by GARY DARBY
“Nonsense!” Phigby is quick to say. “Under the circumstances, I would have ridden the golden too, and Helmar for all his sanctimonious prattle would have done the same if it meant saving the golden from the Wilders.”
He stops and lets out a long sigh. “I suppose, though, that Helmar is having a hard time accepting that all he knew, his world has been lost and with it, his dreams, too.”
Not all of his dreams, I think. He still has Cara, and she would gladly be his world if he would just let her.
“For him, I guess so,” I reply.
“But not so much for you?” Phigby questions.
I shrug and say, “Oh no, my world has hardly changed at all. I don’t have to shovel manure all day, but I do have a dark witch chasing me. I don’t have to worry about Malo stabbing me with his Proga lance, I only have to worry about drog spears and Wilder arrows piercing my body. Or maybe Helmar slicing my head off if he gets angry enough again.
“And at least before I had a barn with a roof overhead, straw to sleep on and a meal house with food, even if it was barely enough to survive on.” I raise my arms toward the sky, “Now I get to sleep on dirt and rocks and wonder where my next meal will come from, if ever.”
I pause and then say, “No, my world has hardly changed at all.”
“You still have Scamper,” he points out.
“That’s true,” I answer, eyeing my little friend who’s curled up in sleep. “And that’s the best part of my world that hasn’t changed.”
“And all thanks to Cara,” Phigby is quick to say. “You owe that girl, Hooper. You know that, don’t you? If it hadn’t been for Cara, Helmar would have left your furry friend sitting on those rocks.”
I gaze ahead to where Cara sits upright in her saddle, never once glancing back. It’s apparent she shares Helmar’s feelings about my blunder with the golden. I crossed the line and for now, I’m that persona non whatta that Phigby called me.
“I am deeply, deeply grateful,” I murmur. “I’ll make it up to her, somehow, I promise.”
“And I’ll hold you to that pledge,” he replies.
My eyes go from Cara to Helmar, who seems to sit rigid in the saddle. Still getting over his mad, I think. “I guess you’re right about Helmar,” I say. “He did have big dreams, and now it’s all gone. Draconstead, I mean. The buildings, the dragons, his chance as he put it to climb up the ladder of success.”
Phigby is slow to answer, but when he does, his voice is quiet and mournful. “Yes, Draconstead is gone, and not just the herd, or the buildings, Hooper, but the good people who worked at the stead and those who lived in Draconton. That’s the greatest loss. You can replace mere things, but lives you cannot.”
He let out a breath. “Nothing left of Boren Dracon’s legacy but these four dragons and the four sprogs in Wind Song’s saddlebag. A sad ending to a good man and a great Dragon Master.”
“You’re forgetting Cara,” I murmur.
“So I am,” he replies, “and perhaps she is his greatest legacy. After all, our children are a part of us, and we are a part of them, down through all generations.”
I bite down on my lip. If that is the case, then my family’s heritage stops with me.
We plod along a little farther before I ask, “Phigby, what happened back at Fairy Falls? Who were those three?”
He’s quiet for a bit before saying, “Someone whom I dreaded seeing, and yet, in a way, glad as well.”
“Their poem or chant,” I say, “it sounded like the one you spoke the night I saw that witch thing.”
“It’s more than just a poem or chant, Hooper, it’s part of an ode,” he replies.
“An ode . . . ” I’ve never heard of an ode. “What’s that?”
In answer, he says, “What they and I recited is part of a lengthy poem that tells a story.” His tone lowers as if he’s recalling a memory. “Of creation, of life and death, and perhaps the future, as well. It’s part history, part prophecy, part answers to many questions.”
“They kept mentioning something about riding a rainbow,” I point out. “How do you ride a rainbow? It’s just colors in the sky, or so say your books.”
Phigby grunts, “Did I not say that odes often present mysteries as well?”
“Well, you mentioned Vay,” I reply, “and so did they. Who exactly is Vay?”
He’s slow to answer. “Someone that we need to discuss among the four of us and not just between you and me.”
