by GARY DARBY
Phigby rumbles deep in his throat. “I would not be quite so hasty in delivering us to those vile creatures just yet, it may be that we have a friend on our side.”
“Who?” I question.
Phigby’s strokes his beard before murmuring so low that I can barely hear him, “Princess Desma.”
I can’t help myself after my treatment at the hands of Desma and her mother. It’s only Phigby’s whisper that causes me to retort in the same low voice instead of yelling back at him.
“Princess Desma? Phigby, you need to give yourself a ‘return my wits’ potion for you’ve surely lost yours.”
“I need no such potion, Hooper,” Phigby snaps.
He starts to growl again when he gets a faraway look. “Hmmm . . . A ‘return my wits’ potion . . .”
He tugs at his beard, “Let’s see, a thimbleful of rosebuds, two pinches of—”
“Phigby!” Amil yelps. “Not now.”
“Eh?” Phigby mumbles and glances around before saying, “Er, where were we?”
“You were saying,” Cara prods, “that you thought that Princess Desma might be on our side.”
Phigby’s nod is so slight that he barely moves his head. “Yes,” he returns. “I sense that she is much grieved by her mother’s actions. Did you not hear the tone of her voice, see her face when the queen chastised her in the plaza and then afterward at the throne?”
“What I saw was her hand slapping me to the floor,” I grumble, “or did you forget?”
“No, Hooper,” he returns. “I haven’t forgotten, but what would you have her do, let you break protocol and lose your head? The fact is, she saved your life.”
He takes a deep breath, and his eyes rove around the group. “For all of Desma’s gruff exterior, I sense that she places great store in the dignity of the royal house and the principles that are the foundation of Golian.
“If she finds out that her mother is bartering with Golian’s sworn enemies, it will be an affront to all that Golian stands for, not to mention a personal indignity.”
He takes a stick and pokes at the fire, causing the flames to flick higher. He stares deeply into the fire. “More than anyone knows,” he murmurs.
“But,” Amil protests, “she let the queen put Fotina and Alonya in the dungeon, and if Alonya truly is her sister then where’s the royal dignity in that?”
“It may well be that she had no choice,” Phigby contends.
“Then,” Cara asks slowly, “what can we do about it?”
She juts her chin meaningfully at our guards who’ve not moved a gnat’s whisker from their places, their hands steady on their bows, their eyes centered on us.
“At the moment,” Phigby sighs, “nothing. And since there’s obviously no need to set a night watch, I suggest that we all get some sleep.”
“Agreed,” Master Boren answers. “Tomorrow is another day, and as the sun rises, perhaps our fortune will rise with it as well.”
While Amil throws a few more logs onto the fire, Cara scoots over to lie down between her father and Helmar. I notice that she’s closer to Helmar than to Master Boren.
While Amil curls up close to the fire, Phigby is hastily glancing around as if he’s missing something. I realize what it is and mutter, “Missing your pillow, Phigby?”
He halts his agitated movement, stares at me for a moment before the corners of his mouth lift up in a small smile. He chuckles as if he suddenly realizes that he’s forgotten what happened to his bag. “Yes,” he answers, “I’m rarely far from it. I admit it’s a bit disconcerting.”
“I guess we both lost something today,” I sadly answer.
Phigby’s eyes are gentle as he lays a hand on my shoulder. “It would appear so, Hooper. But do not lose hope, for once you do that, then all is indeed lost.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what the queen will find,” I ask, “or what she’ll do with your bag?”
He chuckles again as if I’ve told a joke. “Oh, I don’t think Gru will do much with some dirty laundry and unwashed pots and pans.”
I shake my head, puzzled by his respone. “Dirty laundry—” I start, but Phigby pats me on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he assures me, “the bag knows what it’s doing.” With that, he turns, lies down, and closes his eyes, the conversation evidently over.
I scratch my head. “The bag knows what it’s doing?” I mutter to myself.
Glancing around at our surroundings, I have to wonder, but do we?
