by GARY DARBY
Cara helps me get the sprogs into their carryall atop Golden Wind and as she does, I pause and ask, “Are you all right, now?”
She sniffs a little and there’s still a glisten in her eyes as she answers, “Yes, it’s just so hard to accept that those you love will someday die and you won’t have them in your life.”
Stopping what she’s doing, she murmurs, “When my mum died, I realized just how much I had taken her for granted as if she would always be there and now . . .” she chokes, unable to go on.
“I know,” I whisper. She gives me a little smile and we hurry to lash down the sprogs while Scamper takes up his usual place on the golden’s head as if he were a sailing ship’s master at the helm.
Settling in behind him, I snug Galondraig down in its scabbard, and soon we’re plodding behind Alonya on the same trail that Desma and her cohort took earlier in their march away from Dronopolis.
The four pixie dragons fly alongside Golden Wind for a bit before they land on her back scales and settle in for the ride.
Glancing back at the two yellow and two orange dragons, I ask Golden Wind, “Is it all right for them to be back there? It seems to me that you’re carrying a load already. I mean with your sprog and all.”
She replies with an indulgent chuckle. “It’s fine, Hooper. I invited them, and besides, they add very little to my ‘load’ as you call it. Remember, I pulled Alonya’s litter for a long way.”
“That’s right,” I admit, “you did.”
I then ask in a hesitant voice, “Are you and your sprog all right? You’ve been doing a lot of flying and fighting—and other things of late, like dragging Alonya. It hasn’t been too much, has it?”
“No, Hooper,” she answers. “I’m well and so is she.”
I jerk upright. “She?” I stammer. “You know she’s a she?”
“Of course,” she answers in a nonchalant tone.
“Oh,” is all I can answer at first. Then, after thinking about it for a bit, I ask, “Do all dragon mothers know if their sprog will be a girl or a boy?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Oh,” I answer again. I work my mouth from side to side for a moment as I mull overe her reply. “I have so much to learn about dragons still.”
“Indeed, you do, Hooper, but you’re learning.”
I glance ahead at our party as we make our way down the pathway. Catching sight of Phigby, I say, “Phigby once said that when he was young, he thought he knew everything. But then, as he got older, he realized just how little he actually knew about life and the world around him.”
My lips curl up in a small smile. “I didn’t understand what he meant then, now I think I do. I’ve spent almost my entire life around dragons and thought that I knew everything there is to know about your kind.”
“And now?” the golden asks.
“Now? Now, I’m beginning to realize that what I know of dragons is rather small.”
I laugh just a bit. “Maybe more than small.”
“Yes, Hooper,” Golden Wind replies, “but as a seed is planted in the ground and grows, so will your understanding. You will learn a bit here, a bit there, and someday you will know a little something about dragons.”
“Well,” I answer, “when that happens, it will be an excellent day, I think.”
Alonya leads us quite a way up the narrow valley trail, following the dusty sandal prints and wagon ruts of the Golians who march and hurry toward their northern strongholds.
It’s not long before the fires from Dronopolis begin to disappear from view. The columns of gray smoke are still visible over the hills and I suspect that we must go much deeper into the mountains before Alonya will not have to bear the wispy but agonizing reminder of what happened in and to Dronopolis.
At a last bend in the trail that will take us out of sight of the once grand city, Cara halts Wind Song and swivels in her seat so that she can take one last look back at the knoll that will forever keep her father, brother, and Wind Rover.
I stop Golden Wind next to her but I don’t speak as she gazes back through tear-brimmed eyes. After a bit, she lowers her head, brushes back her beautiful auburn hair before she glances over at me. “It’s so hard to leave them behind.”
Several small shuddering sobs shake her shoulders and she wipes at tears. “When my mother died, we buried her close to her flower garden that she loved so and next to a shade tree that she loved to sit under.”
