If A Dragon Cries (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 1)

by GARY DARBY

  It’s no secret that he has a complete and utter disdain for those who he believes are beneath him. I remember well a vicious kick to my good leg that left me limping for weeks on both limbs because I didn’t get out of his way fast enough.

  Malo said that afterward, I walked as if I were a drunken sailor on the first night in port after being at sea for months. I wouldn’t know anything about drunken sailors or being at sea, all I know is that from that point on, if Daron Dracon was anywhere near the stead, I made a point of being where he wasn’t.

  Helmar turns a serious face to me. “Let me ask you, why do you like Scamper so much? He’ll never bring you any of those things.”

  My mouth works for a moment as I search for an answer. “Because . . . ” I mutter and stop. “Because he’s my friend. He makes me laugh and accepts me for who I am. He’s special to me.”

  Helmar shrugs at my answer. “So are dragons, special I mean. Or, as Master Boren believes, magical.” He pauses and runs a work-worn hand over the red’s scales. He murmurs, “Sometimes I think he’s right.”

  “Magical,” I mutter. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Magical,” he answers, “in the sense that certain dragons can be worth their weight in gold.”

  “You mean like Wind Boomer,” I reply, “and the golden.”

  “Boomer? Perhaps,” he states. “But the golden? She’s another story in herself.”

  “Because of the legend,” I respond.

  He gives me a half smile. “Actually, it’s legends. And the more the merrier, I say. Each just makes her that much more valuable.” He eyes me sideways. “And the more valuable she is, the more the House of Lorell and our Dragon Master gain in stature.”

  And his novice, I think.

  “So,” I say slowly, “do you really believe that if a dragon ever cries its tears will turn into magical jewels?”

  He pulls the red’s head to him and inspects the creature’s four stubby horns, large ears, and cat’s eyes. None show disease so he gives the crimson a solid pat on its neck and shoos it away. He gives me a little shrug. “In all honesty, I don’t know. I’ve never seen a dragon cry, and I’ve never seen a dragon gem.”

  He gives me a lopsided smile. “I know Phigby believes it’s true. Last time I had dinner at Dracon Haus, he was there. I think he and Master Boren could talk for a fortnight on the supposed mystical qualities of dragons.”

  He says wistfully, “With all their talk, I hardly got a word in edgewise to Cara.”

  I feel a warmth creep up my neck, not from the sunlight’s heat, but from his comment. He and the beautiful Cara Dracon together, in the same room, just a few hand widths apart for a whole evening.

  Something I’ve dreamt about for a long time. However, I know that some dreams will never happen, and Cara Dracon is one of those.

  Helmar starts to turn but then screws his mouth up to one side while he eyes me. With a hard edge to his voice, he says, “With the Wilder menace, I’m having the other workers practice their bow and sword skills. Since you’re worthless at both, you’re going to have to take up some of their workload, understood?”

  I keep my eyes averted and duck my head so that Helmar doesn’t see the hurt in my eyes. I swallow to get rid of the lump in my throat and mutter, “I understand, Master Novice.”

  With that, Helmar turns and strides away. My shoulders slump, and I glance over at the four sprogs who are springing up and down, trying to capture a large dragonfly that flits just above their noses. Of course, all they accomplish is to get entangled with each other and start squabbling among themselves.

  I watch for an instant before saying to no one in particular, “Did you hear that? I’m worthless.”

  The sprogs ignore me, of course, as catching a fluttering, dancing, green-winged dragonfly is much more interesting than listening to me. I stare at the ground, my shoulders slumped, my eyes downcast.

  “You know what?” I mutter as I slam my muck rake into the ground, “He’s probably right, too.”

  Chapter 4

  I move from paddock to paddock, and though I hurry so that I don’t miss my deadline to have the new sapphire’s stall ready by sun high, I admit that I stop on more than one occasion to scan the horizon and the dark forest. My anxiety and overzealous imagination has me seeing a Wilder behind every tree and a horde of Wilder barbarians winging over the horizon, their scimitar swords gleaming in the sunlight and their scarlet drakes spouting dragon fire as if a waterfall of fire cascaded from the sky.