He turns back to face forward and from his posture, I can see I’ve gotten all that I’m getting out of him, for now. I glance up at the swaying treetops. The wind rises, causing the new spring leaves to rustle together.
Abruptly there’s a caw, caw . . . from overhead. I find the source of the noise and see a bird, its feathers as dark as night, hovering high above.
Phigby stops Wind Rover dead in her tracks. The bird whirls over us for a moment, its eyes on the dragons, before it dips its wings and speeds away. Phigby’s body is stiff, and he’s staring at the bird as it disappears through the treetops.
“Phigby, what’s wrong? It was just a bird.”
“Not just any bird, Hooper,” Phigby rumbles. “That was a black crawven, strictly a night bird. It should not be out this late in the day.”
I shrug. “It probably fared poorly in its night hunting and was searching for one last bit of food.”
Phigby shakes his head. “Its eyes were on the dragons, especially the golden, and dragons are not part of its diet.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“Nothing,” he snaps and urges Rover onward. “Hooper, stay quiet, I need to think.”
We’re soon marching next to a series of tall, rounded hills. We climb up a small knoll and stop. Below us, set just inside the tree line formed by a mix of forest glens and stands of birchen trees is a broken-down cabin. We peer down into the little dale, which is covered mostly by short grass and tree stubs.
Helmar gestures. “From the looks of those cut trees, I’d say it was a woodsman’s hut.”
“It’s not much more than a shanty,” Cara murmurs. “How do we know it’s empty?”
“No smoke from the chimney,” Phigby observes, “and from the looks of the roof’s thatching, I’d say that either the owner doesn’t mind getting wet, or it is indeed deserted.”
“I think the latter, Phigby,” Helmar answers and prods Glory down the slope. We follow Helmar cautiously until he calls a halt. Helmar slips off Glory signaling for us to stay where we are and to be silent. He quietly draws his sword and warily approaches the cottage.
Cara notches an arrow and holds her bow at the ready, just in case. Helmar stops at the hut’s front corner and seems to be listening. After a few moments, he steps to the door, which seems ajar, and slowly pulls it open. He guardedly sticks his head inside, then all of him disappears into the shanty. Moments later, he steps out and waves for us to join him.
As we bring the dragons up, he says, “It’s long empty. There’s a dirty makings of a bed, a small, rough-hewn table and chair, and a hearth with a bit of wood. The cuttings are so dry that they’ll give off little smoke. I think we can chance a fire. Phigby, would you get one started?”
“Certainly, my boy,” Phigby answers and clambers down to the ground.
Helmar points to the woodland past the hut and says to Cara, “The trees thicken just beyond. Let’s get the dragons under cover and let the sprogs out of their cocoon. Before we let them graze, though, we’ll search the ground for dragon bane. This is still dragon country, and there might be some just sprouting.”
At the mention of the poison petals, I blanch. I’d forgotten about the flower in my pocket. My hand starts toward my tunic, but I stop as I don’t want to draw any further attention to myself, especially not about that and particularly not from Helmar. If he knew I had poison petals on me, not even Phigby and Cara combined could stop him from slaying me on the spot.
As soon as I can, and in a safe place, I’ll get rid
of it. Helmar hasn’t given me any orders, so I reach for the two water flasks that are tied to Rover’s saddlebag and mutter, “I think there’s a stream over that way. I’ll fill these and try to find more dry wood.”
“You do that,” Helmar growls, “and if you do find water, let us know so that we can take the dragons for a drink.”
I give him a quick nod and Scamper, and I slide off Rover. I start to walk off, when Cara says sharply, “Hooper, aren’t you forgetting something?”
I raise the water flasks to peer at them and do a quick once over of my tunic and threadbare pants, but I don’t see anything missing.
Cara stands there watching me with an irritated expression. I glance up and give her a questioning shrug. “A bow,” she says, “without arrows is like a sword or knife without an edge. Useless.”
She points at Wind Song’s saddlebags where my quiver of arrows is tied tight. “Oh,” I say meekly and hurriedly retrieve the arrows. I scurry away, but I can feel Cara’s and Helmar’s glowering stare on my back the whole way.
