by GARY DARBY
I can hear the snap and crack as their bones and necks break from the fall. The two that were running in full-throated rage at Amil now struggle under the load of lifeless bodies before Amil dispatches them with two vicious swings of his ax.
Amil is a blur, never staying in one spot for more than an instant. If Amil were roaring floodwaters, the drogs would be a standing pool of water.
Before one of the brutish thugs can swing his spear around in time, Amil’s double-bladed weapon buries itself in his chest. Before the beast has even begun to drop to the ground, Amil yanks his ax out of the thing’s chest.
Another drog charges at Amil, but the big man viciously swings his ax up, slicing the monster’s spear point off its shaft. He grabs the spear and yanks it toward him. The drog hangs on, stumbles toward Amil, and doesn’t realize until Amil buries his ax in his head, how stupid he was not to let go.
Two drogs come at Amil from opposite sides before he’s had time to rip his blade out from the dead drog’s skull. I jerk my knife out, but I know how foolish it would be to brandish my little knife in front of a brtue that’s carrying a spear twice as long as I am high. So I do the only thing I can think of and have never done before.
I throw it.
And somehow the blade plants itself deep in the drog’s eye. His scream bounces off the keep’s wall, but that doesn’t stop his comrade from charging straight at Amil, ready to bury his spear point in Amil’s chest.
He only takes one more step before the golden’s tail whips around, and her two tail spikes rip through his stomach. He stands there for a moment, a blank expression on his face, staring at his guts as they spill out onto the stone paving before his eyes go dull, and he falls over to lie motionless.
The drogs try to get at Amil with their gaffs, but even with their long spears, they're afraid to get too close; afraid that his flashing blade will slice their lances in two.
I hear a meaty thunk! And another drog spins with a screech, pulling at the arrow buried deep in his chest.
Amil charges at the pack, a whirling dervish with an ax that never seems to stop slashing and slicing at thick, gray drog bodies. The remaining brutes have had enough, they turn and bolt away. Amil holds his bloody ax up to me in salute, and I pump my fist in acknowledgment.
I hurry over to the drog that I killed and, though my stomach churns, do what I have to and yank my knife out of its sightless eye. I wipe it on his loin cloth just as Amil yells at me, “Hooper, get the pins out!”
I hobble back to Wind Song’s leg chain and using my knife point, manage to wiggle the metal pin that’s holding the clamp. As it drops to the paving with a clink, I turn to glance back at the turret walkway and mutter, “Uh-oh.”
Daron and Prince Aster have reappeared, and Helmar is in a desperate sword battle with the two. Their swords flash in the torchlight, and I can hear the repeated clangs as their blades meet.
How Helmar is holding the two off is beyond me. Even with the prince fighting with his left arm instead of his right, it’s obvious that he’s a master swordsman with either arm.
From the other direction, I see a whole phalanx of men-at-arms, lances at the ready charging down the paved way. Cara and Phigby are racing to head them off, but it will be a dozen armed and angry soldiers against just the two. I’ve lost sight of Master Boren and don’t know where he’s gone.
Amil has Wind Glory’s leg free and spurts over to Rover to furiously work at the leg clamp. I reach up and grab Song’s rope, pull her head down and start sawing through the bindings. I cut through the last strand, and she’s free.
I dash over to Wind Glory and start slicing through her ropes. Almost finished, I turn my head and glance at the desperate battle on the walkway.
Helmar is somehow still holding his own, but he’s having to give ground to his two assailants. Cara holds her bowstring taut, arrow notched but is holding back from loosing her arrow for some reason.
Phigby is furiously digging into his haversack, for what I don’t know. Just as I slash through the last of Wind Glory’s ties, I hear Phigby call out loudly with words I don’t understand and from his bag he pulls forth a sparkling orb.
The thing looks like it’s giving off a shower of sparks. He holds it aloft, still muttering, and then, of all things, lowers it and sends it rolling toward the charging guards, just as if he were bowling for ninepins on the Common back in Draconton.
