On Wings of Thunder (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 3)

by GARY DARBY

  Over my shoulder, I order in a quiet voice, “Shine, Dazzle, sky and wait.”

  The two sprites launch themselves off the golden and hover off to one side.

  “All right,” I say, “they’re off. Wha—” I begin when without warning me, Golden Wind tucks her wings, and we dive almost straight down, right at the thickest crown of branches.

  I just have time to duck behind her skull sheath before we crash through the first set of tree limbs. She’s like a giant golden hammer that someone dropped from the sky, smashing her way to the ground.

  Branches crack and splinter as we plummet through the thick boughs. Then we break free into a clearing and at the last possible instant the golden snaps her wings out and we land with a loud thump in the dark meadow’s midst.

  Golden Wind no sooner sets her talons to the ground, when, coming from all sides I hear the ghouls screeching, shrieking, and the pattering of dozens of feet on the hard ground.

  The sprites have followed us down, and I shout, “Shine, Dazzle! Fire!”

  The little dragons erupt into flames. The golden lets out an enormous roar and with it, the sprites swarm around us, encircling us in a ring of brilliant orange fire that lights up the forest and scours the trees of their shadows.

  The ghoul’s shrieks turn to screams of terror.

  Scrambling to stand on the golden’s back, I straighten, holding Galondraig high over my head.

  My blade captures the sprites’ blaze and bursts into a green pillar that lights up the entire hollow.

  Ratlike heads with beady, terrified red eyes turn in my direction, and gray bodies crouch and cower in fear. Thin, pawlike hands spring up to shield their ashen faces from the brilliance that pervades every dark nook and cranny of the dale.

  In one hand, they hold long throwing sticks. Cupped at the end of each throwing stick is one of the fatal poison balls.

  Before they can launch their venomous barbs, I reach up with the emerald jewel and grab an overhanging limb. In a voice that fills the night, I bellow, Vald Hitta Sasi Ein! Power to this One!

  Limbs and roots shoot from the trees like striking vipers. They twist and wrap around ghoul necks and bodies and jerk them skyward to dangle and bounce in strangleholds high over the ground.

  Throwing sticks and poison balls shower down but none close to me. The ghouls are held in the vines’ viselike grip, unable to move, their eyes wide in terror.

  Except for one ghoul.

  The thing whimpers on the ground, the white tuft of fur that runs down his spiked spine marking him as the gray-back, the murderous chieftain of this pack.

  Golden Wind lets out another roar, and the ghoul cowers again, sliding over the ground to get away.

  He pushes himself up against a tree trunk where he claws at the bark as if trying to escape the thundering dragon and the crazed wild man that stands atop her.

  I slide off Golden Wind to stand on the glen’s mossy surface. Striding over to the rat-ghoul, it raises one hand as if to ward me off.

  “Do you know who I am?” I demand, my voice stark and high in anger.

  Bloodlust pounds in my ears and I hold Galondraig up as if I would strike a mortal blow, ending its miserable life.

  “A great sssssorcerer,” the ghoul replies, his voice hissing like a snake.

  “I am Hooper Menvoran, the Gem Guardian, and you attacked my friends and me tonight!”

  The thing shrinks from my voice, covering its ears with its paws. “Pleasssse,” the ghoul whistles through its ratlike front teeth, “the fire, takesss away the fire, we cannot sssseee, it hurtssss our eyesss.”

  I put the sharp tip of Galondraig against its throat. My voice is hard, cruel as I demand, “You shot poison into one of us; I want the cure, now.”

  The thing grovels near my feet and just for an instant; I see cunning in its eyes as if it thinks it can bring the mighty sorcerer down.

  In answer, I push Galondraig’s sword point a little harder against its pasty, thin skin. “Either I get what I came for,” I rasp in an icy tone, “or not one of your vermin clan, including you, will leave this forest alive.”

  I hold the gem high and twist. The tree limbs shake and curl in answer, and the ghouls, throttled by the neck, shriek in high-pitched terror as the vine’s grip tightens even more.

  A look of sheer panic replaces the ghoul’s scheming expression.