I’m not sleepy, so I just sit and stare into the dancing flames for a long time. Every so often, I hear a sound in the neighboring trees, and I jerk my head around, desperately hoping to see Scamper bound out of the darkness and into my arms.
However, each time, it’s just a squirrel running along a branch, or a night blackbird landing on a creaky limb.
The firelight is just enough that I can see the sheen of the guard’s arrow points, and the glint of their eyes that never leave us.
They stand rigid, fixed, but I have no doubt that if I tried to make a run for it, I wouldn’t make more than half a dozen paces before a Golian arrow shaft would run me through.
I stand and gaze at my companions. They’re all asleep, the fatigue overcoming what anxiety they may have of what tomorrow will bring. I wander over next to the golden, find a spot in the soft, lush grass, and lie down.
For a while, I stare up at the night stars wondering if Scamper misses me or if the queen has filled his belly so full of sweets and meat that he’s forgotten about me already.
Scamper may forget me, but there will never come a time when I can’t picture his little rascal face or feel the way his soft fur feels under my fingers.
There are some things you just don’t ever forget.
I don’t know how long I gaze upward before I finally drift off into a fitful sleep wherein I relive that horrible moment when Queen Gru snatched Scamper from my arms.
The nightmare continues with the Golian marching away while Scamper reaches back to me with outstretched paws, his eyes pleading and his little voice calling out, “Hoooopeeer . . .”
Another voice, sharper, calls, “Hooper, wake up!”
I blink my eyes open and jerk upright. Golden Wind has her scaled face almost against mine. “Hooper,” she urgently speaks, “wake the others, now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” I sputter.
“The Wilders approach,” she states. “They’re coming for us.”
Chapter 27
“Where!?”
My heart thuds in my chest. This time, waking was no bleary-eyed rub-at-your-eyes-to-get-the-sleep-out experience.
I’m instantly alert because I could hear and feel the danger in Golden Wind’s voice. It was as if I had awoken to find a sword point at my throat.
“South Pass. They’re skying through in large numbers,” she whispers.
“But the barrier—”
“Didn’t stop them,” she grimly states. “They’ll be at the city outskirts, soon.”
I spin around. The guards haven’t moved, their arrows still notched and ready for use, on us. “Why are they just standing there? Don’t they know?”
“No, but they will soon enough.”
I whirl and in my lurching gait, stumble over to where Phigby is sleeping. I seize him roughly by the shoulders and shake hard. His eyes snap open, and his hand grabs my arm. “Hooper! What is it?”
“No time, just get up.” I hurry over to where Master Boren sleeps and shake him awake. His hand goes to where his sword should be only his hand slaps against an empty scabbard. “Wake Cara and Helmar!”
Phigby kicks Amil’s foot causing the big man to spring into a crouch, his hands extended as if he were going to throttle someone around the neck.
All of the dragons are now on their feet, their heads up, necks craned and eyes turned toward the dark mountains.
Moments later, everyone surrounds me. “What is it, Hooper?” Phigby demands.
I point and say, �
�Look at the dragons.”
They whirl around and in the torchlight’s glare I can see that Master Boren’s face instantly recognizes the unease in the dragon’s stance.
“They sense something,” he mutters, “and whatever it is, it’s not good. Look at how they’re shifting their weight from one foot to another. Talons closing and unclosing, eyes peering at one place.”
“Danger?” Amil questions.
“Undoubtedly,” he replies. “But what?”
Phigby turns in a circle, peering at our Mori guards. “They don’t seem perturbed.”
I can’t hold it in any longer. “The mountains,” I state. “The dragons are staring at the mountains. I think Dronopolis is about to be attacked—by Wilders.”
“What?” Phigby demands and spins around. “How do you—”
Just then, far in the distance, I see a deluge of flames, like writhing, burning columns of scarlet fire raining down from the sky.
Dragon fire!
