is that the Wilders will continue to conduct incursions into Golian. Most likely to scout your defenses, test your strengths, determine your weaknesses—”
“Until they have what information they need,” Fotina mutters, “to bring their main forces to bear.”
“Wait,” I whisper, daring to interrupt the discussion. “Phigby, I thought you said that there were only a few ways to enter into Golian, that the mountain heights protected them for the most part from an invasion.”
“And he would be right,” Fontina affirms. “However, do not forget that we have a long coastline to defend as well.”
“The Sung Dar,” Amil states. “If they and the Wilders have an alliance—”
“They could easily split our forces,” Fotina interjects, “leaving us vulnerable in either direction.”
I glance over at the Amazos who are beginning to move in our direction. “I think we’ve caught the eye of our guards.”
“Yes,” Phigby acknowledges as his own eyes catch the guards’ movement. “I suggest we take this up at a later time.”
Krista strides up to us. “Move,” she orders.
In short order, we are on the march. We leave the stream after following it for only a little while and strike out on a side trail that climbs through a sharp, narrow valley that leads us higher into the forbidding heights.
The further we climb, the more the mountains appear like immense granite walls, broken here and there, as if some angry god had taken a gigantic sword and split the mountains, leaving great slashes in the stone ramparts.
The sun nears midmorning when there is a shout from the column’s head. I glance up to see another phalanx of Golian warriors come boiling over a rounded ridge, running almost full speed toward us.
My first thought is to take flight as it appears as if there was some danger ahead from which even a Golian would flee.
Leading the Golians is a warrior wearing a shiny, silver metal helmet that covers her ears and the back of her neck, but stops at her forehead, leaving her with an open face. On the helmet’s ridged top is a bright red plumage that bounces as she runs.
She brings her phalanx to a halt, and it’s then that I notice that four warriors carry a makeshift litter chair between them. The high-backed chair’s cherry wood is polished to a bright sheen and purple cushions are tied to the seat and back.
At the leader’s command, each warrior kneels on one knee while she snaps her sword up in tribute and then goes to a knee as well.
The warriors who’ve carried Desma gently set her in the chair after which the princess crisply orders, “Rise.”
The kneeling warriors snap to attention as the plumed leader sheathes her sword and places herself in front of Desma. “Princess, I bear a message from the queen.”
Desma settles herself more comfortably in the chair and snaps, “Go on, the message?”
“Queen Gru bids you not to tarry at South Pass longer than necessary and to join her quickly in Warrior Hall.”
Desma nods in answer. “And I shan’t. But tell me, did the garrison commander send word to my mother of the Wilders’ latest incursions along our borders?”
“Yes, princess,” the Amazos officer reports. “As soon as your runner reported all that had happened, we sent a fresh runner to Dronopolis. She shall deliver your message to the queen, not only of your wounds, but that the filthy ones have encroached deeper into our lands.”
“Excellent,” Desma applauds. “Now, let us go and we do not stop.”
Within moments, we again ascend through yet another mountain pass. As we reach the crest, Fotina, who has been walking alongside the golden and Alonya, draws a sharp breath. “What is it?” Alonya sharply asks.
Fotina motions ahead. In the far distance, there is a great rip in the Golians’ mountain bulwark as if some colossal earthquake had split the mountains asunder. On each side, the mountains soar so high that clouds seemingly cannot reach their tops.
“South Pass,” she mutters, “and beyond, the way into Dronopolis.”
For an instant, her stern warrior exterior melts away, and I can see her eyes glisten. “This is not how I planned your—”
She stops, gathers herself. “I cannot protect you from what lies beyond. You must be strong, in mind, body, and spirit. I have taken you as far as I can. Once at the garrison and especially if we continue to Dronopolis, events will be totally out of my hands.”
Alonya nods slowly and whispers, “I understand, Fotina.”
Moments later, Krista drops back, and briskly says to Alonya, “The princess would speak with you.”
