by GARY DARBY
I hold the talisman in my hand, marveling at the exquisite carving of twin swords in the middle against a silver shield and surrounded by miniature warriors holding aloft bows aimed skywards.
Around the edges, etched in gold are the words DUTY — HONOR — COURAGE.
Phigby leans over to murmur, “From the dung heap to the top of the heap, eh, Hooper?”
I nod and give him a tiny smile of acknowledgment. Then he looks me in the eye with an intensity that holds me in place. “You realize, Hooper, by agreeing to take that amulet, you also accept the values that bind the House of Escher and are imprinted on the amulet. Powerful words, Hooper, for a people who will accept nothing less than your fidelity to those principles.”
I glance up at Alonya, who gazes at me expectantly. “I understand, Your Majesty, and I would consider it a great honor to be a part of your family.”
She gives me a little head bow and a pleased look crosses her face. A warm feeling seems to spread from my heart to the very end of my fingers and toes.
Queen Alonya then says, “It is our custom that when we are raised to be Amazos that we name the sword that we shall carry henceforth.”
She gestures at the emerald sword. “As you are now a warrior of Golian, what would you call yours?”
I hold the sword out, and I can’t help but stare at its soft luminance as if an emerald-like fire burns within the blade. My mouth works as if to find a suitable name, one that would truly describe the wondrous and great sword but none comes to mind.
“May I suggest a name?” Phigby softly asks.
“Please, Phigby, I seem to be at a loss.”
“Galondraig,” he answers.
“Galondraig?” Amil murmurs. “Sounds Gaelian.”
“It is,” Phigby answers. “In the Old Tongue, it means, From Fire and Tears.”
“Galondraig,” I murmur.
“Yes,” I answer, “that’s what it shall be called. A sword from Fire and Tears.”
I sheathe Galondraig, exchange a tiny smile with Cara and together with Phigby walk over to the knoll’s edge where the golden sits.
Together, we gaze into the distance where Dronopolis burns. After a bit, Phigby turns to me. “So, Hooper Menvoran of the House of Escher, tell me, do you still hate all dragons?”
I glance up at the golden who returns my gaze with questioning eyes. From out of nowhere, the four sprogs and Scamper come running. The sprogs cluster around my legs, butting their heads against my knees. I kneel down and scratch each under the chin.
I straighten and lay a gentle hand on Golden Wind’s neck scales. “Hate?” I return while meeting her eyes. “How do you hate a friend?”
Cara steps close and murmurs, “Is that how you honestly feel, Hooper?”
I nod and softly answer, “It is.”
Golden Wind lowers her head, and I run a gentle hand over her muzzle. She doesn’t speak, but I can see in her misty eyes the words, Thank you, Hooper.
I know that though I can’t ever forget the awful night that my family died, but from this point forward, I truly, truly hope the pain won’t be so deep, nor the anguish so long.
Moreover, the cooling breezes of understanding and acceptance are extinguishing the flames of unjust hatred. From Pengillstorr’s gift of the heart, my own heart is beginning to heal.
After all, don’t all hearts go on a journey through life, some to break, some to pine and mourn, some to wither from pride, and some to swell with happiness and joy?
More so, for me, don’t some eventually heal from heartbreak?
Queen Alonya, Princess Desma, Amil, and Helmar join us to gaze into the distance. Wind Song and Wind Glory come to stand beside Golden Wind, all of us knowing the comradeship of tested warriors in combat and all of us tasting the bitter sorrow of lost comrades.
The fires of Dronopolis still rage, the Wilders will most likely return and Vay’s evil desire to possess the golden and establish her evil reign over our world is still with us.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Nevertheless, for now, I’m surrounded by my comrades, my . . . Friends.
And that is good enough for me.
The End
Thank you for reading The Queen’s Vow. Please take a moment to leave a review on Amazon. Your review is very much appreciated.
The Legend of Hooper’s Dragons continues in Book 3 On Wings of Thunder.