The ball of light whirls, spins, and hops as it rolls, faster and faster toward the men-at-arms. The front line of guards spots the thing coming toward them and slide to a halt. They bring their lances down as if they would skewer the sputtering sphere.
They scowl at the crackling orb, but there’s a hint of fear in their eyes, too. After all, they’re used to fighting other men armed like they are, and not being attacked by a ball that spits out tiny flames and sparkles like sunlight off water.
The ball rolls up, stops, and for a moment, just sits there, fizzing. The guards take a step forward, their lance points lowered at the sphere. Suddenly, the globe explodes, sending tiny flashing streaks of light everywhere.
The little blazes swarm upward in a sparkling cloud and then dive toward the guards. My eyes bulge at the sight. The little sparkles are dragons, miniature versions of Golden Wind! They flash in and around the soldiers who swat at them as if a cloud of mosquitoes had descended.
Only these “mosquitoes” squirt flame and fire.
The miniature dragons spew little flames of fire on exposed faces, hands, arms, and posteriors. They flit in and out so fast that it’s all the guards can do to dance around trying to swat at them with a hand or swing a lance to try and knock one out of the air.
All to no avail.
The little things are streaks of light, buzzing through the air almost too fast for the eye to see. It’s as though dozens of children with sparklers were waving them furiously in the air all at once.
My eyes flash back to Helmar. It’s not good. Aster and Daron have him pinned against a parapet. Their slicing, stabbing thrusts are too much. I can see the desperation in his face. He can’t hold out much longer.
Then, from out of a tower turret, Master Boren appears. In his hand is a broadsword, and he marches purposefully toward his son and Prince Aster. Now I understand where he disappeared to, he went in search of a weapon.
I catch movement coming from the far tower’s door, it’s several swordsmen, and they dash toward the parapet battle.
Master Boren and the sword-wielding soldiers arrive practically at the same time, Master Boren takes his place alongside Helmar, while the guards close ranks next to Prince Aster.
It’s quickly evident that Master Boren may be a master at one-on-one swordplay, but against that many adversaries, he’s outclassed.
With a last vicious yank of my knife, I cut through Glory’s rope. The dragons are growling, roaring, stomping their feet, but the pin in Rover’s clamp seems to be melded into the chain.
Amil snaps, “Your knife!” I toss it to him and turn back to the battle on the wall.
Both Helmar and Master Boren are in desperate straits while Cara and Phigby are still holding at bay the other lancers. Those guards are still swatting at the buzzing tiny dragons but the moment Phigby’s dragons fizz out, they’ll be back in the fight.
I’ve got to go help Master Boren and Helmar, neither can last much longer. “Golden Wind!” I yell out, “Helmar, Master Boren — they need help!” She quickly sets down, and I rush over to clamber up to her neck.
“On the wall!” I shout to Amil. “They’re in trouble, I’m going up there.” He doesn’t answer but redoubles his efforts to get the pesky pin out of Rover’s leg chain.
“Sky!” I command and the golden bolts upward, heels over, and we speed right at Aster and Daron. Maybe something in Helmar’s or Boren’s eyes warned them, as at the last instant, they lunge down and to the side. Not so for the guards. Golden Wind’s appearance scatters them every which way.
We wheel around t
o try again for Aster and Daron but just then, I spot a company of archers running across the far walkway. Their eyes are on Amil and they have a clear shot at the big man.
Phigby’s dragon swarm is petering out, but not before they’ve backed the men-at-arms down the pavement and into the turret. “Phigby! Cara!” I shout, pointing. “Master Boren and Helmar!”
They both spin but while Phigby charges down the crosswalk, Cara lets her arrow fly. It flashes across the courtyard and buries itself in the back of one of Boren’s opponents. The man jerks, staggers, drops his sword and crumples to the ground.
Phigby bolts through a corner turret and reappears. It’s as if he’d pulled a sword out of thin air, waving it wildly over his head. He rushes down the walkway, his bag bouncing over his shoulder, his foil held high.
“The archers!” I shout to the golden. “Get them before they skewer Amil.”
