by GARY DARBY
We silently glide along, the dragons flapping their wings only occasionally to keep us level and straight. We sail a bit farther until Master Boren again has us turn to the right.
I look to the side and in the distance, I can easily see the giant edifice set in the grand plaza. We come abreast of it and again turn. Now we’re headed straight for Warrior Hall.
Even at this height, the building looks immense. A giant rectangular block set in the middle of a massive four-cornered square.
The spacious building and the plaza are beautiful, even awe-inspiring, but I know that somewhere in this elegant building, wickedness lurks, Vay’s evil seeping into what was once hallowed, sacred ground to all Golians.
I am sad for the Golians that they’ve allowed their great nation, by virtue of one person, perhaps more, to sink and slide into accepting nothing less than evil.
For a moment, I bring my head up to gaze at the ravaging fires in the distance. Innocents are dying, caught by dragon fire in their homes while they sleep.
I can’t help but wonder, why is it that when we accept evil into our lives, it seems as if it’s always the innocents who pay the price?
A wave from Master Boren catches my attention, the signal that we’re about to attack. I look down. We’re getting close to the grand square’s edge, gliding silently along.
From my position as the last in line, I call softly to Golden Wind, “Get ready, we’re going to dive straight down and then pull up at the last possible moment. Follow Master Boren and Wind Rover, do what she does.”
“Then I suggest you hold on tight,” she answers.
“Don’t worry,” I gulp as I grasp her horns tighter and squeeze my legs around her neck. “I am.”
Master Boren snaps his arm down. “Now!”
For two heartbeats, we glide smoothly on the air, the only sound the feathery rush of the wind’s passage over the golden’s leathery wings and the ruffling of my tunic.
Then, the golden gathers herself as she tucks her wings and points her scaled body straight down.
In an instant, the wind becomes a roar in my ears. Soon, the force becomes so great, it’s as if some unseen hand is pushing, shoving at my body, trying to pitch me off the dragon and leaving me to plummet to my death far below.
I hunker down even lower behind Golden Wind’s carapace so that the wind rushes over the top of me and not against my body.
Four dragons, lined in a row, plunge straight down at the city’s heart. I know no one can hear us at this height, but once we straighten out, we’ll be both heard and seen. If our plan doesn’t work, our flight will end in complete disaster, and we will pay with our lives.
Blinking back tears as the wind rips at my face, I can see the vast edifice centered in the enormous plaza as if it were a brick set upon marbled tile. I expected to see lights around the building and square, but there are none; it’s dim and subdued as if the enormous structure and plaza were trying to hide from the oncoming onslaught.
The ground is rushing upward, and my eyes are growing wider with each passing moment. “Almost there,” I mutter to myself, knowing that Golden Wind can’t hear me above the wind’s howl.
We pick up more speed, faster and faster we plunge. “A little farther,” I murmur. “Steady girl,” I say as if the golden can hear me, “get ready, we’re almost there.”
I’m holding my breath, gripping the golden’s horns as tight as I can. Then, Wind Rover opens her wings just a bit and instead of diving straight down, we’re now at a steep angle but still whooshing headlong toward the plaza’s marbled surface.
I can see dark figures surrounding the great hall. Amazos with bows drawn and arrows notched. If we do not maneuver perfectly, those arrows will find both dragon and Drach and skewer us in flight.
At the last possible instant, Wind Rover spreads her wings wide and darts to the right. Behind her, Wind Glory opens her wings, but she bursts to the left.
Wind Song flashes behind Glory, while, with a jaw-clenching turn, the golden follows Master Boren and Rover.
Like hounds chasing rabbits, we blaze around the great hall in flashing circles. The rush of air behind us is like a raging tempest that sends the Golians tumbling and rolling on the pavement.
The Amazos shout and bellow as they struggle to their feet. After the first pass, I call out to Golden Wind as a group of warriors comes loping into view, “Hit’em with your talons!”
Dutifully, she dangles her sharp hooks and clips the heads of the Golians who are trying to bring their bows to bear on the dragons as we flash past. The hard blow sends them spinning and whirling to crash into the building.