  “Wait!” it screeches. “I get, I get,” it almost sobs and points to a nearby dark hole that leads under one of the larger trees. “There, I get, I get.”

  “Yes,” I growl, “you will get, or you and your vermin clan will be no more.”

  Swinging Galondraig around, I point to the opening. “Go!”

  The thing scuttles away into the hole, before returning in a few moments with a small leather pouch. It holds the bag out to me, and I snatch it away.

  Sliding my blade into my scabbard, I open the sack. There’s a gritty white material inside. I wrinkle my nose in disgust as the substance looks like ground up bone to me.

  There’s a small, crude wooden spoon stuck in the mix. I hold the pouch up. “How do you make the remedy?”

  The ghoul hesitates, and a snide expression crosses the thing’s rat face as its fear eases. “A mighty ssssorcerer doesss not know how to make a sssssimple potion?”

  In answer, I whip the gemstone up and squeeze tight. Squeals and shrieks erupt from above.

  “This sorcerer does not dabble in simple potions,” I growl. “This wizard kills stupid creatures who don’t answer his questions.”

  The ghoul chieftain flings up a hand and jabs out one finger. “That’s better,” I nod, “mix one spoon to how many cups of water?”

  It raises its other hand with one finger pointed upward. “Good,” I answer, “one spoonful, one cup of water.”

  I tuck the bag into my tunic and then draw out Galondraig. Leaning, so that my sword point digs into the ghoul’s thin, gray skin, my voice is hard, menacing. “One more thing, you and your kind are several hundred leagues from your foul nests. Why are you here?”

  The thing cowers and whimpers as if I had taken a Proga lance to his back. I push my sword point deeper, drawing a drop of ochre-colored blood.

  He wails and throws his hands up as if to ward me off. “She makessss usss,” he howls, “the dark queen. She makessss usss come.”

  I turn and eye the golden. “Vay.”

  For a moment my shoulders slump. “Phigby is right, her power is indeed growing. From the high and mighty,” I point my sword tip at the ghoul, “to this filth.”

  Peering at the golden with sad eyes, I question, “Who are we to stop her madness? Stop her from killing all of us?”

  For a moment, the life seems to drain out of me and I whisper, “Is it even possible?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Feeling weary, beaten by the thought of Vay’s immense and growing power, I slump over for an instant as if what willpower I had left to go on flees from mind and body.

  Then, an image of Cara, lying cold and dying on the forest floor burns in my mind, and a small, still voice whispers, remember what and for whom we fight.

  I whip around to face the ghoul leader, my face set in anger. I raise Galondraig up high and point to where his companion beast-things swing from the trees.

  “Then listen to what I have to say. If you stay here and obey your dark queen, I will destroy every one of you, both here and where you live.

  “Leave this forest and never come back. Go up the westerly vale from here and keep going. If I find that even one of you disobeys me, not only will I kill him, but I will go to the Wasteland and destroy every last one of you.”

  Bending close to the vile creature, I snarl, “Did you hear me? The westerly vale and make no mistake, I will be watching and if you fail to heed my command, this is what will happen.”

  Raising Voxtrymen higher, the bloodlust pounds in my ears, pours through my body as I think of what these creatures did to my Cara.

  Every mu
scle in my body tightens, my breathing is a like a snake’s hiss, my eyes narrowed in hate as rage courses through my body.

  I begin to tighten my grip on the gemstone even further as the beasts whimper and gurgle as the vines tighten around their scrawny necks.

  One blinding thought shuts all all others: squeeze every bit of life out of these vermin.

  Golden Wind’s talon knocks my hand down and holds it there even as I fight against her powerful hold.

  Her voice is sharp in my ear. “Enough, Hooper!”

  Breathing deeply, my body goes slack, my fingers on Voxtyrmen loosen and as they do, ghoul bodies come crashing down from the heights and hit the ground with loud thumps and thuds.

  Amid the ghoul’s moans and groans, and with a glare at Golden Wind I tuck Voxtyrmen into my tunic.

  Thrusting my sword point toward the ghoul chieftain, my voice almost matches the foul fiend’s hiss, “Don’t forget what I said. Leave this land by the westerly valley and do not come back.”