Scamper is already off searching for food, and Phigby has disappeared into the shanty.
As I pass the tiny cabin, I give it a quick once-over. The walls are cut tree trunks and strips of bark hang loose, exposing the pale, bleached wood underneath. Unfinished logs notched at the ends and set ten to a side make up each wall of the rectangular structure while old, stringy darkened yellow hay thatches the roof.
Carved out of one wall is a window with thin shutters while the rough-hewn door is slanted and partly open. The sagging thatched roof and the door that tilts to one side, as Helmar stated, signal that the previous occupant abandoned the cabin some time ago. Still, it is out of the weather, and out of sight, which is good.
I start to slip past the door but stop. I can hear Phigby inside fussing with the kindling, scraping at the hearth with an edge of some kind and muttering under his breath.
My hand goes to the jewel. It would be so easy, with Cara and Helmar out of sight, to march in, hold out the gem and declare, “Phigby, you are the guardian of this dragon gemstone. Keep it safe, keep it hidden, and I know you’ll soon be able to wield its powers.”
I’d hand him the crystal, I’d stride out, my duty done, and go back to what I’m good for and meant to do in this life. Draw water, collect firewood, and most of all, shovel dragon dung.
I hold my hand over the jewel for a moment more, before my shoulders droop, and I pace past the cabin door. Hand the gem over to Phigby is what I should do, but I can’t. Not without talking with the golden first. She’ll be able to tell me if my suspicions are correct; either Phigby or Helmar is the Gem Guardian.
It has to be one of them, I’m all but certain it can’t be anyone else.
A sudden chattering startles me. I spin to see what’s making the noise. Evidently, a squirrel has come down from the treetops to investigate Scamper’s activities. Now the two are engaged in a furious back and forth of chattering and chittering at each other.
From what I can tell, the squirrel is letting Scamper know that this is his tree, and Scamper had no right to strip the bark away. Scamper, on the other hand, seems to be saying that squirrels don’t eat termites, so why is he so upset?
Knowing that my attempt to skewer the squirrel with an arrow would be a waste of a perfectly good bolt, I glance around to see if I can spot a rock. He’s only one squirrel to split among the four of us, but still, we could make squirrel soup. It would be short on meat, but it would fill our empty bellies for a time.
Before I can find a rock, the squirrel, still angrily chattering at Scamper, darts back up the tree and disappears into the branches. I shake my head in disappointment. Even if I could find a suitable rock, I’m not sure I could throw it that high with enough force, to knock the squirrel out of the tree. I resolve to tell Cara about the animal, maybe she can bring him down with an arrow.
If she’ll listen to me, which is not a good bet right now.
I make my way out to a small open meadow and hold my right hand straight out and up so that the fingers are horizontal between the horizon and the sun. I put my other hand and its fingers on top of my right hand and count between horizon and the sun’s edge. “Eight fingers high,” I mutter, “and no sleep last night.”
I stifle a yawn. “No wonder I’m so tired.” I glance back toward the hut just in time to see Cara and Helmar come from the tree stand and head for the cabin.
Cara walks exactly beside Helmar, close enough that her arm and shoulder brush against his. They’re talking to each other, but they’re too far away for me to hear. However, it must be an earnest conversation because Cara appears quite animated, her hands out front making quick, small gestures and her eyes centered on Helmar.
“Probably talking about me,” I mutter. I put a hand on my hip and pretending to be Cara, say, “Helmar, what shall we do about Hooper? He’s making a mess of things. First, he rides the golden, then he gets us in a battle with a goblin that leaves us running from the Wilders, then he falls off Wind Song and nearly drowns himself.”
“I know, I know,” I answer, imitating Helmar’s deep voice. “He’s nothing but trouble, spouting nonsense, costing us valuable time. He can’t use a longbow or a sword, he can’t sky a dragon, and with that leg of his, he can’t keep up. Frankly, my dear, he’s not worth our time. We should get rid of him.”
They’re almost to the cabin when I see Cara point back at the dragons. “Now she’s telling Helmar, that there’s only one reason to keep me around. To water, feed, and pick up after the dragons, and oh yes, be a mother duck for the sprogs.”
