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

by GARY DARBY

  For some reason, what I remember most, was how the horse’s flanks quivered in anticipation as if it couldn’t wait for Lord Lorell to release it on a wild, free run through the meadows.

  My body trembles and shakes, just like that horse. Not from waiting for a wild dash down to the tower walls, but from the sheer terror of what I was about to attempt.

  I put a hand on Scamper’s head. “Ready, Scamp?”

  He’s quivering too, only his is from the anticipation of a wild run through the grass and brush to the tower base.

  “Hooper,” I say to myself, trying to build up my courage, “the golden hasn’t been wrong before, you’ve got to trust her on this.”

  I peer again at the fortress. I slowly survey the stonework and the vine web, trying to decide the best place to hide. I lean forward a little to get a better look, and as I do, I notice an irregular darker spot almost in the vine’s center.

  “Must be a little thicker there,” I murmur to myself. “And thicker means a good place to hide from that guard up there.”

  Just then, Scamper decides to take matters in his own paws and bounds away, headed straight for the tower. “No!” I hiss as I reach out to stop him, but I’m too late.

  Muttering under my breath, I tuck myself low and hunched over, scuttle from tree to tree, hoping that none of the guards on the ramparts will spot me and sound the alarm. If that happens, I will have no choice but to turn tail and scurry back to the meadow.

  I stop at the last of the larger trees that can shield me from view and peek around the trunk. I can’t see Scamper anywhere, but there’s one guard at the wall’s junction, his lance pointed upward to the stars.

  He scans the nearby grounds and then turns to walk toward the other wall corner. A few clouds slide in front of the moon, casting everything in darkness.

  This is my chance.

  I take a deep breath, gather myself and rush out. Keeping my eyes on the guard, I stumble along, feeling as if I’m making so much noise that I might as well be riding on a lumbering dragon, thumping talons and all. The walls seem like they’re ten leagues away, and I’ll never get there.

  Almost out of breath from both exertion and fear, I stagger the last few steps and brace my back against the stone blocks. They’re rough and coarse, and I can hear a slight raspy sound as my tunic scrapes against the chiseled granite.

  I turn my head upward to gauge if the guard spotted me. I hold my breath, waiting for the alarm to sound, but all remains dark and silent.

  I edge along the mortared wall, placing each step as quietly as I possibly can. I keep my eyes turned upward while I let my left hand slide along the wall. I haven’t gone far when my hand and arm disappear into thick foliage. I let out a breath, I’ve found my hiding spot until the guard turns for the far tower.

  A slight touch on my ankle almost causes me to yelp in fright before I look down.

  Two mischievous coal-black eyes stare up at me. I swear he has a grin on his face from scaring me like that.

  I glare at Scamper for an instant before I swing my gaze upward. I can see a sliver of light, streaming from the window far above. And in the scant glow, I can just barely make out that the vines go up and around the window. Which is a good thing, I think to myself, I’m certainly not going to sky through that window.

  I slide into the thicker growth and just to make sure, tug on the vines to test their strength. They seem stout enough, but just then, I hear brisk footsteps on the wall walkway above me.

  I quickly glance up. The guard’s pace is faster than before, and he has his head tilted slightly as if he hears something, but uncertain as to what.

  Uh, oh. The watchmen’s hurrying steps tell me that he’s grown suspicious, perhaps over the scraping of my tunic against the stonework. I quietly push myself deeper into the vine lattice until I’m flat against the stones, hoping that the leaves will cover me, shielding me from the guard’s view.

  I hold perfectly still, but with my head turned toward the walkway above. A head appears over the wall. The guard pushes himself a bit farther out to peer at the vines. He doesn’t move, just stares at the foliage.

  He steps back to bring his lance up, hefting it in his hand. His eyes are focused on my flimsy, leafy barrier, and he cocks his arm as he readies the spear for flight. The lance’s cruel honed point glints in the moonlight; targeted straight at me.