She beats her wings furiously, and we rush through the air. She catches the archers from behind, her back talons knocking archers left and right off the wall. Their screams fill the air as they plummet to their death.
The few that do escape dart away in disarray making for the closest turret tower and safety. I glance down into the quad just in time to see Amil pull Rover’s leg pin out and throw it away. The three sapphires are free.
I turn the golden back toward Helmar, Boren, and Phigby. Master Boren has finished his man off and for a moment, father and son face each other, sword point to sword point. Boren stands staring at his son, expressionless, but then he lowers his sword.
He cannot — he will not kill his son.
But Daron has no such qualms toward his father. His bellow is pure rage, and he charges at Master Boren. At the last instant, Phigby leaps between the two, his sword slashing downward, driving Daron’s point into the paving blocks.
Helmar and Aster are in a battle royal. Their ringing blows resound in the courtyard. They lunge and slash, back and forth, sparks flying off the edges of their swords as if a blacksmith hammered at their blades in a forge. I’m caught by their furious fight until I catch movement out of my eye. I groan, “No.”
A dozen swordsmen rush from the tower to join with Aster and Daron. Their blades flash in the moonlight, slowly, but surely driving Phigby, Helmar and Boren back.
“Do you have any fire left?” I call.
“Yes,” the golden answers. “But Master Boren and the others are too close, my fire would catch them, too.”
“Not if we can get them to move out of range,” I answer.
Still, I think, even if the three can’t get out of the way, the appearance of four dragons might ward off Aster and his thugs. I glance down into the courtyard to see Amil scrambling up on Wind Rover. I cup my mouth and shout, “Amil, up here!”
He jerks his head up, sees me, and waves. A moment later, the sapphires are in the air. I point at the dueling swordsmen and Amil nods in understanding. The golden rises over the battlement, and I yell, “Master Boren, Helmar, Phigby! Look out!”
In answer, they give a quick glance upward, see the sapphires and turn to run. Aster and his swordsmen stand upright for an instant, startled, but then they too see the oncoming dragons. In complete disarray, they sprint down the walkway, toward the safety of the keep tower.
Abruptly, they stop and are tossed aside by an ebony wedge, darker than night blackness.
Vay floats through the darkness and across the walkway. As she glides over the paving, I hear a scraping noise as if someone is dragging chains. She’s slithering toward Boren, Helmar, and Phigby, her eyes glowing an angry red inside her hood.
She sweeps across the stone pavement. Even from a distance, just like her smoke tendrils in the keep tower, her evil reaches out, touches me, and I recoil in disgust at the touch.
But her eyes do not flash toward me. Instead, they’re centered on Helmar — she thirsts for the Gem Guardian.
Phigby turns and steps in front of Helmar as if to protect him. He straightens to his full height and faces Vay. The fairy glides up to him and her voice is like the hiss of a giant snake. I see you, she rasps. Why do you fight? You know that you and your weak ones cannot stand against me.
“We shall not only fight you,” Phigby grinds out, “the right shall win the day, and you and all your wickedness shall be once and for all time, cast out.”
Her laugh is both a cackle and a shriek. It shall be you that is cast out. You’ve chosen wrongly, and the price will be that you shall never return.
She raises her arms high as she would unleash her powers and threatens, Now move aside, that one is mine, him and what he carries.
Neither Phigby, nor Boren, nor Helmar run but stand firm against the evil hag. When they don’t stand aside, she brings her hands together with the clap of thunder. A black wave explodes outward, blasting the three backward.
They tumble and roll on the hard paving, slamming against the parapet wall. Helmar and Boren don’t move, but Phigby struggles to rise to face Vay again.
The golden sets down on the walkway, placing her body between Vay and the barely standing Phigby as well as Helmar and Master Boren.
As I clamber off Golden Wind’s neck, the golden roars defiantly at Vay. Vay laughs and points at her. You are mine, too, and you shall ever be mine to command and to rule over a whole world.
I hurry to Phigby, who’s wheezing for breath and goes to one knee. He waves me on to Helmar, choking, “The jewel, Hooper, get the jewel.”