  Fortunately, it’s all in my imagination and my morning passes like most all of my dreary mornings. My very own dragon herd, tiny though it may be, follows me everywhere, underfoot and generally making nuisances of themselves. I’d like nothing better than to scoop all of them into my wooden wheelbarrow, dump them on the manure heap and leave them there.

  However, that would probably lead to my head on the chopping block. And though I’m not overly fond of my unsightly face and scarred head, it’s not like I have a spare lying around in case I lose this one.

  Just as I’m about to scoop up another dung pile, Regal Wind starts sniffing at the same stinking heap. I’d like nothing better than to give him a good, swift kick to move him away, but it would be my luck that another worker would see me. You just don’t kick a purple dragon that’s bound for the royal stables.

  You see, purple or violet dragons are rare and only royalty may own or ride a violet dragon once they’re grown. When he’s old enough and trained to Master Boren’s satisfaction, Lord Lorell will present Regal Wind to His Majesty, King Leo. After that, Regal Wind will lead a luxurious life in the royal stables at Wynsur.

  In fact, he’ll live a better life than most commoners in the kingdom. Clean quarters, a giant paddock all to himself, all the goats and sheep that he cares to eat, regular feedings of sugar grass, workers who will scrub and polish his scales to a glimmering finish. Moreover, all he’ll have to do is to be on a team of four or six purples that sky the royal family around in their carriages of state.

  So, as I said, one doesn’t kick a future addition to the king’s stable. So I bend down, pick him up, and place him to one side before I can shovel up the mess. He chirps and chups at me, but I ignore him. When they’re very young, sprogs sound like a cross between a bird and a bullfrog. To me, it sounds something like a warbling screeep or a chuuup.

  Just as I set him aside, there’s a loud “Hooper!” and I turn at Malo’s shout.

  “Yes, sir?”

  He waddles through the corral gate and tosses a small chunk of goat’s cheese and the butt end from a loaf of bread to me. My catch is a juggling act, but somehow I manage not to drop the food. “There’s your mid-meal,” he grouses. “Hurry up and eat. When you’re finished, get to Boomer’s stall, the sapphire’s not coming in today after all. Once you have the dung cleared, wash him.”

  I give him a quick nod. “Yes, Barn Master.”

  “Good, I’ll be by later to check.” He leans toward me, his grizzled face less than a hand’s width away. “And it had better be done right. Understand me?”

  “Yes, Barn Master.”

  I stuff my meal inside my tunic, quickly scrape up the last of the manure, dump all of it on the dung pile, load my herd up in the wheelbarrow, and make for the birthing barn. Once inside, I deliver the four sprogs to their respective mothers and then head for my little corner that I call home. I reach into the straw, and my fingers run across a warm, furry body that’s a bit longer than my forearm.

  A little oval face pokes up through the straw and peers at me with two-midnight dark eyes.

  Threeep?

  I smile at him. “You can sleep some more if you want to, Scamper, but, just in case you’re interested I brought you something to eat.”

  At the mention of food, he instantly pops his head up out of the straw. One thing about Scamp, he’ll always wake up for food. I break off a thumb-sized piece of cheese and bread and hand those to him while I gnaw on what’s left of m
y meal. It doesn’t take long for the both of us to finish our meager portions.

  Mrrrr? Scamper asks, as usual.

  “Sorry,” I say as I scratch him behind the ears. “That’s all they gave me.”

  With that, he snuggles back under the hay, and I go off to do my chores before Malo comes looking for me to accuse me of not doing my work.

  Wind Boomer is the second pride and joy of Lord Lorell. He’s Draconstead’s legendary red dragon; the biggest and most majestic crimson in the Northern Realm. Because the Dragon Knights covet his offspring for their size and ferocity in sky battles and jousting tournaments, he’s given preferential treatment to keep him in prime shape; the biggest paddock, more food, lighter wing chains and only the Dragon Master skies him on exercise days.

  That preferential treatment also means that along with the birthers’, I clean out his stall every day, instead of the once- or twice-a-week cleaning that the other dragons get. As I approach the paddock railing I call out, “Hey! Boomer!”

