by GARY DARBY
I glance up to see Wind Song hovering over the meal hall. Cara pulls back on her bow and sends an arrow flying. A scream of anguish fills the night, and another Wilder falls dead. A second later, Cara sideslips Wind Song so that she hovers over me, the powerful downdraft of her wings almost bowling me over.
“Go!” Cara shouts. “The Wilders are skying their dragons. We won’t be able to hold them for long!”
She tosses my bow and quiver to me. Wind Song dips her wings, heels to one side and then speeds away into the darkness. Clutching the bow and arrows, I spin around and trundle for the log pile, the sprogs running right along with me. I stop long enough to catch my breath before I make for the tree line.
I slow as I slip past the first tree trunks, not wanting to trip over the gnarled roots that spread from the trees to catch the unwary toe. I keep going, deeper into the forest, the sprogs trailing right behind me. I have no idea why they sought me out instead of staying with their mothers, but I have the feeling that if I left them behind, Cara would never forgive me.
I slow long enough to sling both the bow and quiver across my back before I take up my stumbling run again.
Nothing is familiar and in the darkness, every tree looks the same, every bush has limbs reaching out like skeleton claws to grab and pull me down. My eyes take in the gloom, and my imagination sees a drog or a Wilder hiding in every shadow, just waiting to leap from the blackness to run a lance or shoot an arrow into my body.
Or worse yet, the night specter will reappear, only this time, there won’t be a Phineas Phigby or a ghostly emerald dragon to save me from a grisly death.
I have to stop to take in a deep breath. As I bend over, hands on knees and sucking in great drafts of air, the sprogs crush up against my ankles. “You know,” I gasp between breaths, “running away from death is hard work.”
Though the night air is cool, nevertheless, I wipe sticky sweat from my brow. Straightening, I plunge farther into the murky woodland, the sprogs staying right with me. Now that I’m not stumbling along, I can hear the rustlings of small animals, field mice and rabbits, and overhead the occasional fluttering of wings in the tree limbs.
The sprogs want to cluster around my feet, and I almost trip over them several times. The purple voices a plaintiff screeep and I bend down and furiously whisper, “Be quiet, all of you.”
We tread deeper into the forest. I believe I’m heading towards the stream, but I’m not entirely sure. I’ve never had to go this far into the woods at night, and there are no landmarks to guide me. I’m positive the golden is in here somewhere as this would be the best place to hide, but where is she?
You’d think that with something that big moving in the woods, you could hear it, but I don’t. It’s like she disappeared into nothingness or was swallowed up after falling into a giant hole in the ground.
I stop to get my bearings. There’s a tree stump nearby, and I sit down to rest for a bit. The little dragons press up against my legs, their heads turning anxiously in every direction. There’s not much light to see by, but from the look in their eyes, I can tell that they’re scared.
I wonder if my eyes have that same frightened expression. Probably.
I bend over and run a hand through my hair. The sprogs turn their heads hopefully up to me. “I’m not lost,” I mutter to them as if they can understand what I’m saying. “I just don’t know where I am, that’s all.”
I hang my head down and bite down on my lip. I grip the bow so hard that I feel pain in my knuckles. Was Scamper in the barn? If so, did he make it out and make a run for the forest? Maybe he never went back to the barn but was so afraid that he stayed hidden in the dark? Maybe he’s out here in the woods like me, lost, scared, alone and wondering what to do in a world gone mad.
I pound a fist on my thigh. But what if he didn’t make it out of the barn and lies dead from a scarlet arrow? Did I sacrifice my friend to save one stinking dragon?
If I did, it will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I stand and continue walking; turning my head in every direction, trying to find Golden Wind but it’s the same wherever I look, trees and dark shadows. “This is impossible,” I say to the sprogs. I turn in a big circle, my arms held out wide. “How do you lose something as big as a full-grown dragon? Losing one of you, I can understand, but something as huge as the golden?”