  It’s aimed right at my olive-covered shell which will become my death chamber if his aim is true. The guard’s arm slides farther back as if he wants to put as much force behind his throw as he possibly can.

  My heart is thumping, and it takes every bit of willpower that I have not to scream out for him to stop. I want to break free and flee for my life, but before I make my move, a strong breeze springs up, rattling and shaking the leaves.

  The guard stops and leans forward again, his stare intent on the rustling foliage. His eyes are still hard and locked, but then the breeze blows up against him, causing his jerkin to flap in the wind.

  He slowly lowers his lance and straightens. With a last look at the fluttering leaves and the nearby countryside, he lowers his lance, turns and retraces his route back to the wall’s far corner.

  I let out a long breath in relief and lean my head against the coarse stone. I wait a bit before I step back, and peer intently at the walkway. The guard has disappeared, and I hear the last of his footsteps as he walks his post toward the other watch tower.

  “That was close, Scamp,” I whisper to Scamper, who through all of this, has held perfectly still. Something I didn’t think he was capable of doing.

  Scamper answers me by standing on his two back paws and clawing at the air. His meaning is clear; it’s time we started our climb. I scratch at my head. The golden said that Scamper might come in useful. I don’t know how, but she must have had her reasons.

  With a little sigh, I pick him up and set him into my tunic hood. He settles his little rump in the pocket and grabs my head with his front paws. With the extra weight on my back, I mutter, “Now I know how the golden feels.”

  I again check the wall to make sure it’s clear of any guards and start to climb. The limbs bear my weight, but they sway and sag as if I’m walking on a creaky rope bridge. Pushing upward on my bad leg is painful and makes for slow going. It’s not long before my leg is trembling and weak each time I pull myself up and brace my foot on a thick tendril.

  I’m not sure how far I’ve come when I glance down. Even with the moonlight, at this height, it’s hard to distinguish small features on the ground below. The vine I’m standing on sags and quivers under my weight, and I whisper to myself through lips that glisten with sweat, “And I thought skying on a dragon was bad.”

  I reach up to grasp the next vine when the limb I’m standing on splits, leaving me dangling and holding on with just two hands. I hear a sound like cloth ripping and look up.

  The vine I’m holding onto is pulling away from the wall. Before I can get my feet on the closest nearby stem, the plantlike rope rips from the wall, and I’m suddenly sailing through the air.

  To my credit, I manage to stifle my yell. I swing off to one side. Leaves and branches scratch at my face as I scrape against the wall. I grab at anything within reach. Twice I come up with a handful of leaves before I finally manage to snag a thick vine and halt my wild ride.

  I manage to plant both feet on a branch and hold tight to my saving bough. If anyone was watching from below, they’d think I was hugging the wall, and they’d be right. I try to catch my breath, panting like a dog in the middle of a hot summer. Scamper makes tint mewing sounds as if he’s regretting his choice to come along with me.

  I don’t blame him one bit.

  I glance toward the battlement walkway and wait, but no head appears over the edge to investigate the noise from my wild ride. “Must be napping,” I murmur. “If so, I hope it’s a long one.”

  I don’t want to move, but I can’t stay here. I reach up, grab the next higher thick stem, and pus
h on, one hand up, one leg up, then the other hand and the other leg.

  I decide to keep my face to the wall as looking downward only makes me realize that if I make it to the top, it only means that I may still have to climb down.

  I lose track of time. For me, the only thing that matters is grasping the next branch and the one after that, and the one after that. My eyes pick out the next vine, and I reach for it when my hand stops in mid-air.

  Voices!

  Muted voices, as if someone is speaking in low, hushed tones and so soft that I can neither make out their words nor be sure who is doing the talking.

  I glance upward, and a wan smile lifts my cheeks. I’m less than a body length from the window edge. Slower than even before, as I don’t want to make any noise, I climb the last few branches.

  I reach the window and slowly edge up to peek around one corner of the windowsill. A big grin cracks my face. Cara and Helmar!

