The Queen's Vow (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 2)

by GARY DARBY

  Phigby nods several times vigorously. “That I am.”

  “The Queen’s Vow?” Cara questions. “Which is . . .”

  “A risky and dangerous venture,” Phigby swiftly replies and before Cara can ask further questions, adds, “as the Golians don’t tolerate trespassers and particularly if they are Drachs riding dragons.”

  His eyes twinkle. “And more so if they are Wilders, as at their Colosseun Barrier.”

  “But,” I point out, “the giants didn’t shoot at us, and we were riding dragons.”

  “Sapphire dragons,” Phigby notes, “and not scarlet like the Wilders. It’s my thought that it was the Queen’s Vow that protected us when the Wilders attacked at the barrier.

  “The Golians surely know of the golden, they saw her, saw us accompanying the golden, and those two things protected us from their arrows.”

  Master Boren rumbles, “If so, then the precedent most decidedly works in our favor.”

  “Precedent? Queen’s Vow?” Cara blurts in an exasperated tone. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I,” I rejoin.

  Master Boren nods toward Phigby. “Tell them the story.”

  Phigby takes a step forward, straightens himself, and addresses us as if he were in the center of a classroom and we his students.

  “The second golden dragon that came to our world, Noble Wind, gave birth to Crimson Fury, who grew into the mightiest red dragon of all time. He carried Lord Braveson to final victory against Malonda Kur’s Wilder Horde.

  “What many have forgotten about that struggle is that the final, monumental battle took place when the Wilders attacked Dronopolis. Or as some call it, the City of Queens, the capital of Golian.”

  “Phigby,” I say. “You talk as if this actually happened, but it’s just legend, isn’t it?”

  In annoyance, Phigby shakes his head. “Hooper, you know that in all legends—”

  “I know, I know,” I sigh, “there is always some basis in fact.”

  “That’s right,” Phigby grumps. “Now, as I was saying, at the time of the rampage, when Malonda Kur’s Wilders swept across Golian, their numbers were practically countless and not even the Amazos of Golian were able to stop them.”

  “Amazos?” I question.

  Before Phigby can answer, Amil explains, “One of the few things that is known of the domain, is that it is a matriarchal realm.

  “Their warriors and leaders are all females, and fearsome in battle even if they weren’t giants. They call themselves The Amazos.”

  “Yes,” Phigby goes on, “but fearsome or not, they weren’t able to withstand the Wilder onslaught when it came, for their numbers were too few.

  “They called for aid, and it was Lord Braveson and his dragon army that answered. The battle raged for three days and three nights, but in the end, Lord Braveson vanquished the Wilders and drove them back from whence they came.”

  “If that’s so,” Cara asks, “then why are the Golians so secretive? From what I know, they have no contact with anyone and don’t allow Drachs to cross their borders. You’d think they would be a bit more grateful.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Amil declares. “A few scattered villages along the border have sporadic dealings with the giants, mostly to trade, but nothing beyond that.

  “I know that King Leo has tried for years to establish a diplomatic mission with them, but without success.”

  “But,” says Phigby, “the answer to your question, Cara, lies in what happened before the Wilder invasion of Golian. You see, in those days, we Drachs had regular trade routes and other relations with the Golians.

  “But sadly, it was later proved that some Drach traders acted as Wilder spies and collected information about the Golian’s defenses which they sold to the Wilders.”

  Phigby’s mouth turns down in a dark scowl. “Malonda Kur exploited the Domain’s weak points and devastated vast swathes of the Golian realm.”

  “So,” Cara breathes out, “they blame us for the destruction and are afraid that more spies will enter their territory if they reopen their borders to us Drachs.”

  She peers at Phigby with a puzzled expression. “But just how does that help us find sanctuary with them now?”

  “During the final battle,” Phigby explains, “Malonda Kur captured Queen Escher, the royal monarch of Golian. Lord Braveson personally rescued her and killed Malonda Kur.