The Amazos are in disarray; some are yelling out orders or cursing their inability to find a target. We’re moving too fast for them to draw a bead on us, and we’re coming at them from different directions.
From one side, I see a solitary warrior sprinting toward the front stairs. “Desma!” I shout. “On the next go-around,” I order Golden Wind, “put me down on the steps, then get back up in the air and keep at it.”
We slice past the structure’s last sharp corner. Golden Wind cups her wings, and we come to a skidding halt on the steps.
Faster than I’ve ever moved before, I’m off the golden and stumbling up the stairs. Moments later, Cara, Phigby, and I join Desma, who’s waiting for us with sword drawn. She’s breathing heavily, but her eyes are alert though wary.
With a grunt, Desma opens the crafted oaken door until it slowly rumbles wide enough for us to squeeze through one at a time.
We take only a few paces inside the hall when Cara whispers, “The torches are lit, but why is it so dark?”
“Yes,” I mutter, “why is it so dark? It’s like the light is being pushed back inside the torches.”
Phigby holds out a hand to stop us. “We must be very cautious; this is an unnatural darkness. There are shadows within shadows here.”
From somewhere, Desma has acquired a bow. She slides her sword into its scabbard and notches an arrow.
None of us have weapons, and I can’t help but mutter, “What good is a bow or a sword against shadows?”
“Perhaps none,” Phigby murmurs back.
“What do we do?” Cara whispers.
“We keep going,” Desma declares, “and we stay close together.”
Cara turns to Desma. “Where are the guards? Are they hiding in the shadows?”
“Except for the two that are the queen’s attendants,” Desma answers, “the rest are outside.”
We scurry along on tiptoes, only the rustling of our clothes breaking the eerie silence that seems to have settled on the shadowy hall, like some great dark shroud that’s shutting out all light and sound.
I can barely make out the dais in the gloom, but it appears that the throne is empty, as is the hallway.
We stop at the foot of the podium, each of us breathing heavily, not so much from exertion as from the anxious feelings that the murky shades seem to foster in mind and spirit.
There is a dark weight here, pressing down as if it would crush the life from the living. From the unease I see in the other’s eyes, they must feel the overwhelming dread just as I do.
“What now?” Cara questions.
“Behind the throne,” Desma explains, “there’s a door that leads into the family residence.”
“That’s where that warrior took Scamper,” I state and look hopefully at Desma.
She shakes her head at me. “I’ve not seen him. I don’t know where she took him.”
We hurry around the podium and find a single Golian-sized door set in a wall frame. Desma makes a gesture for us to be quiet and gingerly pulls on the wooden door handle, drawing the door slowly open.
We tiptoe inside. It’s even darker, with one lone torchlight set high on the wall that shows us that we’re in a wide hallway that leads straight ahead.
Cascading down from where the wall meets ceiling are more of the elegant embroidered drapes that arched over the throne.
The exquisite linen barely touches the floor, which is more of the perfectly glazed ebony stone found in the great hall.
Desma points straight ahead and whispers, “This leads to the queen’s chambers.”
“The dungeon,” Cara whispers, “Fotina and Alonya. Shouldn’t we go there first?”
Desma nods and points to a narrow corridor off to the left. Before we take a step, from straight ahead, come shouts and the sound of blades ringing. Desma doesn’t hesitate but darts ahead.
She is through the door before we’ve moved more than a few steps. We rush forward though none of us has even a rock to throw, or a stout stick to use as a club. We push our way into the room and stop in horror.
On the floor are two Amazos, one dead from an arrow shaft that pierces her whole body through and through, the other from a slashing sword stroke that all but severs her head from her shoulders. A great pool of blood soak the sheepskins that blanket the floor.
We hear the sounds of a struggle in the next room and the loud thud of a body hitting the floor. We hurry past a large mahogany table that’s turned on end, past chairs that are splintered in pieces and skid to a halt.
On the floor, Desma is battling her mother while off to one side, Fotina lies lifeless on the floor and Alonya is bound tightly to a high-backed chair.