1
Dronopolis burns.
We, the Company of the Golden Dragon are not just the pursued—the hunted as we were just a few days ago. No, now we are a dirty, ragged, beleaguered and embattled group that faces Vay’s forces who appear to grow bolder, stronger, and more powerful with each passing day. While we, it appears, grow weaker as we have lost two of our valiant members, Master Boren and Wind Rover, who died in the battle for Dronopolis.
Our mood, it seems, is that we face a dire future where we may lose still more.
Today we live, though tomorrow may see the vultures picking our bones clean, perhaps the same ones who even now sweep over the carnage that marks yesterday’s vicious fighting.
Yes, we’re still in the fight and have held off Vay and her ruthless minions for another day. But just how many days do we have left in us?
Of that, I’m not sure and though none speak it aloud, I’m sure the question hangs heavy with each of the company. Who will be the next to fall?
I wrestle with my gloomy thoughts as Golden Wind glides quietly on the night air, keeping us hidden in the thin layer of cloud and smoke that swirls over the low foothills that lead to South Pass and the higher mountains.
Whoever said that it’s darkest just before the dawn was right. Only, they should have added that it’s the absolute worst time to go looking for Wilder dragons.
But look we must.
All of a sudden, Golden Wind rears as if a bolt from a Golian dragon slayer ripped into her throat.
The golden hovers but for an instant when from the clouds speed scarlet bolts straight at us. My head snaps back as she dives almost straight down and then whips us to the right behind a sharp, tapered hill covered in small boulders and small, arrow-shaped trees.
Glancing back over my shoulder, I see three red dragons break through the cloud cover, their wings beating in furious pursuit.
“Wilders!” I hiss, watching the Wilder riders, clad in crimson, pump up and down calling on their dragons for even more speed.
“I guess that answers that question,” I mutter, turning back to the front as Golden Wind dips to the left in a screaming turn behind another darkened knoll.
“Yes,” Golden Wind replies, “the Wilders are coming through South Pass.”
“How many?”
“Enough,” is all she has to answer to cause my throat to tighten and for my eyes to go big and round as if they weren’t already apple-sized.
Another arrow whizzes past and I push Scamper down from his perch. “Best you stay under cover, Scamp.”
He wrinkles his nose up at me but does as he’s told and plops down behind the golden’s skull plate.
The golden flips on her side in a tight turn just as more arrows flash past. “Uh,” I question as I swallow hard, “don’t we want to outrun them? They’re getting pretty close don’t you think?”
“For now, yes,” Golden Wind answers.
“Easy enough for you to say, those arrows just bounce off your hide whereas they don’t quite bounce the same way off mine.”
Squirming around, I try to spot Cara and Helmar but the early morning darkness is much too thick for me to see if they’re skying nearby. “Wind Song and Glory?” I ask.
“Waiting,” she answers, “behind the next hill over.”
“Waiting?” I begin to sputter before one side of my mouth curls up in a crooked smile. “Oh, I get it.”
The golden dips to the left and then to the right, leading the Wilders on. I glance back and my breath catches. The Wilders are closer than ever and I can see them pull their bowstrings taut against their cheeks, rea
dy to unleash at the right moment.
At me.
The golden whips us over on one side and we slice through the air around a hill. I blink twice and then smile.
The wispy clouds have parted just enough to let in a few shafts of soft starlight. There’s just enough light that in the near distance, I spot what looks like two sapphire gems buried in fog.
Wind Song and Wind Glory.
The golden heads straight at them and for a moment, I think she’s going to run headlong into them, only, at the last instant she tilts her wings and in a move that snaps my head back, we zip straight up.
I look back over my shoulder to see Cara and Helmar unleash their arrows, once, twice.
When they’re done, three riderless scarlet dragons beat away, leaving behind three dead Wilders on the boulder-strewn ground.
“Whew,” I breathe as the golden stops her upward rush, “that was close.”