I stop to watch and listen, but to no avail. I say to the sprogs, “It’s like she’s vanished. She’s in here somewhere, but she must be invisible. I can’t hear her, and I can’t see her.”
I peer down at the baby dragons. “What about you? Any idea where she’s gone?”
They sit down on their rumps and just stare at me. Obviously, they’re not going to be any help, either. “Wonderful,” I mutter to myself, “just how do I explain to Cara and Helmar that I’ve misplaced a golden dragon?”
I do another slow circle trying to spot the golden, but I see nothing that even remotely resembles a dragon. I let out a long sigh and throw my hands up in frustration. After we three risked our lives in the desperate battle against the Wilders, to lose the golden after all that!
It’s not fair!
A dark thought enters my head. “What if the Wilders recaptured her?” I mutter. I shake my head, pressing my lips hard. “No,” I state. “I’m not going to believe that they found her first, not after all we did. She’s in here, I know it, I just have to find her.”
I keep walking, stopping every so often to listen to the woodland noises. I’ve never been this far into Dielong Forest before, and my head starts to fill with the stories I’ve heard about its shadowy depths. Wood trolls and goblins that set traps for the unwary and eat alive those they capture, or green dragons whose fiery breath can scald the flesh off the unlucky.
And other — scary things.
I push aside several low-hanging tree limbs and pause to listen. Except for the rustling of small animals, the cheep of an occasional bird, and the scrabbling sounds of my companions, I can’t hear anything that would indicate that a dragon moved nearby. I start to push aside another limb when a long, low, mournful howling in the distance causes me to suck in my breath.
Dreadwolves!
I’ve only seen the night stalkers once, and that was from a far distance. Sleek and powerful, with a flame-red mane against pitch-black hides, a pack of such vicious animals could bring me down in seconds.
I’m alone and somewhere close is a hunting pack of hungry wolves. I need to retrace my steps, go back. Not into the Wilders’ hands but close enough to Draconstead where wolves won’t go. I start to twist away but hesitate. I haven’t seen or smelled any drogs, but if they’re around, most likely they’re close to the stead too which means if I go back, I could easily run into Sorg and his bloodthirsty pack.
Besides, if I turn tail now, not only would I never be able to face Cara, I might not ever be able to face myself again.
I’m not brave or courageous like Cara, or Helmar, or the king’s knights, and I’ll never be like them. But, still, tonight, for once in my life, someone thought of me as more than just Hooper, a manure mover, a dung driver. Moreover, for a little while, I really was more than that. Did I really want to throw that feeling, that sense of pride away?
And what of little Scamper? If he died at the Wilders’ hands, then as Cara said, this would be at least in part, a way to avenge him.
I snug my knife tight in my belt, swing my bow off shoulder and grip it tight along with an arrow. I glance down at the sprogs who've stayed quietly at my side. "All right," I whisper, "I’m going on, anyone who wants to go back, now’s the time.”
They just raise their heads and wait for me to make my move. We tread through the grass and leaves and haven’t traveled far when I stop at a noise. I wait and listen, but whatever made the sound doesn’t move. I take a few steps forward. It comes again. My eyes widen and my breathing quickens.
Did the wolves pick up my scent on the breeze? Are they even now closing in on me, their s
carlet eyes fixed in hunger on my body, their lips drawn back over their cruel, sharp fangs?
Or, could it be a drog? I shake my head at that, given the circumstances I doubt if Sorg would send any of his troops into the thick forest after me. To seek out the golden, yes, but they wouldn’t waste time on me. Not until they found Golden Wind.
I take a few more steps, stop and listen. The same sound floats through the air again. Only this time, it’s much closer. The night stalkers are behind me, slowly trailing their prey, which I’m sure is me. I can’t see them; their sinewy, slinking bodies must be close to the ground, moving unseen from shadow to shadow. I run my tongue over dry lips and try to slow my breathing.
My hand trembles as I slowly notch my arrow. I’m not sure what one arrow will do against a whole pack, but it’s all I have.