Alonya nods and starts to move forward but Krista puts a hand out to stop her. “Your weapons.”
Alonya shrugs and hands over bow, sword, shield and ankle knife. With that, she lopes ahead to come abreast of Desma’s litter.
Fotina moves too until she is just behind the last of Desma’s guard. I can see her lean forward as if she would hear what the two are discussing but I think she’s too far back to hear well.
I’d like to know too so I lean toward Phigby to jokingly whisper, “Phigby, turn me into a midge fly so that I could flit up there and hear what they’re discussing. I think it would be a very interesting conversation to eavesdrop on.”
Cara glances my way, but doesn’t speak, which surprises me as I thought she’d say something like, “Not a fly, Phigby, more like a Dung Beetle, it’d be more appropriate.”
Phigby peers over Cara’s shoulder and nods to himself. “Yes,” he murmurs, “I suspect it would be a most fascinating conversation, at that.”
He gives me a little smile. “We’ll save turning you into a midge fly for a more suitable time.”
His response causes my eyebrows to go up just a little as I’m not sure if what he said was in jest or he really meant it.
After a bit, Alonya drops back and retrieves her weapons before Fotina takes her off to one side, and the two engage in a quiet, but earnest conversation.
Cara nods toward the two and lightly says, “Phigby, now’s the time to change Hooper into a fly.”
There’s no doubt she means what she says and would love to see me buzzing around so that she could give me a swat for good measure. I give her a little smile, but Phigby only grunts and peers ahead as if lost in thought.
We climb a bit higher toward a crest, where at this height, the air is thin and becoming even more so the farther we climb.
I have to breathe more deeply, faster with each breath. I begin to understand why no Wilder dragon army would dare try to venture over the towering peaks.
We hike up one final rocky knoll and spread out below as if it were a dam between two giant mountains holding back a gray, dirty river is the garrison at South Pass.
I glance over at Fotina. Her face holds an expression of dread but something else too. A look that says that she and Alonya are confronting the inevitable that she had tried to hold off for as long as possible.
Now it’s here, and she and Alonya are facing it but not on
their terms but rather at the hands of a ruthless queen and her equally cruel daughter.
21
My gaze is intense as I peer at what lies across the narrow, jagged valley. It’s a replica of the Golians’ great Colosseun Barrier though quite a bit smaller, complete with giant stone statues of Amazos that stretch across the gorge. I can’t help the feeling that once we pass through the gates, we won’t be coming back.
Once down the hill, we march toward large, thick wooden doors set in the wall’s base that swing open as we approach. Inside is nothing but darkness and for a moment a feeling of dread settles on me as I can’t help but wonder what we might find once we move through the darkness to the other side.
None of the others in the company voice any fear so I hold my tongue though I have to quell a sudden urge to shout out some sort of warning—but warning them of what? Not to go into the tunnel’s darkness? Watch out for what could be on the other side?
However, Master Boren is our leader, and he hasn’t slowed Wind Rover down or signaled for any of us to be extra cautious and alert so who am I to usurp his authority?
I’m not the leader of this company, nor will I ever be. So I sit back and keep my own wary eyes out.
Just before we enter the opening, I crane my neck all the way back and stare skyward at the huge stone warriors. They seem to soar so high that the tops of their heads scrape against the passing clouds that sweep overhead.
“Impressive, aren’t they?” Phigby asks. Cara stops Wind Song so that they can stare upward as well.
“And I thought Alonya was big,” I answer, “but these . . .” My voice trails off as I gaze upward in awe.
“Just be glad she isn’t as large,” Phigby chuckles. “Can you imagine trying to drag one of these on a litter?”
“Only with a hundred goldens or more,” I declare. “But then again, I bet no Wilder would ever dare attack the Golians if they were all this size.”
Phigby gets an odd expression on his face as he stares upward at the stone giants again, and murmurs, “Now, there’s a thought.”