  Their wrists and ankles are bound, and they’re sitting close to each other on three-legged stools. I edge up a little higher and see off in one corner Phigby, and Amil. Otherwise, the room is empty. It was they whom I heard speaking.

  Just as I start to scoot up higher, I hear the door creak open and duck back down. I can’t see, but I hear firm footsteps and then Cara’s sharp, “Daron!”

  And then I hear stumbling footsteps and Cara cries out, “Father!”

  A gasp almost escapes my lips and for a moment, I almost slip off the vine I’m standing on in complete surprise.

  Dragon Master Boren Dracon is alive, as is his son.

  Cara is softly sobbing, and then I hear the rustling of clothing and then, “There, there, Cara,” in Master Boren’s deep bass voice.

  “Father,” Cara sobs, “I thought you were dead. You and Daron.”

  Boren’s voice holds a terrible sadness as he replies, “At least one of us is, daughter.”

  “What?” Cara questions. “What do you mean, father?”

  Even from outside the window, I can hear Master Boren’s deep, mournful sigh. “When your son goes against all that is right, all that is good; when he kidnaps his own father, holds him captive in a cold, hard dungeon. How can he be anything but dead to me?”

  “Father, what are you talking about?”

  There is a rustling of clothing and Master Boren says, “Shall I tell her, Daron, or is there still a shred of manhood in you that will acknowledge just what you’ve been doing?”

  There’s a sharp laugh from Daron and then, “Oh, don’t be so self-righteous, father. It’s not like you’ve been perfect all your life. You and I know both know of some of the shady dealings you and Lorell cooked up after the golden was born.”

  It’s not just Master Boren’s remarks that hold me fast, there’s something in Daron’s voice that keeps me from rising up and revealing myself. Master Boren was firm but there was a very real note of apprehension in his voice.

  Daron is neither anxious nor uneasy. His tone is hard, cold, confident. “And if you had cooperated you wouldn’t have spent one moment in the dungeon, but no, you had to be stubborn and self-righteous so you really brought it upon yourself, you know.”

  “Daron,” Cara chokes out, “I have absolutely no idea of what you’re talking about but you need to help us. Untie us so that we can get away from here.”

  Daron doesn’t answer right away. Instead, I hear footsteps in the room, his apparently, and it sounds as if he’s pacing back and forth. “No,” Daron mutters. “No, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Helmar rasps.

  “Because,” Daron snaps in reply, “we only have half of what we need.” His tone has a tinge of anger, but something else, desperation perhaps.

  “Daron,” Cara pleads, “what’s wrong with you? Cut these bindings and help us out of here.”

  “Nothing is wrong with me, Cara,” he retorts sharply. “In fact, I’m on the right side, it’s you and your merry little band here that are on the wrong side.

  “But let me explain it to you in simple terms. We have one half of what we need and want in father. Now, we need the other half. Cara, for your own welfare, and father’s, I need to know where Golden Wind is, and I need to know now. Where is she?”

  Cara doesn’t answer. Instead, Helmar says slowly, “A better question is, why are you doing this? I have the feeling it’s not to protect the golden or your father.”

  “Why am I doing this?” Daron replies with a sharp laugh. “That’s easy to answer, Master Novice. Unlike you, I want nothing to do with Draconstench. The golden is my way out from doing nothing more with my life than tending to dumb beasts.

  “I wasn’t born to be a mere dragon herder, worrying if they have enough to eat or if dragon bane has made its way into the meadows. Oh no, you and my father may want that life, but not me, not now, not ever. I want more, much more than that.”

  My mouth sags open just a bit. I never realized that there was someone else in the world that hated dragons as much as me. But to be like Daron? I shudder at the thought.

  For an instant, I hang my head and think, I’m not really like him, am I?

  Daron’s voice comes again, shrill and terse. “And I’m going to get what I deserve and want, which is a life away from the smallness and boring life I had back there. Mark my words, it will be mine.”

  Gone are the sobs of happiness in Cara’s voice. Instead, she pleads, “Daron, please, please tell me that you didn’t have anything to do with the attack on Draconton or Draconstead.”