I take another step forward. So do the wolves. I take a deep breath, pull the bowstring back, and spin around with my arrow pointed straight at the things.
And stop; my hand quivering with the strain of pulling the sinew taut.
A large, ponderous shape moves out of the shadows.
It’s Golden Wind.
Thoughts of Golden Wind
So — the Gems of Power and Righteousness begin to come forth.
From the dark now comes the light. From death comes life. Is that not the way it is with a sacrifice of the heart?
They are as small as tears, but mighty in the mind, heart, spirit. A gift long ago crafted for just this day and time.
May these gifts be received with all the reverence due to a lasting sacrifice and may they always be used with purpose, courage, and honor.
Small they are but is it not true that from the tiniest of seeds grow the mightiest of dragon heart trees whose crown of leaves paint the clouds like a brush upon an easel?
Does one’s stature always denote the size of one’s spirit or capacity to fashion great deeds or even miracles? There are those who are large in importance but entirely bereft of any living spirit and filled with nothing other than darkness. They wreak havoc and destruction, crushing dreams, hopes, lives.
Then there are those who must look up to the great in body as if they were staring skyward at a towering treetop. They are small in size but have noble spirits that are as a fountain welling over with an endless flood of goodness.
They are the ones who we remember, they are the ones whose works and achievements flourish throughout the ages. They are ones who do not diminish us but uplift and cause our minds, our hearts, and our spirits to soar.
To be better than we are.
Who then is the mightiest among us?
Chapter 10
I let the arrow slip from my bow, bend over in relief, and nervously chortle. I straighten and shake a fist at the golden. “You dumb hunk of dragon lard, you almost got an arrow up your nose, sneaking up on me like that. You know that don’t you?”
The small sprogs trundle forward, bumping up against the golden’s legs and making their usual screeping sounds. I don’t try to stop them. If I were a baby dragon, I’d probably let out a loud, happy screep myself to see a mama dragon.
The golden lowers her head and nuzzles the sprogs before she comes close to me. She lowers her head so that her eyes and mine are almost level with each other. I’m face to face with a beast that could swallow me in one bite, well, maybe two, burn me alive with just one burst of dragon fire, or whose tail spikes could rip me in half with one swipe.
I can see her nostrils quiver, we’re so close. Suddenly, she snorts. Her breath is a gust of wind that smells of long digested slimy grass, mutton, hay, and with just a hint of sulfur. Her splutter lifts the front of my hair, and I jerk my head back from the blast.
We stare at each other for a moment before I say, “I never thought I’d say this to a dragon, but, believe it or not, I’m actually glad to see you.”
I take in another breath and mumble, “Better you than a pack of wolves, for sure.”
I swivel my head and peer at the surrounding trees. For some reason, they seem so much taller and bigger in the dark than in the daytime. I let out a little breath. “To tell you the truth, I’m lost. We need to get to Fairy Falls and meet Cara and Helmar, but I’m not sure which direction is which anymore.”
I notice that the woods are starting to brighten, and I turn toward the east. Through the surrounding spruce and a few birchen trees, I see a pale light from the rising moons. Since we’re deep in the woodland, and there’s no sign of Wilders, I’m grateful for the moonlight as it will make my going a little easier.
I take several steps away surveying the forest, trying to decide which way to go. I say to the golden, over my shoulder in a half-joking manner, knowing that she’s not going to answer, of course, “You wouldn’t know the way, would you?”
The golden raises her head to peer through the break in the trees at the moons. Something in the way that she gazes at the moons — it’s almost a reverent, imploring expression. Abruptly, the whole meadow is lighted in a soft radiance. Then a brilliant shaft of moonlight bursts through the trees onto Golden Wind and then spreads to flow over me, bathing us both in a soft, golden aura for several moments before it fades away.
I just stand there, like a statue, not moving, just staring at Golden Wind who still has her head raised up to the moons. Finally, I swallow, take some deep breaths, and say, “Better that than a dark wraith coming out of the shadows.”