“Yes,” Golden Wind answers, “they caught me quite unawares when they appeared from behind that hill.”
“And a good thing there were only three,” I declare. “If there were more, I don’t think Cara or Helmar could have handled them.”
At a thought, I lean over and ask, “There were only three, right?”
Golden Wind takes her time answering, stretches her neck and cocks her ears forward as if she still listens.
“No, Hooper, there are more,” she replies, “but they’re very cautious, and their wings beat slowly. They are nowhere near the numbers we fought yesterday.”
“See or hear anything like Aster’s monster?”
“No,” she states and I relax just a bit.
I don’t think I have it in me to go up against another of Aster’s fiendish creations so soon after his four-eyed devil brute almost crushed me as it plummeted to its fiery death.
“A scouting party, then?”
“It would appear so,” she agrees. “Their caution and few numbers suggest that they are looking at what lies just beyond the pass.”
Sighing, I nod. “And there’s no guessing as to what they’re looking for.”
“You mean ‘who’ they’re looking for, don’t you, Hooper?”
“Oh, right. Who. As in us.”
Golden Wind lifts her head a little higher and her ears flick in several directions. “They’re spreading out but I believe there’s more coming behind the leaders.”
“I’ve seen enough,” I reply. “Or rather, you’ve seen enough since I haven’t learned how to see through hills or in pitch-black darkness.”
Glancing over, I see Cara and Helmar winging their dragons higher to join us. Hovering our dragons midair, I call out, “A small scouting party of Wilders coming through the pass. Perhaps more behind them.”
Helmar gives a curt nod in acknowledgment. “Our job is done here, then. Time to head back. We don’t want to get caught in a crossfire in the dark between that scum and the Golians.”
Without waiting for an answer, he whips Wind Glory around and speeds off with Cara and me skying our dragons right behind him.
Winging fast and close to the ground, it doesn’t take long to spot the huge swaths of smoldering, charred, and collapsed buildings that mark the remains of Dronopolis. The fires started by the Wilders when they attacked the Golians’ grand capital have raged all during the night.
Now, with dawn not far off, the flames near the farthermost outskirts leaving behind nothing but blackened ruins of the once beautiful homes and edifices that graced the city.
Even the Golians’ incredible aqueducts with their constant flow of water didn’t save the capital as the Wilders destroyed the water-gathering channels.
With swiftness, we wing past the destruction’s edge and I wrinkle my nose at the smell of acrid smoke and putrid heaps of dead bodies; Wilders and their dragons, and of course, the many Golians who died.
The battle was savage and swift; in some respects merciful as it did not rage on for days. And after the loss of their colossal dragon and their Sung Dar allies the Wilders withdrew back across the mountains.
For now.
Though it was a victory of sorts for the Golians, it’s bittersweet.
They’ve lost their beloved Dronopolis but saved many of its citizens. And for Alonya, the Golians’ new queen, that was far more important. Buildings can be rebuilt, lost lives cannot.
The question for the Golians now is not whether the Wilders will return but rather, when will the skies darken again with their scarlet dragon wings.
To help answer that question, we three took our dragons out on our own scouting venture in the early morning darkness. To see if the Wilders had regrouped and were readying another savage incursion.
For now, that does not appear to be the case and Alonya and her Amazos can continue to safeguard those who have fled the burning city for the safety of Golian’s northern strongholds.
However, the pause in the battle will not last long and the Golians must be ready to defend themselves against the Wilders soon.
In the meantime, our little company faces our own problem.
We came to the domain seeking a haven for the golden. Only, our supposed sanctuary turned into a maelstrom of savage battle, blood, and vengeance.
What do we do now to safeguard Golden Wind from Vay and all that follow her? Do we stay here or do we leave, and if we depart the domain, is there any place safer than what we would find if we were to remain with the Golian giants?
And this time, there is no vow of a long-dead queen to call upon either. Once again, we are on our own.
