by GARY DARBY
He ducks his head, pretending to be a swamp croc, and then raises it, his eyes sweeping back and forth as if he were searching. “They lie in wait, just below the murky surface, only their crimson eyes showing, waiting to gobble up with a single bite the unwary traveler.”
Raising his arms, he waves his ax around as if he were warding off a swarm of flies. “Fire ghosts that materialize out of the fog as if the cloud itself burned; ready to sear your body into nothing but a lump of charcoal.
“Monstrous rats, bigger than horses, ready to rip your heart out with claws sharper than an eagle’s talons. Poisonous vapors that suck the breath out of you leaving you clutching at your throat as you try to take one final breath. And quicksand so deep that it would cover Aster’s giant dragon until not a scale was to be seen.”
He draws in a breath and scowls so deep that I think he’s going to break his jaw. “That’s what you’ll find in that infernal marsh where no sane person would ever venture.”
I can’t help myself and cast a sideways glance at Phigby. “Amil the Embellisher or Amil the Truth Teller?”
Phigby glances at the big man and gives him a small smile. “A little of both perhaps. The rats aren’t near as big as horses, more like good-sized hogs.”
“What?” Cara sputters. “You can’t be serious!”
Phigby gives her a little smile. “Nothing that a healthy dose of dragon fire couldn’t cure, I assure you.”
“That may be,” Helmar offers, “but what possible reason would we have to undertake the journey and enter such a terrible place?”
For some reason, Phigby casts a quick glance my way as he scratches at his cheek. “The answer, Helmar, rests with the ode and the swamp’s nature.”
“Explain, Master Phigby,” Alonya requests.
Phigby nods and begins in a solemn voice. “The Swamp of Lost and Tormented Souls, or as Amil called it, the Wailing Swamp is a place where only the gods can see, or rather, can see into. Mortals, such as ourselves, and those from the Upper and Lower Realms cannot gaze past the veil that surrounds and covers the quagmire.”
He sighs. “It is a place that is cut off from the world, and what happens therein is known only to the gods themselves.”
“So,” I ask, “you’re saying that if we take Golden Wind into this marshland, she will be hidden from Vay or anyone else for that matter?”
“Yes,” Phigby replies. “Only those who sit on the High Thrones within the Parthenon may peer into the swamp.”
“And just why again would that be a bad thing?” Cara asks.
“Were you not listening, lass?” Amil demands. “While it may be true that Vay cannot see the golden while she is inside the swamp, the foul beasts and creatures that inhabit the swamp will be able to see her—and us as well.”
Slapping the handle of his ax hard, he leans toward Cara, his face a mask of grimness. “And they will be every bit as capable of tearing us apart inside the swamp as any savage beast we meet on the outside.”
He takes in a deep breath, lets it out in a long, hard sigh. “Perhaps more so.”
3
Amil makes the swamp sound as horrid as anyone can imagine, well, at least what I can imagine. And I can think of some pretty horrible things. And Helmar has a point. Who would ever want to go to such a terrible place?
It would appear that there are some that do and we are destined to join them, which sounds as if we face not only a dismal future but a most dangerous one as well.
What’s the old saying? Never ask the question unless you’re sure you want to hear the answer.
Well, Cara and I asked, and now I’m more than a bit sorry that we did.
On the other hand, it was the golden who directed us to look to the ode book for guidance and if we can’t trust her, who can we trust?
With some slowness, I rise and face the others. “If the marsh is truly that bad,” I swallow and offer in a weak voice while my lips curl in a hesitant smile, “then the Wilders won’t want to follow us there, would they?”
“But Hooper,” Amil protests, “they say that the swamp has virtually no light, that we’d be groping our way in a murky fog with blood-sucking beasts all around. The air and ground are so damp and soggy that you cannot even start a fire. The water so foul you cannot drink it, the—”
Without warning, from behind us comes a fluttering sound and I whirl to find four glowing balls, like large fireflies, lighting up the little encampment.