Queen Gru has a sword gripped in both hands and is straining to push the sword point into Desma’s face.
The princess has both hands wrapped around her mother’s wrists, pushing upward with all her might to stop the sword from plunging into her skull. There is less than a finger’s width between sword point and flesh.
“Mother,” Desma gurgles in a pleading voice, “stop! Why are you doing this?”
“There is going to be only one queen,” Gru grinds out between clenched jaws. “Only one—me!”
Cara is faster than Phigby or I, and before we can move, she’s sprinting forward. Desma’s sword is lying on the floor, off to one side. She manages to lift it with both hands, whirls around and puts the sword tip straight against Gru’s face.
“I may be small, Your Majesty,” she states in a cold, steady voice, “but unless you stop, you’ll be using that Queen Sight of yours with only one eye.”
29
Scowling as dark as an approaching thunderhead, Gru lifts the sword slightly from Desma’s throat. “Silly child,” she hisses at Cara, “do you know just who it is that you point that blade?”
“From what I saw in the other room and here,” Cara coldly answers, “it would appear a murderess.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Phigby slip away. No! I think to myself, not now! It’s definitely not the time to go look for some dirty laundry. Nevertheless, he disappears into a side room leaving Cara and me to confront a crazed Gru.
Cara waves the thick blade in front of Gru’s strawberry-colored nose. “Now, lower your sword and let your daughter go or so help me, I will run you through.”
Gru stares at Cara and abruptly starts laughing, which to me sounds more like a screech than an actual laugh. She throws her head back while snickering, “Daughter? This poor excuse for a Golian warrior, my daughter?”
“Yes,” Cara answers in a throaty growl. “Now, put your blade on the floor, get off Desma, and go over there and untie your other daughter.”
Gru chortles again, and sniggering to herself puts her sword down. With the sword still at her head, she slowly slides off Desma.
Once she’s free, Desma rolls away and springs to her feet. She reaches out, and Cara slips her the sword. Gru sits on the floor, shaking her head, giggling, and pointing at Alonya. “You think that ungainly, ugly thing is my daughter, too?”
Not answering, Cara and I run over to Alonya. I keep one eye on Gru as together we start untying our Golian friend.
Gru gives one last chuckle, glances at Desma and Alonya, and then she whips up her hand as if it were a striking viper, and her sword flashes through the air.
At the last instant, I push Cara aside, and the sword impales itself in the chair, next to Alonya’s head.
My sudden blow sends Cara spinning backward and she lands with a hard thud against an overturned hardwood table.
Faster than I can imagine for an old woman, Gru is on her feet. She jerks her hand as if she were pulling on some unseen object. The sword splinters the chair, but an instant later is back in her hand.
Desma is caught off guard, and Gru brings a crushing blow down that sends Desma stumbling backward, tripping over a fallen chair. She goes down hard, her head hitting the floor with a thud that sounds just like when someone drops a melon to the floor, and it splits wide open.
Desma lies sprawled on the floor, unmoving as Gru spins around and lunges toward Cara. “No one points a sword at me and lives,” she hisses.
Without thinking, I dive and grab a double handful of Gru’s purple cape. Now, me pulling on a Golian’s cloak to bring her down is like the sprogs trying to lift Golden Wind off the ground with their little wings.
It’s just not going to happen.
But for a moment it gets her attention, sort of like a stinging mosquito gets your notice until you squash the thing.
Gru swings her sword at me.
At the last instant, I jerk back and let go of the cape. The blade’s edge comes so close that I can feel the air swish across my face. But my little exploit gives Cara time to leap to her feet.
Gru starts after me, and I’m backpedaling as fast as I can when abruptly she whirls around at a new sound. Desma is desperately sawing at Alonya’s tightly bound cords.
“Desma, look out!” I yell. She jerks around just in time to bring her sword up and parries Gru’s vicious slash.
The clanging of giant sword on giant blade rings through the room, echoing off walls and floor. Gru’s savage blow sends Desma staggering backward, leaving Alonya defenseless.