I stand completely rigid, my mouth agape. There are scores of streaming flames, perhaps a hundred or more, like a waterfall of fire cascading down from the night sky’s inky blackness.
In the torrent of firelight, I can see tiny specks wheeling and diving in the air, Wilder dragons, raining down their flame and fury on the city’s edge.
“Dragon fire,” Amil sputters. “It has to be Wilders. But how—”
“No time for whys or hows now,” Phigby declares. He marches to stand in the full glare of a crackling torch.
His voice booms across the pond and meadow. “Golian warriors, the Wilders are attacking Dronopolis. We did not bring them here, this is not our doing!”
From behind, at the trees’ far edge, I can hear several Golians murmuring among themselves. I can’t make out their words, but their sudden anger is evident.
Phigby continues to plead with the Amazos, to make them understand that the attack is not of our doing.
The Golians’ mutterings grow louder, angrier. It’s apparent his pleas aren’t working.
Several have brought their bows up and I can hear the creaking of the bow wood as they pull their strings tight. “This can’t be real,” Cara breathes. “They couldn’t possibly think we had anything to do with this.”
“They could,” Master Boren asserts as he comes to stand near his daughter, “and by the sounds of their voices, I would say it’s becoming more of a possibility with each passing moment.”
“They could turn on us in an instant,” Helmar whispers. “All it would take is one warrior letting loose an arrow.”
“Aye,” Amil rumbles, “and the rest of their arrows would follow a heartbeat later.”
“What do we do?” I ask.
My hand starts to reach for the gem, but Cara, seeing the movement, reaches out and seizes my wrist. “Hooper, no!”
She holds my wrist tight. “You heard the queen, you touch the jewel, and the first arrow will find you before you can pull the gem from your tunic.”
“And the next arrow shaft,” Amil hastens to add, “will find one of us. Use your head, lad, for once, doing nothing is the best course.”
I glance around. They’re right, the Amazos have tightened the circle, moved in closer. Before, they’d let their arrowpoints drop, their bows lowered. Now, the Golians have brought their shafts straight and level.
Aimed right at us.
The sapphire dragons have become extremely agitated, snorting, nervously milling around, and ripping up great chunks of sod with their talons.
The golden, however, sits on her haunches, slowly swiveling her head from side to side, eyeing the warriors who are tightening the ring. Even the sprogs sense something amiss and make little whimpering sounds as they hide behind the golden’s legs.
“The dragons,” Helmar states, “we use the dragons.”
“No!” Master Boren snaps. “One of us makes a move toward the dragons, and there’s no doubt their arrows will fly.”
“Please!” Phigby calls out. His voice is so desperate that I can’t help but think that he understands that his pleading is not having an effect on the Golians and our lives are but heartbeats away from ending.
I move over to stand in front of Cara to put my frail, puny body between the Golian arrows and her. If that will give her but one more breath of life, one more heartbeat, then it will be worth my effort.
The creaking sound of bowstrings becoming tight and bows bending taut from the strain fills the small glade. The warriors sight straight down the finely honed darts.
There’s no place to hide, no place to run. Death will find us in this garden of lush grass and shade trees, beside the clear, cool waters of Dronopolis.
“Hold, daughters of Golian,” a voice booms from the darkness. “Do not loose your arrows.”
There is a rustling and stirring behind us, and we all turn. Breaking through the warrior ranks is Desma. There is blood running down one arm, and she labors for breath as if she’s run swiftly over a great distance.
The Golians instantly swing their arrow points up and away so as to not endanger their princess. She staggers up to us. “My mother,” she huffs, “has gone mad. She’s bringing the Wilders upon us.”
“She already has, princess,” Phigby returns. “Look to the mountains.”
Desma’s head jerks up and she staggers at the sight of dragon fire in the distance. “No,” she groans, “I thought we had time—”
“Whatever time you thought you had, princess, is gone,” Phigby declares. “For whatever reason, the queen has opened the floodgates, and the Wilders are pouring through the mountains.”