I glance once more up at the moons, scratch my head several times and mumble, “I have no idea of what just happened or what it means but we still have to find the falls, and I have absolutely no idea which way to go. Too bad those moonbeams couldn’t have formed a big arrow pointing the way.”
I slowly swivel my head, staring into the gloom looking for any sign to indicate a trail to the falls when I hear, “I can find the way.”
I whirl around, my bow up, and an arrow notched. I eye the nearby scraggly underbrush and trees, trying to spot who it was that answered my question. “Who said that?” I demand.
There’s no answer and after a bit, I decide that there’s no one there, either. “Perfect,” I mutter to myself, “first, we get a moonbeam bath, and now I’m hearing voices.”
I lower my bow. “Well,” I let out, “we’re not going to get anywhere by just standing here, so, let’s go.” I start to walk in the direction of the falls, or at least, I think it’s the right way. I don’t go more than a few steps when I notice that the golden isn’t following. Neither are the sprogs. They’re staying close to Golden Wind.
She’s just standing there, watching me. She hasn’t moved at all. “This way,” I say and point with a finger. “We need to go this way.”
In answer, she slowly turns, being careful not to step on the sprogs, and starts walking in the opposite direction with the little dragons waddling along behind her. “Hey,” I yelp, “where do you think you’re going?”
In a stumbling gait, I run after her until I catch up. I slap at her leg to get her attention. “Stop, you big oaf, you’re going the wrong way.”
I might as well be whacking a strolling boulder for all the good my swats do to bring her to a halt. One of her ears swivels toward me at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t slow or even acknowledge that I’m right beside her.
Now what do I do? It’s not like I’m a Dragon Trainer with a Proga stick and I can prod her into obeying me and going the way I want to go. Stumbling along and after thinking about it for a while, I see I have two choices. I either strike out on my own toward where I think the stream is, or I go with her in whatever direction she’s taking us.
In the distance, a low, mournful wail wafts through the night air. The call of a Dreadwolf. That makes up my mind for me. So much for striking out on my own. I don’t have the faintest notion where the golden is headed, but I do know that at least with her it’s doubtful that the wolf pack will attack. Whereas, if I were alone, well, I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I were caught out in the open b
y a pack of ravenous wolves.
We haven’t gone far when Regal and Sparkle get in a scrap over something or other. They tussle with each other, then draw apart and try to growl, but what comes out of their mouths sounds like a sick chicken. Then they start spitting tiny fireballs, no bigger than the tip of my last pinkie, at each other.
I stop and stare for a moment. “Huh. Never knew they could do that,” I mutter, before stepping over to stop the two.
“Stop!” I order and shove the two apart, careful not to get my hands in front of their faces. The little glowing globes don’t go all that far, but I suspect that they could leave a nasty burn if one splattered against my skin. I push them toward the golden, and I’m not at all gentle. The last thing we need is for Wilder eyes to see fire, tiny though it may be, in the forest where there shouldn’t be any.
The golden stops, gazes at me for an instant, before she eases down on her belly and stretches out her neck and head on the ground. The sprogs waddle up, scratching and clawing, trying to climb up on her skull plate.
After a couple of attempts, mixed in with several head-over-tail falls from halfway up, I get the idea and one by one lift the sprogs onto her head, where the four settle themselves behind her carapace. They snuggle together and close their eyes. The golden slowly raises her head, rises to her feet, and plods on. I scratch my head and mutter, “Never knew they could do that, either.”
I try my best to match the golden’s speed but her four legs against my two are no contest, and it’s not long before I’m lagging way behind. She stops to eye me as if she can’t understand why I can’t match her pace.
I catch up, but as soon as I do, she moves off again. This time, though, I notice that she slows her stride to match mine, which is good, because my scarred leg is hurting so bad that I have a tough time maintaining even a sluggish speed.
We haven’t gone far before I’m limping more and more with each step and it’s so painful that I have to force myself to keep moving. I’d like nothing better than to sit and rest but I don’t think I could make the golden understand that I need to stop.