  “When peace finally settled over the land Queen Escher made two vows. First, because of Drach treachery, she vowed that no Drach would ever set foot in their land again under pain of death unless they had a royal decree permitting entrance.

  “However, she also promised Lord Braveson that for as long as her line sat upon the throne, if ever a golden dragon appeared again, and we Drachs had need of the Amazos, we could call upon their sword arm for help.”

  Helmar shifts in his stance before he asks, “And what do we know of the Golians’ current queen? Is she a descendant of Queen Escher?”

  Phigby turns to Amil. “Well, Traveler, can you answer that?”

  Amil shakes his head. “Of that, I do not know. I’m not sure anyone knows.”

  “So,” Phigby answers in a matter-of-fact tone, “we have one piece of the puzzle, a golden dragon, but we do not have or know of the second piece—whether or not the current queen is Escher’s descendant.”

  “And if is she is not of Escher’s line?” I ask. “Or, what if she is and doesn’t care to honor Queen Escher’s vow?”

  “Then,” Phigby replies somberly, “it may be that we will experience firsthand the Amazos’ ferocity, and our blood will join with the Wilders’ who met death at the barrier and whose life fluid still stains the ground.”

  Chapter 2

  I swallow hard several times. I can still see the Wilders and their crimson beasts fall out of the sky with a dragon-piercing arrow embedded in scaled neck or body.

  I have always thought dragons were virtually invincible except to each other. Now I know better, and I can’t help but think that if that’s what a Golian arrow can do to a dragon, what would one do to my body?

  Split it in half?

  Amil may have been thinking the same, for he says, “Well, I would prefer not having my lifeblood spilt any time soon but if that is our course, just how do we go about it?

  “I would not recommend just riding up to the Amazos and announcing that we’re here to invoke Escher’s vow. Methinks we might be greeted with arrows and lances.”

  He eyes us and mutters, “A deadly barrage of arrows, I might add.”

  “Agreed,” Boren replies. “We need to be a bit more subtle than that.”

  He gestures at the distant high hills that lead to the mountains and asks Amil, “Traveler, what can you tell us about our surroundings?

  “Is there a place where we can both hide and find some way to get a message to the Golian queen in hopes of an audience with Her Majesty?”

  Amil stands but doesn’t immediately answer. His head follows the length of the pinnacled mountains before he gestures to the west and north.

  “If we follow the mountains farther upriver, there is a vale that comes down out of the hills which, supposedly, the Golians sometimes use to send scouts down to survey this side of the river.

  “ If we could make contact with one of them—”

  “Then we might be able to persuade her to take a message to the queen,” Phigby finishes.

  “Aye,” Amil answers, “but I don’t know how long we would have to wait before a giant shows up.

  “It could be days or even weeks and there is still the matter of hiding the golden, finding shelter for ourselves, food . . . ”

  He stops and rubs his stomach. “Especially the question of food.”

  “How do we find this particular valley?” Helmar questions.

  Amil nods and says, “I can take us to it. The Valley Where the Waters Meet.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “There’s a small
river,” Amil explains, “the Crawven, that cuts through the valley.”

  “The Crawven?” Cara questions. “I’ve never heard of a river named after a bird.”

  “Crawven eyes are what color?” Amil asks Cara.

  “Um, black with yellow specks,” she answers. “Rather odd, as I recall.”

  “This stream’s color,” Amil returns. “Bits of yellow sprinkled in flowing black water.”

  “You mean yellow, like the color of gold?” Cara replies. “I’ve heard that some rivers and streams carry gold, but—”

  “Not the Crawven,” Amil smiles wide.

  He holds up his thumb. “Fish. The Yellow Dapper and about the size of this. But you and many other gold-seekers have been fooled by the same thought.”

  Amil pauses and then says, “It’s called the Valley Where the Waters Meet because when the stream enters the Floden, on one side you have the turquoise of the Wolven Floden, on the other it’s completely dark.

  “They stay that way for about a league or so until the waters blend.”