For an instant, I’m startled and I jump back a little. Then, seeing who it is, my smile grows and I hold out a hand as if to touch their radiance. “I know you,” I laugh low, “You’re the little ones that saved us in the cave but you left before I could say thank you.”
The four little sprites float toward me until they’re half an arm’s length away. Into their light strides Golden Wind. As she settles on her hind legs, she gives me a knowing look and the tiniest of satisfied smiles.
Dropping my smile, I give her a little glare in return. I don’t know if she’s behind the sprites’ sudden appearance, but it seems more than coincidental that they popped up just then.
I turn to the others who, for the most part, hold astonished expressions. “Don’t worry, they’re friends.”
Turning back to the four hovering sprites, I call over my shoulder to Amil, “I guess that solves the problem of not having any light, doesn’t it? Now we just have to worry about drinking water and . . . All those other issues you mentioned.”
Cara rushes up with a wide-eyed expression. “Sprites! Sprite dragons, Hooper, and they’re glowing!”
“Yes,” I answer, cocking my head to one side, “they do glow.”
I pause before saying, “Umm, among other things.”
“Hooper,” Phigby rumbles as he pulls at his chin whiskers, “you sound as if you know them.”
“Uh, yes,” I answer, “I met them . . . Well, when I got lost before and they saved my life. They’re good people. The best, in fact.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Phigby replies, “though I’m surprised you didn’t mention it before.”
“Guess I forgot,” I answer.
Cara holds out a hand toward the closest little yellow dragon. Its soft light seems to melt across her fingers giving them a sheen as if she had stuck her hand into a jar of butter.
The others come closer, and I hear Helmar mutter, “Amazing. I never knew they could do that.”
“I always thought that sprites didn’t show themselves,” Amil voices as he, like Cara reaches out a hand to let the sprite’s light flow over his fingers. “In all my travels, I’ve only seen one and that just for a heartbeat before it disappeared.”
“They’re very timid and shy creatures,” Phigby explains as he steps next to me and motions toward the little dragons. “And yes, it is rare to see one. But these, like the golden, seem to have an affinity for Hooper. It would appear that they are willing to overcome their shyness to be around him.”
“I think they’re adorable,” Cara gushes. “So small and delicate, not to mention their incredible ability to give off light.”
She gets an intent look on her face, places her hands on her hips, and says, “If they’re going to be a part of this company, then they must have names.”
She gestures to the orange sprites. “To my eyes those two shine and dazzle so let’s call them Wind Shine and Wind Dazzle.”
“They look like fat oranges to me,” Amil rumbles. “Why not Wind Orange and Wind Peel?”
Cara makes a face at him and turns to the two smaller yellow sprites. “Umm,” she murmurs, “they’re like two little embers that twinkle. That’s it! Wind Ember and Wind Twinkle.”
“Excellent, Cara,” Phigby says approvingly. “Very suitable names I would say.”
Cara gives him a wan smile. “Father—” she chokes for a moment, before going on in a throaty voice, “I never heard him mention anything about their ability to glow.”
“I doubt,” Phigby replies as he wrinkles his
forehead, “very many know about this particular trait of theirs. But now we do, and if I’m not mistaken, I believe they’re offering to help us.”
“To go into the swamp?” Amil asks.
“As you said, my friend,” Phigby observes, “it is a dark and gloomy place where fires cannot be lit. I would say that four glowing dragons, small though they are, will make most welcome companions.”
“It would seem,” Queen Alonya utters from behind Phigby, “that if Amil is even close to being right, that not even dragons that glow will be enough to guide you through that dreary place.”
Phigby turns to Alonya. “And what would, Your Majesty?”
Queen Alonya draws in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “Perhaps Queen Sight.”
Princess Desma gasps, “Alonya, no.”
General Katus takes a step forward and motions toward the trail that leads to the Golians’ northern strongholds. “Your Majesty, your people—”
“Will not be abandoned, but left in good hands,” the queen replies.