She hangs her head for a moment and I see a silvery tear fall, wetting her hands that she clasps so tight together. “When I felt lost and alone, I could at least go and sit beside her grave and talk to her.”
With a hand, she motions back down the trail. “Now, I won’t ever be able to do even that with them or her.”
Phigby lays a gentle hand on her shoulder and utters soft words that are so low that I can’t make them out. I’m uncertain what to say when a sudden thought comes to me. “Yes, you can,” I answer.
She blinks at me through her tears and I put a hand over my heart. “They’ll always be alive in here and you can talk to them whenever you need to. I talk to my family, sometimes.”
“You do?”
I nod my head a few times. “I know it sounds silly, but yes, even though I don’t remember me mum and da all that well. Still, it makes me feel better, takes away some of the pain.”
She gives me a tiny smile. “It doesn’t sound even the least bit silly, Hooper, thank you.”
As Cara gazes back one last, longing time at the small knoll and the rock cairns, Phigby gives me a satisfied nod as if he approves of my words. Then, with eyes still overflowing with tears, Cara turns and prods Wind Song down the way.
We plod along in silence until Alonya turns us into an even narrower valley whose sides are covered in small, sagelike bushes and stubby trees crowned with yellow-laced leaves. There’s just enough of a cool breeze flowing down from the mountains that the leaves twirl and dance on the thin tree branches.
A dry, rocky streambed runs down the small vale and the dragon’s talons cause the small rocks to shift and butt against each other sending sharp clicks and clacks sounding in the valley.
The gorge makes several bends as the hills grow higher around us but not so high that we can’t see the blanketing smoke from the smoldering fires in Dronopolis.
We come around one last sharp bend and I can see in the near distance that the high ravine tapers to a point, and we’ll have to climb a tall, moundlike hill that seems to have been put there like a stopper in a glass bottle across the valley.
Amil, who’s riding on Wind Glory with Helmar, calls back, “Alonya wants us to sky our dragons to the hilltop and wait for her there.”
I wait for the two sapphires to take to the air before calling out, “We’re ready, Golden Wind.”
She spreads her wings and springs upward. It only takes a few flaps of her broad wings before we sail to the ridgeline where she sets down next to Wind Song.
I glance back over my shoulder and through a saddle in the hills to one side I can make out a part of Dronopolis.
Even at this distance it’s easy, and painful, to see the smoldering, blackened ruins that stretch across the narrow horizon. Where once beautiful marble facades and colonnades stood are now little more than sheared off stubs and crumpled remains lying strewn in the broad boulevards.
The beautiful, flourishing gardens that were centers of quiet and serenity are now wastelands of scorched plants and trees, leaving wisps of smoke to curl upward in the morning air.
Most of the aqueducts that carried water from the mountains to the city collapsed and now lie in ruins. However, here and there a few arched buttresses stand like silent sentinels over the death and destruction.
Except for thick threads of rising gray smoke, nothing moves in the once vibrant, bustling city. There are no voices, no sounds, nothing alive.
Everything destroyed by Wilder dragon fire.
A few moments later, Alonya gains the top and turns
to gaze at the remnants of Dronopolis. I glance over at her as she stares at the same scene. It’s easy to see that her face hangs slack while her blue eyes have lost their light.
“Once,” she begins, “several seasons back, when Fotina allowed me to explore on my own, I snuck down another trail to a high point. It was late at night and in the far distance, I could make out a few glowing lights in Dronopolis.
“I really couldn’t see the buildings that well and I didn’t dare go farther for I was taking a huge chance of being caught.”
“But you just had to see,” Cara murmurs.
“Yes,” she replies. “I used to dream all the time of seeing Dronopolis in all its glory.”
One side of her mouth curls up in a tiny smile and then deepens as if recalling a sweet memory. “Fotina would tell me tales of what it was like, the beautiful homes, magnificent gardens, the Grand Plaza and the Warrior Throne.”