  “Interesting,” Phigby says. “At another time, I would be sorely tempted to see this sight but my interest is more in meeting a Golian instead. You say that the Golians use this valley as an entryway to the Wolven?”

  “Aye,” Amil replies, “though I never saw one as I passed through four seasons ago.”

  Master Boren asks the group. “Does anyone have a better idea? I for one do not.”

  No one speaks in dissent so Master Boren declares, “Then if we travel by day, we use the forest paths. If we sky, we do so only at night. That will make it harder for those who search to find us.”

  He pauses far a long time as if considering something on his mind before turning to me. “Hooper, for your courage at Dunadain in saving all of us, I have no words that can adequately express my gratitude . I think I can speak for all of us when I say thank you.”

  I’m embarrassed as Master Boren has never spoken so kindly to me before.

  What’s more, even Cara gives me a tiny smile, too—a hesitant and forced smile, it appears; still, to have her smile at makes me feel as if I want to wiggle and jiggle in delight just like a puppy when it greets you.

  Then Master Boren’s expression hardens, and his mouth turns down in a scowl.

  “Be that as it may, Hooper, I have serious misgivings regarding your riding Golden Wind. Helmar and I have spoken at length over the matter, and though I understand that Lord Lorell is dead, and his decree regarding the golden died with him . . .”

  He pauses before saying firmly, “Still, I represent House Lorell, or, at least what’s left of it, and as the leader of this company, it is my wish to honor my former master.

  “Under the circumstances, I have no doubt that someone has to ride Golden Wind.”

  Boren again pauses and fixes me with a set, hard stare. “But to honor Lord Lorell and Golden Wind, her rider will certainly not be the least of his former stable hands.”

  His frown deepens. “Even if you are this so-called Gem Guardian—a matter in my mind yet to be determined—you are not to ride the golden. Is that clear?”

  “But Boren—” Phigby begins but Master Boren snaps up a hand to quiet him. “Phigby, I count you as friend, but you have no say in this matter.”

  He sweeps a hand at the dragons. “These are Lorell dragons, and I am their master. I will decide how they are used and by whom.”

  Master Boren turns back to me. “I have taken Cara’s and Helmar’s counsel in that you and they were placed in unique circumstances, and it goes without saying that your deeds at the keep saved us.

  “Therefore, for now, I am going to overlook your willful disobedience in riding the golden before we knew that Lord Lorell had died. However, I will not be as forgiving or understanding if there is a repeat. Is that understood?”

  I can only mumble a weak response and nod numbly in response. If Master Boren had given me a tongue-lashing in private, that I could accept—after all, verbal beratings has been my lot for years.

  However, for him to castigate me openly in front of Cara, that cut deeper than anything I’ve ever felt before.

  Worse, she just stood there, silent and let her father strip me of what little self-esteem I had managed to garner.

  Master Boren turns to Cara, Helmar, and Amil. “The dragons hunger for meat and need rest. Today, we hunt. Hopefully, we will find enough for them as well as ourselves. We break camp at sunset.”

  My face burning with embarrassment, I shuffle away. I want nothing more than to be alone. I wander into a small grove of what appears to be aspen trees.

  Even at this distance, though, I can hear loud arguing in the camp. Phigby’s voice is raised in anger while Master Boren’s tone and ire match.

  I can’t make out their words, but I really don’t care. I keep going until I can no longer hear their quarreling, set my back against a tree trunk and slide to the ground.

  Bringing my knees up to my chin, I bury my face in my crossed arms. I stay that way for the longest time, not really thinking, just feeling the hurt and shame.

  After a bit, a large shadow falls on me, causing me to jerk upright. With a start, I realize that in my haste to get away I’m alone and unarmed in the woods where hungry beasts may be on the prowl.

  I instantly sag in relief as I realize it’s just the golden.

  Abruptly, four smelly little dragon bodies rush out from under her feet and swarm over me. They push their muzzles into my face, screeping and trying to nuzzle me, but I’m in no mood for any of that right now.