She faces her sister and her general. “I swore that I would honor Escher’s vow, and that is what I intend to do.”
“But—” General Katus begins again, but Alonya’s swift, raised hand stops her.
“Golian,” Queen Alonya returns, “will know the likes of someone who, I believe, cares for them as deeply and as fully as I do. Someone who knows the domain well from both within and without and who has spent a lifetime preparing for just this moment.”
She stops, an odd expression on her face as she whispers, “As it would appear that I have been preparing for something altogether different.”
The queen motions to two of her palace guards who have stood some distance away, and now dash up and stand at attention.
To them, Alonya orders, “Mintis and Carollos, you and General Katus will bear witness to the High Council and to our people of that which you are about to see.”
General Katus lets out a sigh of resignation, and with the two warriors, gives a reluctant nod of understanding. The queen turns to Desma and commands, “Desma, First Princess of Golian, kneel.”
Desma slaps her scabbard and drops to one knee, her head up, her smudged and dirty face turned to her sister.
Alonya draws her sword and rests it upon Desma’s shoulder. “Upon you Desma, I confirm the Rights of Regency over the Domain of Golian.
“Until my return, you will act in my stead in all matters of the realm. In good faith, I give you these commands to discharge along with those in your own wisdom you see fit to carry out.
“You will lift up and care for the infirm and aged, the young and the old. You will succor those wounded in battle and comfort those who have lost loved ones.
“If there are children who’ve lost their parents, you will ensure that they find suitable families who will care for them as if they were their own.
“Gather those of the High Council who remain and listen to their counsel. Prepare all needful things against the day that the Wilders return.
“Gather in foodstuffs that starvation will not visit the people, mend the bows of war, strengthen and firm up the battle swords. Fortify our strongholds so that the Wilders will meet devastation should they attack.
“At such time that you feel it is safe to return, bring the people back to Dronopolis. Rebuild our homes and the places of learning and culture.
“Teach our children of their heritage and their future. Make our gardens and fields bountiful again, our boulevards straight, and see to it that Warrior Hall gleams once again in the light.”
The queen pauses before she says firmly, “Be it known that if I fail to return, Desma is my chosen successor from the House of Escher and that she, at the proper time, is to present herself to the High Council for the Rite of Succession.
“If it is the council’s will and the people’s, she shall be raised by proclamation to sit upon the Warriors’ Throne as the Queen of Golian.”
In an imperious tone, Queen Alonya questions, “Desma, do you accept this charge I have placed upon you and vow to uphold all that I ask? Do you swear that you will honor our ancestry and do all things necessary to make Golian whole and righteous again?
“Do you vow to justly and fairly remove the foul things that Gru brought into our land, that you will forgive where forgiveness is due but hold accountable those that deserve such judgment?
“And last, do you swear that you will be the queen that you were meant to be?”
“Yes,” Desma’s voice catches but then she answers in a firmer tone, “I so swear and pledge to do all that you command, my queen.”
Alonya then turns to General Katus and the two warriors. “Do you swear to bear true witness to what you have seen and heard?”
“We so swear, Your Majesty,” they answer as one.
“Then rise, Desma,” Alonya commands, “First Princess and Regent of Golian, it is time that you begin your task.”
Alonya’s and Desma’s hug is fierce, not as queen and regent, but as newfound sisters. They draw apart, hands clasped upon each other’s arms as Desma questions in a grave tone, “Alonya, are you sure about this? You—you are our queen.”
Alonya nods. “Desma, all my life, I’ve lived in the wilderness and not in the marbled halls of Dronopolis as you have. Fotina trained me to be a warrior first, and not to sit my rump on a throne listening to the bickering of the High Council matriarchs or other tedious matters of state.”