I see Helmar shake his head and wave a dismissive hand before he and Cara enter the hut. Obviously, I think to myself, Helmar must believe that I’m not even good enough for that.
I whirl around, my anger and hurt building inside me. I’d like to see them get lost in the dark, with wolves and trolls lurking in every shadow, ready to sink their fangs in them. Or, worse, a witch just waiting to wrap her claws around their throats and strangle the life from them.
Oh sure, they wouldn’t have gotten up on the golden to ride, they would have stayed loyal to Lord Lorell’s stupid decree to the very end. Well, I’m not one of them. I may have a miserable, rotten, go-away-and-leave-me-alone life, but it’s all I have, and I’m not going to give up on my life. Not for some stinking dragon.
I kick at a clump of grass and trudge toward what appears to be a line of treetops that snake behind a rolling ridge. I hear a snuffling behind me and turn to find Scamper following behind, poking his nose into this and that. He seems to have resolved whatever his argument was with his adversary because his fur seems intact, and I can see that his tummy is a bit rounded, meaning that he’s found something to eat, somewhere.
I’m glad he’s eaten, I just wished he’d shared. My stomach feels like one gigantic empty cavern and at this point, I’d even consider some fat worms dug up by Scamper to fill it.
I make my way up the small hill and stop. At the knoll’s base runs a tiny stream that meanders between two little hillocks before it wanders out of sight. I pick my way down the modest incline and find a small pool where I can dip the flasks under the water.
While the deer hide containers are filling, I set aside my bow and quiver while I cup the water to my mouth and drink deeply before I splash a little over my cheeks and neck. The coolness calms my anger and the flush on my face.
The bubbles escaping from the containers as they fill are almost gone, and I’m about to draw the pouches from the water when a dark shadow falls across the stream.
I try to leap away, but I’m too clumsy. I awkwardly trip and fall before rolling onto my back. Silhouetted in the sun’s glare is a large, dark-skinned man. His open leather jerkin hangs over bulging chest muscles. With arms and hands that look the size of trees, he shoulders a gleaming two-edged ax. I have no doubt of his ability to wield the fearsome blade.
Moreover, I have no doubt that he’s about to wield it on me.
At that moment, I resolve that if I live through this, I am going to learn how to use a bow.
The question is, am I going to live through this?
Chapter 17
I reach for my bow, but I’m too slow and fumble away my chance to bring the longbow to bear. The ax swings through the air straight at my head. I can’t help myself, I close my eyes and let loose a scream of sheer terror. Instead of slicing my head open like a sharp blade through a watermelon, the edge of the ax barely kisses my forehead and nose.
I wait a moment before I’m able to open my eyes again, only to find the ax wielder bending over, his eyes fixed and hard while he keeps the blade centered on my face. He leans closer before his mouth slowly turns up into a smile and his chuckles turn into a deep belly laugh.
His smile abruptly ends with a yelp when a gray ball of flailing fury flies out of the air and lands squarely on the man’s broad shoulders.
Scamper sinks his tiny teeth into one ear. The burly man lets out a cry, reaches up, and grabs Scamper by the scruff of his neck.
He swings Scamper around so that the two are eye to eye. Scamper’s four paws are furiously scratching at nothing but air and his black lips curve back in a vicious snarl. Well, as ferocious as he can, which really isn’t saying much. From his mouth comes a throaty growl intermixed with high-pitched chitterings of anger.
The man holds Scamper out, turning him from side to side. “Humph,” the man growls. “You're small but plump. With a good roasting, you might be worth eating.”
That does it. Before he can stop me, I roll away, scramble to my feet and charge straight at the bare-chested man. I don’t even remember to draw my knife as I’m so enraged that he’d want to hurt Scamper.
Before I get close, the man lifts his ax up and holds it out level with the short, pointed wooden end aimed squarely at my gut. I manage to stop and suck in my stomach before he can twist the handle and have the blade bite into my flesh.
His brown eyes are like stone as he stares at me. “Hold, boy,” he rumbles in a deep, bass voice, “before you find yourself missing body parts.”