Her voice becomes a bit wistful. “I never told Fotina of my little side trip and I don’t think she ever knew. Or, if she did, she never reprimanded me for my wandering ways.”
“Perhaps,” Phigby offers, “she knew that sometimes, in search of dreams, we have to wander a bit.”
“Perhaps,” Alonya nods while still peering at the scant view of the smoky ruins. “To think I would one day come back and to only see it as a prisoner being led to my death, or,” she lets out a shuddering breath, “to gaze upon this.” Her voice falters as she gives in to her grief and tears flow.
I stand next to her, my head just reaching above her waist. “You’ll be back, Alonya,” I say in a soft voice. “And you’ll rebuild. You and Desma. From the ashes will come a new Dronopolis, one that will make your mother proud, and your people grateful to have you as their queen.”
Her gaze is appreciative as she rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I hope so, Hooper, I truly do.”
Alonya takes a deep breath, wipes her eyes before shaking her head as if to rid herself of her gloomy thoughts and points at the sky. “The sun does not sit still in its journey and neither should we.”
Taking one last look at her beloved city, she turns to the trail below her. “What . . .” she begins before bending forward as if to get a better look at what lies below.
“Something wrong?” Amil asks.
“Follow me,” she growls. With that, she bounds down the incline in great steps toward the valley floor.
I too take one last look at Dronopolis and think to myself that two of our company have had to say painful goodbyes today. Will those be the last or are there even more to come?
We wait a moment and then one by one wing to the vale’s sandy bottom. Alonya all but flies down the hillside, slipping and sliding in her giant strides and we arrive at almost the same time.
At the bottom, she takes several running steps and stops in the streambed’s middle. She does a slow circle studying the ground with a deep frown on her face.
“From your expression,” Phigby calls out, “I would say that something is wrong.”
Alonya raises her head and peers up and down the valley. “This stream is born high in the mountains—there should be water here from the snow and ice melt-off. I had counted on its water to carry us at least through today.”
Kneeling, she thrusts her hand into the sandy bottom. Her fingers don’t go deep below the surface before she holds up a dark handful of sand. “This is still wet, meaning there was water here and very recently.”
Alonya shakes her head, her braids dancing on her shoulders. “Something is amiss here.” Her stare is intent and sharp as she peers up the valley for a long time. Then she shakes her head and drops her gaze.
“What it is it, m’lady?” Phigby asks with narrowed eyes. “Queen Sight?”
Alonya raises her eyes to peer up the valley, again. “I thought I saw . . .” she tosses her head up. “Never mind,” she declares.
She gestures at the wide, shallow ravine that cuts through the narrow valley. “There should be water here, and by the streambank’s look, deep enough to reach my knees, and wide enough that it would take two or three of my strides to cross.”
Following her gaze, I tilt my head upward at the snow-capped peaks that rise in the distance. The snow line is bright against the peak’s darker granite shield.
“There was a heavy snowfall this year,” Alonya asserts, “and I’ve seen other streams that draw their cold waters from the mountains; this should be full to its banks.”
Her lips turn down in a frown that sends creases along the edge of her mouth. “Where did it go?”
“Does that mean,” Amil asks, “we won’t have water until we cross the mountains?”
“No,” Alonya is quick to answer. “There should be other streams and pools from the snow melt that will provide us drink.”
She turns in a small circle, eyeing the hills and the streambed again as do we all, but there is nothing to see that would explain why a stream that should hold water, does not.
Phigby leans toward the warrior queen, his eyes concerned. “I take it that you find this both disturbing and suspicious.”
We share uneasy glances before Cara asks, “Do we turn back?”
Alonya brushes her hands together to shake off a few remaining sand grains. “To where?” she returns. “This is same trail that we would take to Two-Forks and which splits further on to go to Grim Heads, the higher path that I mentioned. If we do not take these trails, then we must chance going by the sea, which I am not familiar with this close to Dronopolis or go much, much farther north.”