As Night’s Curtain begins to part to let in the first light, we three wing up a narrow valley, following the brick-lined Appan Way.
Soon, it turns into a wide dirt trail leading into the high hills and beyond toward the fortress-like granite spires with their icy battlements that mark the Denalian Mountains.
Helmar raises a hand and points ahead to our little makeshift camp that sits on an open, rocky glen at the base of a rounded hill. The dragons make a tight arc and swoop down to settle to the ground.
We slide off our dragons and Helmar is quick to make our report. “As we thought, Your Majesty, Wilders coming through the pass.”
“How many?” Alonya demands.
“For now, small numbers,” Helmar responds. “How long that will last is hard to say as it’s impossible to see that far into the mountains—we dared not get too close.”
“Scouting our defenses,” Princess Desma declares. “Trying to determine what we have left with which to fight them off.”
“I believe so,” Helmar affirms.
Phigby turns his eyes toward me and to his unspoken question, I murmur, “And searching.”
“Aye, searching,” Amil states with a scowl, his face darker than the night. “For us, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Phigby agrees.
“Then it’s even more imperative,” Helmar asserts, “that we leave now and make for Draconstead. As I’ve said, the Wilders would never look—”
“No!” Amil’s bellow rings off the granite boulders that lie strewn across the surrounding hillsides.
In his fervor, he swings his ax down and backward, carving a furrow into the ground and spraying clods of dirt and rock splinters. Cara and I duck just in time to avoid receiving a rocky shower in the face.
I eye the sharp rut left in the ground by Amil’s great ax. A testament to how passionate the big man has become in the ongoing argument.
My eyes flit between Amil and Helmar whose own face is a dark red at Amil’s outburst. His eyes are wide and unblinking as the two big men stare at each other as if they were two wolves ready to pounce.
A rustling of clothing causes me to cast a sideways glance at Phigby, who is brushing off the dirt and pebbles that spattered his cloak from Amil’s furious slashing at the rocky soil.
My eyebrows crease and I shake my head a little. Phigby’s cape seems to have a soft purple hue in the early morn though I could have sworn that yesterday his robe
was a light green in color.
I still haven’t discovered how and why his robe changes colors but my bewilderment turns into a tiny smile as Phigby stops brushing to reach up and pluck a small stone out of his gray, curled whiskers and tosses it aside.
“My large and great friend,” he mutters to Amil, “if you were thinking of planting corn, that would be a perfect furrow. But if you were trying to sharpen your blade, methinks you are going about it in the wrong way.”
“Aye, you’re right,” Amil sighs, inspecting his blade while running a finger over the knife-sharp edge. “I should not be treating her so, as I think that I’ll be needing her soon enough to slice off more Wilder heads.”
“No truer words spoken,” Helmar’s words are biting, quick. “And that’s just what we’ll all be doing if we try to make for Wynsur Castle and the king as you suggest.
“Can’t you get it through that thick, hairless head of yours that the Wilders are between us and the castle and we’d have to fight our way through? Not to mention that you have no way of knowing if the Dragon Legion even exists. If it doesn’t or is so weakened that it can’t protect the golden, then our flight would be in vain and we would be in even more trouble.”
He sets his face and leans toward Amil. “Wynsur is not the answer. Draconstead is!”
“And can’t you get it through that empty head of yours,” Amil retorts, “that the Wilders may well be between Draconstead and us and we’d still have to fight our way through?
“Only there wouldn’t be a garrison full of Dragon Knights waiting to help but instead all we’d find is nothing more than a few burnt buildings, all that’s left of your precious Draconstead? At least with my idea—”
“No.” Queen Alonya’s statement is simple but forceful and stops Amil from continuing.
“Neither of your ideas will work. The sound decision is for all of you to march with us to our northern strongholds. Anything else will find you facing a horde of the soulless ones.”
She points back toward Dronopolis where, in the pale pink of early morning, it’s easy to see the smoke rising from the fires that still burn.