Just then, from beyond the ring of warriors, a voice shouts, “Princess Desma! Princess Desma!”
“Here!” Desma yells.
The circle of warriors parts and two figures stumble through. “Lenor!” Desma exclaims and dashes to the warrior leader.
In the torchlight, it is easy to see that both Lenor and her companion are bloodied and wounded. One of Lenor’s arms hangs limply at her side with a splintered arrow shaft jutting from midarm and both bear deep burns.
Burns that could have come only from dragon breath.
Desma dashes over, swings an arm under Lenor’s shoulder to prop her up and they stumble a few more steps before Lenor slumps to the ground.
“Princess,” Lenor wheezes, “South Pass is breached, and the Wilders are flooding through like a great red torrent. There does not seem to be an end to them.”
She shakes her head, her eyes pierced in pain. “My warriors fought valiantly. We slew many, but we were not enough to hold them back.
“Avar and I are all that remain alive, and we ran all the way here to deliver the news.”
Desma starts to speak, but Lenor holds up a hand and says, “There is more. Before the Wilders struck, a runner came early this evening with orders from your mother.
“The queen ordered me to abandon South Pass and take my remaining warriors to the stronghold at Snow Glow Mountain.”
Lenor draws in a sharp breath. “I refused the queen’s order. I could not bring myself to do it.”
She pulls herself to both knees, sweeps her helmet off, and bends her head level. “For disobeying, I know my life is forfeit, but I wanted you to know the truth of what happened.”
Desma stands rigid, and I see her hands clench and unclench in tight fists. “Did my mother give a reason for her order?” she hisses.
“No, princess,” Lenor answers, raising her head to look straight into Desma’s eyes. “Only that I was to obey her command immediately.”
Desma throws her head back and stares at the sky as if she would shake her fist at the gods in anger. Then, she turns to Phigby and motions toward the two wounded Amazos. “Can you help them with their injuries as you did me?”
Phigby shakes his head. “I am sorry, princess, without my bag, I can do no more than any one of you, but I will do what I can if that is your wish.”
Desma hesitates, then snaps, “Mintis!”
“Take these two warriors,” Desma commands, gesturing at Lenor and Avar, “and tend to their wounds.”
Lenor jerks her head up, shock evident on her face.
“You were right to disobey, Lenor,” Desma mutters. “I know not who it is that sits on the throne, but it is not my mother. She would never leave us defenseless against Wilder vermin.”
“Thank you, my princess,” Lenor murmurs and with Avar’s help, stumbles off with two warriors toward the pool. Desma turns first toward the mountains and then faces toward Warrior Hall.
Amil whispers almost in my ear, “She is caught between two enemies and is trying to decide how to face both.”
“Two?” I mutter.
“Yes,” he answers low, “The Wilders on the outskirts of Dronopolis, and the enemy that now lurks in the center. Which is the greater danger? Wilder dragons, or a mad queen?”
“Her heart is torn,” Cara whispers, “numbing her mind.” She holds her head down for a moment before saying, “A feeling I know all too well.”
Desma stands practically motionless, with just her head moving, first to the Wilders and then back toward Warrior Hall.
Cara is right, Desma is frozen in the moment, faced with a decision only she can make. “Since you understand,” I whisper to Cara, “you should say something to her.”
“Yes, Cara,” Master Boren encourages, “we both know that feeling but it would be best if you approach her.”
Cara bites down on her lip, gives a little nod and then slowly makes her way to stand in front of Desma. The princess looks down and then Cara goes up on tiptoe to murmur something to the giantess.
Desma only stares, not speaking, before slowly, she begins to nod at Cara and then as if she suddenly realizes where she is, whips around and says, “Mintis, take your warriors to the armory and help bring up the dragon catapults, tell General—”
“Princess, I beg forgiveness for interrupting,” Mintis says, “but the catapults are not in the central armory. The queen had them moved to the thirteenth district several days ago.”
“What!” Desma explodes. “But why—”