“To the Colosseun Barrier?” Phigby asks.
Alonya shakes her head in answer. “I think that will be as at South Pass with the Wilders guarding. No, we would have to go even past that to find a secret way, only I am not as familiar with the far northern trails as I am with the ones that we seek.”
She turns to us with hard eyes. “I believe that no other pathways are as hidden and provide our best chance of avoiding Wilder eyes.”
Alonya gestures up the valley that winds between the mountains. “We follow this for several leagues and then we turn east to climb a narrow pass and from there we make for Two-Fork Peak and the pass that lies below.”
“Why is it called Two Forks?” Amil questions.
“Because,” Alonya answers, “from a distance, there is a mountaintop that sits astride the pass that appears as the tines of two forks.”
She points at the distant range of high mountains that block the valley’s end. “On the far side of those mountains and farther on is the South Pass trail.”
“Where Wilders might be,” I state.
“Yes,” Alonya answers, “but if our luck holds, they will not see us unless they chance upon the crossing we seek. It is very high and often cloud covered.”
“Then we have no choice but to press on,” Phigby declares.
“Yes,” Alonya agrees and motions to the right. “Walk your dragons close to that streambank. While I doubt that any Wilders will see us, if by chance, any are winging on the hills’ other side it will make it that much harder to see you.”
With that, Alonya settles her scabbard and strides forward, though I notice that she carries her bow in one hand and not over her shoulder as before.
Our march up the valley is uneventful and at sun-high Phigby has us halt, to rest and so that he can tend to Alonya’s, Helmar’s, and my own lingering injuries.
I am amazed that both Alonya and Helmar move as well as they do. For that matter, as I touch my shoulder where my own wound is healing fast, I am amazed that I too move as well as I do.
As I watch Phigby rewrap Alonya’s leg, I can’t help but wonder again, just who is Phigby? For as long as I’ve known him, he was the Book Master, the Alchemist who made potions and balms for the sick.
Now, it’s obvious that he is more than that. But what? A wizard? A sorcerer? I don’t know. But one thing I do know is that if I ask him, he’ll only repeat in that gruff voice of his, “I am who I am, Hooper, and
nothing more.”
I believe that as much as I believe that Vay will turn out to be my fairy godmother who’s just looking out for my welfare while she’s trying to kill me.
Still, my respect for Phigby’s healing abilities rises tenfold and I doubt if I’ll ever complain about Phigby’s potions and balms ever again, even if they do taste like swallowing a bite of rotten turnip.
We haven’t traveled far from our resting point when we round a sharp finger of the mountainside that juts out into the valley and stop.
We’re blocked from going on.
From one side of the valley to the other is a high, solid wall of jumbled rocks. We clamber down off our dragons and walk up to the massive dam.
Phigby reaches out a hand and slides it across the rocks. He holds up his fingers to show them wet from tiny trickles of water that seep through the cracks in the rocks.
“This would explain why there is no water in the streambed,” he declares, his mouth turned down in a deep scowl. “This landslide of rocks has completely dammed the creek.”
Amil points up to the mountainsides that flank us. “Aye,” he replies in a suspicious tone, “and just how often do you see landslides come down from two mountains on opposing sides at the same time?”
I crane my neck up to see where Amil is pointing. Above us, on each side, as if a giant sword had gouged out an immense cut in the mountainside, are two scars marking where boulders and rocks crashed down into the valley.
“I would say,” Phigby observes in a dark tone, “until today, never.”
“And I would add,” Amil grumbles, “that someone is trying very hard to prevent us from going somewhere that we really don’t want to go.”
Alonya gestures off to the left. “The trail we seek is just past this and up a side valley.”
Turning, she studies the mountain flank to our left before she takes several steps back to peer at the massive rock pile’s very top.
“There is no path that I can take on the mountain to reach the side vale,” she states and then gestures to the rock dam. “But this I should be able to climb and get to the trailhead by crossing the top.”