  He slowly unlimbers and lumbers over to where I’m standing. He gives me two quick sniffs and turns away. He knows me well enough that I’m surprised that he smelled me twice, as once is his usual. Unlike the golden, who followed my every move, Wind Boomer lowers himself back down and closes his eyes as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Which, from where I stand, he doesn’t.

  Once I’ve shoveled up his mess, I grab several buckets of water, a long handled stiff brush and start scrubbing the beast. I no sooner finish under his bony left wing than he lazily lifts a rear talon to scratch at the place I’d just cleaned, leaving a wide, dripping streak of mud down his side.

  I roll the brush handle in my hands, thinking how badly I’d like to smack the creature up side the head, but that wouldn’t do, of course. Someone would see and I’d be feeling the Proga lance several times over. No matter how much you’d like to, you just don’t go around clobbering Lord Lorell’s dragons, at least, not if you’re a Hooper.

  I finish with Boomer and move from paddock to paddock, shoveling dung, scrubbing dragons as needed while the sun lowers toward the horizon. The sun is almost to the tops of the high hills that make a long arc around Draconstead when I hear what seems to be wind rushing through the air and crane my neck upward.

  Sapphire wings soar over the birthing barn’s peaked roof. It’s Helmar, on his blue dragon, Wind Glory. The dragon swoops over the corrals, makes a gentle left turn and comes to a soft landing just beyond the holding pens.

  Helmar deftly jumps down from his dragon and strides toward Wind Boomer’s stall. He’s still carrying his bow and sword. I duck my head and say, “Good afternoon, Sir Novice.”

  Helmar frowns, apparently not pleased at my meager attempt at a joke. “I’m not a ‘sir’ as you well know, Hooper, so mind your words.”

  I duck my head again, apologetically. “I’m sorry, Master Novice, my tongue wanders at times.”

  “Then I suggest,” he snaps, “that you keep it on a tight leash in the future.”

  He enters Boomer’s paddock, stops, and does a slow scan of the meadows and forest around the stead like he did before. He’s still worried about the Wilders, I think to myself. Well, so am I.

  To try and get back in his good graces, I point at his sapphire. “Getting ready to sky down to Draconton and then to the Manor House? Do I need to get anything for Wind Glory? Water? Food?”

  “No,” he answers. “He’s already well fed and yes, I’m about to sky down to Draconton, just checking on some last things.”

  I nod appreciatively. “That means that you’ll dine with the master tonight.”

  His lips turn up at the thought as he eyes me. “Yes, and while you’re here supping on turnip stew or potato slush, they’ll force on me roasted venison, sweet squash, fresh bread with honey butter, and cinnamon apples for dessert.”

  He leans forward and murmurs, “And the worst part, Hooper? I’ll have to sleep in a bed with a down mattress, pillow, and comforter.”

  He shakes his head and waves his hand in the air in a cavalier fashion. “It’s going to be terrible, Hooper, absolutely brutal.”

  “Then,” I reply, trying to match his jest, “it’s a good thing that you’re strong enough to endure such torture — a lesser man, such as myself, obviously could not.”

  His laugh is a sharp bark. “A man, Hooper? As I said before, you need to watch your words more carefully. Your tongue does indeed wander for there’s no one around here that would call you such.”

  I bite down on my lip, trying to hold my face as impassive as I can, though it feels as if his words were a knife twisting into my insides. He walks over to Boomer’s stall, makes a quick check of Wind Boomer’s chains, inspects the paddock railings, ensures his water trough is full before he turns and glances at the forest, his eyes hardening. “Well, I’m off. You may not be carrying a bow or sword but I’ve ordered the other workers to keep a sharp lookout, and that goes for you, too. Understood?”

  Pretending that his words didn’t hurt, I snap my shovel up against my side as if it were a lance. “You can rely on me, Master Novice. My razor-sharp shovel and rake will always be at the ready, along with my trusted wheelbarrow steed. We’ll protect m'lord's lands to our last breath.”

  Helmar snorts and laughs lightly at my mockery. “You do that, Hooper.”

  He turns and moments later, Wind Glory is winging back over the barn in the direction of Draconton, taking Helmar to his roasted venison supper. Not to mention that he’ll be at the same table as the lovely and charming Cara Dracon.