“It won’t do any good,” I cry. “Helmar’s out cold, he can’t utter the power words.”
Phigby reaches up, pulls me down so that we’re eye to eye. “Hooper,” he huffs between breaths and reaches up to place his hand on my tunic where my heart beats loud.
“Listen to this, what does it tell you? Think! Each time the gem was used, was it really Helmar wielding the gemstone?”
He tugs at my tunic pulling me a bit closer. “Who really is the Gem Guardian?”
I stare at him, my eyes wide, and my heart thumping in my chest. Could it be true? No, I was only the caretaker, nothing more.
“What are you saying?” I croak, shaking my head, unwilling to acknowledge what my heart, my soul is telling me.
“Only what you know,” Phigby answers and presses on my chest, “and what this is telling you.”
I jerk back in surprise, my eyes wide. Phigby pulls me around and points at Helmar, “Go, before she claims an innocent one.”
The golden’s roars fill the night as if she would shake the fortress walls until they tumble down around us. I turn to Phigby, uncertain, frightened by his words.
“I can’t be the Gem Guardian,” I plead. “No, it has to be Helmar, he’s strong, I’m not, I’m only a — ”
In the midst of the golden’s mighty roars, I hear her voice, soft and calm.
You’re as strong as you want to be, Hooper Menvoran, Gem Guardian. Now is your time, take up that which only you can wield and save your friends.
I swallow, slowly turn and stumble over to Helmar. He’s breathing, but his eyes are tightly closed. I don’t know how long I stand there, hesitant, unsure, unwilling to do what is being asked of me, and yes, terrified that if I take up the jewel, Vay will surely turn her anger and fury upon me.
I’m only Hooper, how can I stand up against Vay with all her dark power and evil magic?
Slowly, I force my trembling hand down to pull the emerald from Helmar’s tunic. It glows bright in my hand, warm and alive as if it were a part of me.
I glance at the frond inside. It’s completely unfurled and glowing with a radiant emerald hue.
I take a deep breath and stand upright. Vay is slowly, but surely pushing the golden back. It will be but moments before the evil one reaches Phigby and in his weakened condition, he will be no match for her.
An idea forms in my head and I whirl around looking for something living, something from the greenery, but the walkway is completely bare.
As if from far away, I hear the Gaelian Fae’s
soft whisper,
Bring forth the blight, show it the light,
That which you hid, it shall do thy bid.
In sudden understanding, I reach inside my tunic and pull out the dragon bane that I had placed there in what now seems so long ago. Amazingly, the petals are still alive, still blood-red.
Blood-red, I think, suitable for Vay.
I grasp both the petals and the gem firmly in my hand and march resolutely to stand beside the golden. Vay’s eyes flick toward me and the gemstone I hold.
She holds out her skeletal claws. Give that to me, child and begone or die where you stand.
I take a deep breath and raise myself to my full height. “No.”
At first, my voice is hardly more than a whisper, then the golden roars again and I say in a strong, confident voice, “The Gem Guardian does not answer to the likes of you.”
Vay stands frozen in place, her eyes widen in sudden understanding before she hisses, You!
“Yes,” I answer with my face and eyes locked hard. “It was just Hooper all along.”
A gust of wind beats at me as the golden takes to the air. I hear other wings and without turning know that the three sapphires have joined Golden Wind.
I thrust Pengillstorr’s tear jewel high, throw the petals in the air, and shout, Vald Hitta Sasi Ein! Power to this One!
The dragons unleash their fire on Vay.
The emerald’s glow reaches out, focuses the dragon fire so that Vay is caught in a maelstrom of fire and fury, a caldron of scalding, sizzling flames that matches the color of the dragon bane. The blaze surrounds her, a fiery whirlwind with her in the center.
The petals spin around Vay, faster and faster until they burst into a raging blood-red pillar that roars upward into the night like a crimson whirlwind. The blaze lights up the keep as if a dozen dragons stood on the parapet walls and unleashed their fire into the evening sky.
For an instant, Vay stretches out her arms as if she would attack the firestorm and her shriek seems to shake the bastion walls. I will have what is mine!