She glances over at us and her eyes narrow a bit. “Somehow, I think Fotina knew that this time would come and that, yes, we would avenge our mother, restore our line, but that my calling would not be to take the throne, not yet anyway, but to be a part of this company.”
Smiling, she squeezes Desma’s arms. “You, on the other hand, were meant—”
“To sit my rump on a gilded throne?” Desma laughs.
Alonya grins. “That’s not what I was going to say. You are known by the people, and you know the people. You will forge the bonds of Golian again and restore its honor and glory. You were meant to be in this place, in this time. I couldn’t leave Golian in better hands.”
“Queen’s Sight?” Desma asks.
“Perhaps, a little,” Alonya replies.
Desma’s face clouds over. “You said that when this was over, we would have time to laugh and share as sisters do.”
Alonya grips both of Desma’s arms tighter. “When this is over,” she replies, “we will. I promise.”
She turns to us. “I swore that I would protect Golden Wind, and I will do so still if you would have me as part of your company. Not as Queen Alonya, but as Alonya, Golian warrior, and friend.”
Phigby clears his throat and getting silent assent from all of us, steps forward. “Your Majesty—”
“To my people,” Alonya interrupts, “I am ‘Your Majesty’.” She gives us a small smile and holds out a hand to the circle. “To my friends, I am simply Alonya.”
Phigby bows his head just a bit. “It would be our honor and wish to have a noble Golian warrior in our midst . . . Alonya.”
“Not to mention the length of her sword,” Amil adds in an undertone, “or strength of her bow.”
Phigby chuckles while saying, “That, too.”
General Katus steps forward, gives Alonya a concerned look and asks in a quiet tone, “Your Majesty, if I understand correctly, it is your intent to lead our friends out of Golian to this Wailing Swamp as it is called?”
“Yes, Katus, that is my plan,” Alonya affirms.
Katus hesitates before asking, “Was it in your mind to travel by one of the hidden trails to try and avoid the Wilders?”
“It is,” Alonya replies with a narrowing of her eyes. “But your voice holds a certain wariness as if there are more than just Wilders that we should fear on those paths. What it is that you would have us know, Katus?”
“That,” Katus answers, “there have been reports of strange voices, sounds on the night wind heard in some of the deeper val
leys.”
“And not Wilders?” Phigby is quick to ask.
“No,” Katus returns in a firm voice. “These are not the echoes of Wilder dragons, nor are they the sounds of the natural beasts that roam the mountain heights.”
She shakes her head, her eyes puzzled and concerned. “This is something else though my warriors have been unable to see or place a name to what is making the noises.”
Katus’s voice is close to pleading as she urges, “Are you sure that you would not take your personal guard with you?”
“No,” Alonya hastens to reply. “Golian needs her warriors here to defend against the Wilder slime if they return.”
She gives a little shrug. “Besides, a small party, moving fast, will have a better chance of slipping through the evil ones than a large, noisy party.”
“Then,” Katus returns, “be careful, my queen, especially in the night, for that is when the sounds grow loudest and which have caused even my most hardened warriors to feel a sense of dread.”
Cara and I exchange a quick glance with widened eyes. If noises in the night can make an Amazos feel fear, what will it be like for us? For someone like me? Sheer terror?
Alonya reaches out and grips her general’s forearm. “Thank you, Katus, we will be on our guard, rest assured.”
Reaching for her sister, Alonya again grasps Desma’s arms and for a moment, I can see a glistening of eyes before Desma, flanked by General Katus and her personal guard, spins away in a fast trot down the incline to the trail below.
They join with the waiting company of Amazos and at a quick pace move up the pathway. Moments later, they’re lost to sight as they round a bend in the trail.
Alonya gazes for an instant more at where Desma disappeared before she takes in a deep breath and blows it out, the air filling her cheeks. “I think that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
“Giving up your crown?” Phigby asks.
Alonya shakes her head. “No, that was easy. Saying goodbye to your sister whom you’ve just found only to lose her again and to leave a people that I was apart from for so long.”