  I let out a long sigh. Venison, bread with honey butter, a down bed and comforter to match. A far cry from what I eat and sleep on. I admit, sometimes I dream about what I could be if I weren't here, if the dragons hadn’t come on that horrid night so many winters ago.

  Could I have become a Dragon Knight, or a man at arms for a Dragon Lord? Or, maybe a sailor, or a tailor, or a blacksmith? Perhaps a farmer? I would settle for being the lowest servant in a Great House.

  Or, as I watch Wind Glory sky in the distance toward Draconton, I could have been Master Boren’s novice and had the wonderful and giddy pleasure of being in the presence of his only daughter.

  Could I —

  No, I couldn’t.

  What other job can you do when one arm and a leg are scarred from dragon fire, and barely useful? In my world, that leaves cleaning out the muck from the dragon pens and paddocks as the measure of your worth.

  That, and nothing else.

  The sun is close to setting, and I’ve just returned my four always-underfoot, annoying, irritating drachen sprogs to their mothers when Malo finds me. He savagely tosses a large straw basket along with a small hunk of cheese and bread wrapped in a dirty cloth at me.

  “Here’s last meal,” he grounds out in that wheezing voice of his, “go out in the far meadow, past the Bread Loaf rocks. Helmar says he saw a patch of sugar grass on the far edge that the dragons haven’t found. Fill that up and give a portion to all the birthers.”

  He pauses, wags a finger at me, and then coughs out, “Give a double portion to the golden.”

  “Now?” I stammer. “It’ll be dark by the time I get to the meadow. There could be Nightfall Goblins, or Wood Trolls, or the drogs will — ”

  “Be hunting for their supper,” Malo cackles. “So you best be careful that they don’t mistake you for a bony two-legged deer.”

  He gives me a hard look. “Just make sure that basket gets filled and the brood dragons get an ample share.”

  I can smell the strong barley ale on his breath. As they say, when the master’s away, or, in this case, the master’s novice, the workers will play. He and the cooks have brewed up a fresh batch and undoubtedly from the way Malo wobbles, he’s had more than his share.

  I can also see in his eyes that Helmar gave him the order to send me out much earlier in the day, but the ale made him forget about the task, until now. And, it doesn’t matter to him if the drogs or t
rolls catch me or not. All that matters to him is that he can report to Helmar that he had me go search for the sugar grass.

  He turns and over his shoulder calls out, “I’ll check on you later.”

  I scrunch up my face in a mixture of anger and fear, mostly fear, as Malo plods away. I hate going beyond the paddocks and barn boundaries at night when we’re in the high meadows. It’s a perilous business. Not only is that when the drogs patrol, but there are other, hungry creatures that roam the forest, looking for a quick meal.

  Like me.

  I sigh, knowing I have no choice, pick up the basket, and make for the side door. As I open the creaky door, I’m surprised to find Malo standing just a short distance away. Hearing the door’s squeak, Malo turns and gestures toward the paddock walkway that leads to the meadows. “Drogs,” he mutters, “and would you look at what they’ve got.”

  A whole phalanx of warty, thick-bodied drogs are coming up the pathway. What they’re herding causes my mouth to drop. Two lines of the gray-colored foul creatures are using their cruelly barbed dragon lances to prod an old emerald dragon up the slight incline.

  “Isn’t that something?” Malo snorts. “Don’t see greens very often, they usually keep to the deep forest. But from the looks of that one, it wouldn’t have taken much for the drogs to capture it.”

  I nod in agreement. Supposedly, no one captures green dragons. Nor do you find them on a dragon farm. That’s why it is so surprising to see this one being driven up the paddock lane by the drog guards.

  It’s slow going for the old one, even with the brutes using their lances on almost every part of its body. Malo chortles as he watches the old one limp closer. “I don’t think Master Boren will have to cull an oldster from the herd to whet the drogs’ appetite, after all. That one will fill their bellies for a fortnight at least.”

  I wrinkle my nose at his comment. Dragons are nasty creatures, but drogs are just as bad. They’re brutish, filthy beasts and for some reason, I’m extremely uncomfortable when they’re around. Sometimes, I feel like they’re sizing me up for one of their cooking pots, so I keep my distance whenever I can.