She starts for Alonya, her crazed eyes filled with bloodlust. Cara flashes by me and leaps into the air. She grabs Gru’s huge sword arm, wrapping both arms around it. Gru’s eyes spring wide in surprise and anger.
Cara’s out of her mind! I think to myself even as I hobble across the room and jump up to latch onto Gru’s arm, too.
Gru tries to shake us off as a horse jiggles his head to rid itself of flies, but somehow we both hold on. From Gru’s hard jerks my head snaps back and forth, and I see stars swirling around me.
Then she brings her arm back and starts to sweep it toward a large table. “Let go!” I yell to Cara just before we hit the back-breaking table edge. We fall to the floor, tumbling underneath the table.
Cara and I land in a heap, tangled together on the floor, with me on top. For a moment, Cara has her eyes closed and my heart thumps as I’m afraid she’s badly hurt.
Then her eyes flutter open, I swallow and ask, “Are you all right?”
She nods slightly, and her hand goes to the back of her skull. “Hit my head, that’s all.” She looks around. “We need to get back in the fight, they need our help.”
I can’t help myself, in that instant, I’m lost in her eyes, her hair; her lips. Right now, I could not care less about what happens between Gru and her daughters, or the rest of the world for that matter.
“Hooper!” Cara snaps.
“Oh, right,” I answer and roll off to one side. Cara scoots one way, and I push myself the opposite way.
Desma and Gru are locked together, only this time Gru has Desma bent almost double over a splintered chair. Gru is slowly driving her sword down at Desma’s head. Desma’s and my eyes meet, and she gurgles, “Alonya.”
I spin around to see Alonya furiously fighting against her cords. Cara dashes around from the table’s other side and together we rush over to Alonya.
Cara’s found a long knife from somewhere, and I pick up a piece of broken vase to saw through Alonya’s thick bindings.
At a loud crash, we both glance over. Desma is on the floor, her eyes closed, lying still and lifeless. Gru holds her sword high over Desma’
s unmoving body, ready to send a death stroke into her.
Cara screams, “No!” dives away and plunges her knife into Gru’s leg. Gru shrieks, and whirls on Cara. With a grimace, the crazed queen reaches down and yanks the knife out and then stabs it into the wall, snapping the blade in half.
Gru advances on Cara, who backs away with Gru’s sword point aimed right at her heart. “So, little girl,” Gru snarls, “no sword, no knife, where’s your impudence and bluster now?”
I pick up a piece of broken chair leg and put myself between Cara and Gru, holding my stubby piece of carved wood out as if I would deflect her giant sword. “Get away from her!” I shout.
Gru stops, and a sneer lifts her face in ugly contortions. With a haughty laugh, she mocks, “And just what do you propose to do, Hooper Menvoran?”
My mouth sags open, and I take a step back, pulling Cara with me. Gru’s face becomes dark and shadowy.
She leers at the two of us. “Oh, yes, Hooper Menvoran, I know exactly who you are, and I know what you can do with what’s in your tunic.”
She throws her head back. Her laugh is like a giant crow’s cackle. It rushes through the room as if it had a life of its own, penetrating every nook and corner. She glares at me, her eyes like fiery coals in the gloom.
“But in this hall of granite and marble, it will do you absolutely no good. There is no greenery here for you to work your magic upon.”
She chortles loudly. “You are nothing here, Hooper. Just as you’ve always been but a broken bit of maimed, ugly flesh. Good only for the dung heap of life.”
“No!” I shriek and tear the dragon jewel from my breast pocket. I thrust it aloft and shout, “Vald Hitta Sasi Ein! Power Comes to this One!”
Absolutely nothing happens.
The witch stands with an amused expression, gazing around at the room. “I’m sorry,” Gru sneers, “were you expecting something to occur? Maybe some enormous oak tree to come gliding through the doorway to your rescue?”
Gru leans close, her sneer turns to a forbidding scowl, her eyes from glowing embers into ice, cold and hard with pure fury. “Or maybe the shield of an emerald dragon, perhaps?”