  I roughly push them away. With disappointed looks on their silly pollywog faces, they promptly plop down on their backsides and sit staring at me as if they don’t understand my ill-treatment of them.

  Scamper pushes his way through some low-hanging purple-laced bushes and head-bumps me. He gives out a plaintiff, Aarrhh?

  “Sure, I’m just great, Scamper, just great.” I give his little head a knuckle rub to show that I’m not angry at him.

  I turn to make sure that no one is in earshot before uttering to the golden, “I’m not really in the mood for company right now, so if you don’t mind I’d rather be alone.”

  “That’s what I tried to explain to the sprogs,” Golden Wind answers, “but they were worried about you.”

  “Worried about me,” I snort. “I’m just fine so you can take them back to camp, now.”

  Instead of leaving, the golden settles on all fours and moves her head this way and that as if she’s nonchalantly studying the trees, the flitting, chirping birds in the overhanging branches, and the sky.

  I get it. She’s not leaving until I tell her what’s bothering me. And I’m sure she brought the sprogs as an added incentive, or rather, added annoyance until I do.

  Regal Wind shuffles close as if he wants to climb into my lap and snuggle. Scamper, yes, he’s more than welcome to cuddle, but not a stinking sprog.

  But I can tell when I’m licked. If I don’t open up to the golden, the sprogs are going to make nuisances of themselves.

  “All right,” I let out in a long sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “Your feelings are hurt, deeply,” the golden states.

  I screw my face to one side. “So what? That doesn’t really matter, does it? After all, I’m just Hooper, still the dung heap master and certainly not worthy to have any dealings with the high-born Golden Wind.

  “So, if you know what’s good for you, you’d better get back to the others. After all, it’s all right with Master Boren if you’re around them, but obviously not me.”

  I pause before saying, “Besides, if he sees me with you, who knows what he’ll do.” In spite, I say, “Maybe Daron learned that streak of meanness he has from his father.”

  Golden Wind is quiet for some time before murmuring, “No, that particular fault lies with the son and not the father. Yes, Master Boren was wrong in chastising you, whether it was in front of the others or not.

  “He lashed
out in his grief and anger. His humiliation is like a hot fire that sears his soul and rends his heart in two.”

  “Humiliation and grief?” I snap. “What are you talking about? It seems to me that I’m the one who got humiliated.”

  “He’s lost his son, Hooper, and he sorrows deeply.”

  “Lost?” I stammer. “Last I saw, Daron Dracon was very much alive and trying to kill Helmar in the upper chamber at Dunadain not to mention his own father on that battlement, or had you forgotten?”

  “No Hooper, I’ve not forgotten and yes, Daron Dracon may walk and breathe, but to Master Boren, he is dead.

  “His life is now one of dishonor and evil, and that has ripped Boren’s heart open. He hurts as much as if an arrow had pierced his heart.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I guess my expression says it all because she goes on, “Daron betrayed not just the House of Lorell, but his father as well, Hooper.

  “His dishonor, brought such shame that to Boren, his son became dead in all but fact. Now Boren mourns as if Daron’s body is dead and cold under a gravestone.”

  She pauses and then says, “He still loves his son, but his shame overshadows the love, and that’s all that he feels for the moment.”

  “And just what has that got to do with his chastising me in front of everyone?”

  The golden is quiet for a moment before answering. “Grief takes many forms, Hooper, one of which is anger.

  “His ire at you is because of how deeply he mourns and especially his unbearable humiliation that his only son would conduct himself in such a loathsome manner.

  “Boren Dracon is a proud man, perhaps overly proud and to have his only son ally with such as Vay and the Wilders—it has struck at the very essence of who he is and caused him to lash out.”

  “But I’m not Daron!” I spit out.

  “No, Hooper, you’re not, and thank goodness for all of our sakes, you’re not.”

  She turns to face me squarely. “And for all of us, I pray that you never will be.”

  I reach inside my tunic and take out the Voxtyrmen. It softly glows in my hand, and the sprogs jostle each other trying to get closer to the gem.