  Daron’s silence is his answer. Cara’s piteous moan tells me that she realizes that her brother knew beforehand that the vicious attack was coming and how destructive it would be. Her brother is a murderer of innocent people, all in the name of ill-gained lucre.

  Then I hear Master Boren. “How bad was it, Cara?”

  “Completely destroyed,” she answers in a hollow voice. “From what I know, everyone is . . . ” she can’t go on, and I can hear her softly crying.

  I can hear clothing rustling again, and I have the impression that Master Boren now faces his son. “You were not only part of the subterfuge that got me to the Manor House and my capture by the Wilders, but you let them destroy and kill — ”

  “Oh, enough,” Daron snaps. “So a few villagers, a few peasants got killed, and a bunch of old buildings burned to the ground. What do I care about that? Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s why,” Helmar growls, “you didn’t want me to leave the Manor House. You intended for the Wilders to capture both your father and me.”

  “Of course,” Daron pronounces snidely. “But just so you’ll know, I made certain that neither of you were to be harmed. If the fools had done the job right, we’d have father, you and the golden in hand by now, instead of playing these silly games of scouring the countryside. Now it appears that that rabble of idiots let the golden escape.”

  He lets a breath out. “But I have the feeling you know where we can find her. So let’s make it easy on everyone and just tell me where she’s gone.”

  “You’re in league with the Wilders,” Cara says in a voice that is so full of disbelief that it comes out as the barest of whispers.

  Then, Cara’s loud gasp is accompanied by clothing swishing and the squeak of a stool leg that makes me think that Daron has grabbed his sister.

  His voice rises in ferocity so that it’s almost a snarl. “Don’t look at me that way! I didn’t kill anyone, the Wilders did all that,” he snarls.

  “Now listen, I made sure that you and father and Helmar were not to be hurt in the raid and you weren’t. However, my ability to keep all of you safe now depends on one thing and one thing only — that I can deliver the golden.”

  “Daron!” Helmar demands. “Let her go, you’re hurting her.”

  Only heavy breathing breaks the silence but then I hear a grunt and the scrape of a stool as if Daron had roughly pushed Cara away. “Daron,” calls Phigby, who until now had been silent. “I underst
and why they want the golden, but why your father and Helmar?”

  Daron laughs in reply. “That’s because you and everyone else have underestimated the Wilders. You think that the Drachen War reduced them to just a small clan that raids along the hinterland every so often.

  “But you and everyone else are wrong. Stupidly wrong. The Wilders are so much more than a small band of dragon riders. Their lands extend far beyond what the maps show.”

  The tone of his voice takes on a tinge of awe. “And their dragon herds? Lorell’s puny holdings would be but a few sprogs compared to theirs. Vast lands and all covered with dragons.”

  I can hear him draw in a breath before saying, “I know, I saw.”

  “You saw!?” Cara sputters. “You mean you’ve been to their lairs?”

  Daron laughs again. “Lairs! They don’t live in burrows like animals, Cara. That’s just what they want everyone to believe, to make it seem that they’re some sort of ignorant savages.”

  “All right,” Helmar says, “let’s assume that we believe you, for now. That still doesn’t answer the question, why Master Boren and myself?”

  “Yes, Daron,” Cara demands. “What do the Wilders want with father and Helmar?”

  I hear a few more footfalls as if Daron is pacing again. “Breeding,” he finally answers.

  “Breeding!” Boren exclaims. “You don’t need a Dragon Master for breeding. Dragons are quite capable of doing that all on their own.”

  “That’s true,” Daron answers, “if all you were after is the usual varieties of dragons, but not if you wanted very unique, very special dragons. That takes the experience and knowledge of a Dragon Master.

  “And I have to admit, there’s none better than you, father. Everyone knows that Dragon Master Boren Dracon is the best in all the land.”

  He pauses and then says, “And a good Dragon Master needs a good apprentice to help him. After all, father, you are getting a bit old.”