  I scabbard Galondraig, and climb aboard the golden. With a snarl in my voice, I command, “Sky, Golden Wind.”

  She raises her wings high, and then we’re shooting straight through the thicket of twisted and broken branches.

  The golden’s swift pace is too much for the sprites, and they fall behind, but at that moment, I don’t care. All I care about is getting the antidote to Cara as fast as possible.

  The golden’s talons barely touch ground before I’m off her and pounding over to where Phigby is tending Cara.

  Thrusting the bag into his hands, I state, “One spoon of this into one cup of water.”

  With raised eyebrows, Phigby opens the pouch and sniffs. Grimacing, he asks. “Are you certain, Hooper?”

  “It had better be,” I respond in an ominous voice, “or there’s going to be a whole clan of carrion ghouls that never leave this forest alive.”

  He looks at me with raised eyebrows and shocked eyes before he stands, opens his ever-present haversack, takes out a wooden cup, and begins pacing around in a tight circle.

  Holding a pinch of the mix to his nose, I can hear him muttering to himself, “One part jimson, one part pomegranate, a snip of goose grass, two parts heart clover—”

  “Phigby!” I gurgle. “Cara. The antidote.”

  Spinning around, he snaps, “Hooper, you mind to your dragons, and I’ll mind to mine.”

  He pauses, his eyes hard. “Did you stop to think that maybe it was the poison instead of the cure that they gave you? And did you not think that one cup may work for a ghoul but for a Drach it may be two cups or a half cup? What if I give her too much? It may be as bad as the poison or even make the venom that much worse.

  “Too little or too much and I may only prolong her suffering, her pain, yet she will still die.”

  I open my mouth wide and stutter, “I—I—didn't think . . .”

  “No,” he retorts, “it’s obvious that you didn’t. Now, close your mouth,” he orders, “before you swallow a whole swarm of flies.”

  He then walks toward Wind Song where a water pouch dangles from her side. He’s still talking to himself as he takes the water bag and slowly pours a few drops into the cup.

  Dropping a pinch of the supposed cure in the mug, he swirls the liquid around. He peers at the concoction for a moment, sniffs, and then brings the beaker to his lips and sips.

  “Phigby!” I yelp, afraid for a moment that he might be right, and the ghouls sent me away with the poison instead of the remedy.

  He holds up a quick hand, spits the drink out, before taking another swig of water from the flask, swirls it around in his mouth before he spits that out, too.

  He walks back to where Cara lies, but instead of putting the mix into the cup, he stands there staring at her.

  I can see his lips moving silently, but no words come out of his mouth. The others gather around him, quiet and anxious while I’m all but ready to scream at him to get the cure into Cara.

  “Phigby?” I plead, growing more anxious by the moment.

  His fingers twitch as if he’s counting on them and his lips still move. He paces away before he comes to an abrupt stop and whirls around with a broad smile that cracks his beard.

  “But in this case, it just so happens that it appears that the heavens are with you, and they gave you the antidote, instead.”

  Opening the ghoul’s leather bag, he takes out a spoonful of the mix, dumps it into the cup, adds water, and stirs it around.

  He kneels next to Cara, who appears to be in a deathlike state. Only the occasional tiny rise and fall of her chest shows her to be alive.

  “Help me, Hooper,” Phigby orders.

  With gentle hands, I cradle her head as he directs, “Hold her head up just a bit. Now, pinch her nose together.”

  In answer to my unspoken question, he explains, “Closing off her nose will cause her to drink the potion; otherwise, it will just dribble out her mouth and down her cheek.”

  It takes us several tries but finally, we get the last drops into her, and she swallows. I lay her head to the ground, and with a tender touch, Phigby runs the back of his hand along her cheek. “Well, we’ve done what we can; now all we can do is wait.”

  He glances around at our makeshift campsite. “The dragons seem to be at ease, I think we can chance a fire, the warmth will do Cara good.”

  Alonya, who had stood close by, watching, now unbuckles her cape from her light armor, and drapes it over Cara.

  Phigby glances up, gives Alonya a slight nod. “Thank you, Alonya.”

  Helmar pulls off his tunic, leaving him with just his thin night shirt, and tucks the garment under Cara’s head.

  Our eyes meet, and I nod in gratefulness. At a fluttering, I glance up to see that the two orange sprites have finally caught up and squat near the golden.

  I call over, “Shine, Dazzle, would you mind keeping Cara warm with a little fire?”

  The orange dragons trundle over, one on each side of Cara and build up their heat until Phigby holds out a hand to stop them. “That should be just right, thank you.”

  My eyes search Cara’s face, looking for any signs that the cure is working. Her face is pallid and pale without the usual ruddiness to her cheeks and her breaths are few and shallow.

  Phigby gazes up at our anxious faces. “It may be some time before we know. I’ll stay up with her for now, why don’t you get some rest.”

  I glance around, and it’s only then that I notice that the ground is free of the poison balls. Seeing my expression, Phigby explains, “Ember and Twinkle have been busy. We can walk about without fear from those venomous orbs.”

  Pausing, he questions, “Hooper, obviously you found the ghouls. What did you do to get the antidote?”

  I avoid his eyes. “What I had to.”

  Alonya kneels and eyes me. “Which was?”

  I flick my eyes toward her and find that she’s staring at me with narrowed, concerned eyes. I lick dry lips and answer, “After they gave me the antidote I sent them on their way. From the forest and away from here.”

  Pausing, I then admit, “By way of the westerly valley.”

  There’s silence for a moment before Amil begins chuckling until his belly is jiggling from his laughter. “I’m sorry,” he guffaws, “I should not be laughing at a time like this but still . . .”

  He chuckles again and claps Helmar on the shoulder, still smiling. “Did you hear that? He sent them by way of the westerly vale.”

  “I heard,” Helmar returns, his tone sharp.

  Amil turns to me, still chuckling. “Ah, Hooper, I wish I could be there to see the ghouls run into those trolls and ogres, or perhaps it will be the other way around.”

  Smiling wide, he says, “Whatever happens, they both roundly deserve it.”

  Helmar catches my eye. “Thank you, Hooper,” he says in a husky voice.

  I nod at him, stand and declare, “I’m taking the first watch, no arguments.”

  No one raises a pr
otest at my declaration, so I turn away and walk to the top of a small hummock that overlooks the pond.

  A little tree crowns the mound, and I sit with my back to its trunk while I bring out Galondraig and lay it across my lap. Moments later, a bundle of fur comes bouncing up the hillock and runs up to me.

  Scamper stands on his two hind legs, puts his front paws on my chest, and peers with concerned eyes into my face. I reach out and scratch him under the chin and behind the ears.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer in a sincere voice. “I didn’t mean to handle you in such a rough manner, but I was in a hurry, and I was afraid that you might get hurt where I was going.”

  He butts my chest with the top of his head. Arrraawwwite.

  “Thank you, for forgiving me,” I respond and scratch behind his ears some more.

  He peers at me again and satisfied that we’re still best friends, ambles away in search of food. I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see Phigby trudging up the slight incline.

  “Making amends with your furry friend?” he asks.

  I nod in answer. “Yes, I wasn’t too gentle with him when I left, and I don’t think he understood that I was leaving him behind for his own good.”

  He motions at the ground next to me. “May I sit and keep you company for a while?”

  I gesture toward Cara. “Don’t you—”

  “No,” he answers. “Not for the moment. The sprites, and Alonya’s cape will keep her warm through the night, and I’ve made her as comfortable as I can.”

  “How long until you know?” I ask, my eyes never leaving Cara.

  He lets out a sigh. “I don’t honestly know, Hooper. I’ve never dealt with this before, so I can only guess how much time it will take for the cure to work, until then, she will sleep.”

  At my worried expression, he says in an encouraging, “But it’s a natural sleep, unlike before. Though slow, her breathing is returning to normal, which is an excellent sign.”

  Phigby sits down on the grassy knoll with a grunt. Neither of us speaks, and there is an uncomfortable silence between us.

  Finally, I mumble, “I’m sorry, Phigby, I spoke out of turn and was rude. You didn’t deserve anything of what I said.”