by LeRoy Clary
They slipped into the room, their full attention on their King. He motioned to the statue with a wave of his hand. Both halted in mid-step. The King allowed them to stare at it before barking, “Paul, are you sober?”
The Weapons Master glanced at the dragon statue sitting on the table and whispered, “Sire, if I were not, I would be now.”
Angora, the Slave Master remained silent, his eyes locked on the statue as if he feared it would attack him.
The King nearly stuttered in his frustration. He kept his voice soft because inside the palace too many things were overheard, even from his private chambers. He’d learned the hard way when younger that few things are secret in a palace. “There is a rumor of a dragon boy.”
The Slave Master said, “There are always rumors.”
“This one concerns a young wildling about eleven or twelve years of age. Near Nettleton.”
“We killed and accounted for all of them,” the Weapons Master said, the sour smell of ale strong on his breath.
The Slave Master nodded. “Relax. I counted the bodies, myself. Men, women, and children. None survived, I assure you.”
The King pointed to the statue, “How long did we pursue them?”
“Seven years, as I remember,” the Weapons Master said. “Perhaps a little longer.”
“Closer to eight,” the Slave Master corrected. “But in the end, we finished them off.”
The King went to the statue and looked into the pained expression the dragon wore. The twisting of the neck made the rear of the statue the one that faced the head of the dragon. “Bear with me for a moment. Imagine if the wife of Brandon became pregnant at the beginning of our pursuit of that damned family.”
Both masters calculated and at almost the same time nodded.
The Weapons Master reconsidered and counted on his stubby fingers. “A child of four, or nearly five years might survive but probably not. One aged six or seven would stand a far better chance. Especially if provided help by a local, or locals. Yes, it could be done in theory, but there was no survivor.”
“It has been six or seven years since the massacre, has it not?”
“There must be a better word to use than ‘massacre’. But, it seems more time than that, but yes, I think you are right. It’s barely possible, I suppose. But we were sure all of them were killed and all evidence erased.”
The Slave Master spun and looked at the open drawer in the wall. Neither he nor the Weapons Master had been completely surprised by it standing open. In his quiet way, the Slave Master turned to the King and shifted his eyes to the drawer. “May I?”
The King nodded, and watched as his friend looked inside. He pulled a thick sheaf of papers from a corner and untied a yellowed ribbon. Carrying the papers to the shaft of light under a window to read them, he sorted the papers into piles. Nobody spoke. Each paper was set aside after examination. At an entry on a sheet that he studied, the Slave Master’s face paled, and he muttered, “No.” then he continued reading. “No, no, no.”
“I think I’m going to need a drink.” The Weapons Master asked, “What is it?”
“How did we not see this? Here in the inventory is listed a wooden horse of the sort small children play with. And listed below it is items of clothing. It contains shirts small enough for a young boy. Child’s shirts, it says. Not baby, or toddler. It says, ‘child.'”
The Weapons Master snapped, “That could be the shirts of any of the demon offspring.”
“No,” said the King, falling into a chair. “Think of the ages. Their sizes. All were born before we found and gave chase. The youngest boy was ten, as I recall. That would make him, at least, seventeen or more, almost a man. In size, anyway. The inventory says ‘child’s’ shirts. Not young man’s shirt. Child.”
“It cannot be.” The Slave Master continued. “I reviewed everything that was there. Accounted for everybody in the family. I personally identified them and counted their bodies.”
“You found and accounted for all we knew of, my friend,” the King said, standing again and placing a hand on his shoulder and turning the Weapons Master to face him. “Your drink will wait, Paul. I want both of you in Nettleton as soon as possible. That fool Edward, the eldest son of the Earl of Witten is also traveling there to investigate the rumor, but you will arrive first, kill this dragon boy and end this madness. He will disappear as if he never existed. You know the stakes.”
Both masters bowed as they backed from the room.
The King did not hesitate. He strode to another cabinet and tossed open the two doors. Within stood six bottles of the finest wines and whiskeys in his kingdom. Fine wines are for sipping and enjoying with feasts and friends. Whiskeys are for serious drinking. His fingers wrapped around a bottle filled near the top with amber liquid while his other hand found the largest crystal glass available.
Nettleton had been a mistake. He’d known it from the beginning, but once a wagon is rolling down a steep hill, it’s hard to stop. He filled the glass and shuffled to the door, downing half the contents of his glass on the way. He opened the door and motioned for the guard to come closer. “I wish that my two sons be advised that I need to speak with them. It’s important, so tell them to leave whatever wenches they’re sleeping with and come to my chambers.”
He closed the door without waiting for a response. The guards were elderly and had been with him since they were young. They knew when to act and, what to say. He trusted them.
Unlike his two sons who were worthless, as far as kings, or future kings, are concerned, both lacking in ambition and competence. They were their mother’s sons, lazy and ugly. However, they were his only heirs. They deserved to know what was happening and how their inheritance was at risk.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Edward climbed upon a saddled white horse with restrained dignity, as if he was already the Earl of Witten. He looked over his shoulder to the train of people and pack animals strung out behind. He’d seen smaller parades on important holidays. A curt nod to the guide that Tomas hired started the procession moving with a wave of his arm. Fortunately, Tomas had been able to buy the guide out of his former job. It had not been cheap, but Tomas assured him he needed a guide who was trusted and knew his way through the dangerous lands between the palace and Nettleton.
The King and sheriff, as well as his father, would hear of his triumphal departure today. He would make them proud. When his father saw how he’d bargained Tomas on nearly every major point, there would be compliments exchanged. Still, troubles clouded his mind. His task was to see the dragon tattoo on the back of a child, without the child knowing that he was looking for it, or at it. He gave a mental shrug. The trip would take days, and he had time to devise solutions for the impossible problem.
“Sir Edward,” the guide called as he trotted his chestnut to the front of the column where the dust didn’t fill the air so heavily that the sun looked hazy.
Edward gave his most regal turn of a head, ignoring the improper address of calling him a mere, sir. The guide was, after all, only a knowledgeable peasant charged with leading the way. “Yes?”
“Have you any thoughts on where we should set our camp this night?”
Edward had no idea as he had never traveled this way. Yet a true leader of men made himself humble while watching and learning. “What are your ideas on the matter?”
“Just over the rise ahead flows a wide stream and if memory serves, a meadow large enough for us.”
“Now? You want to stop now? I think I can still see the towers of the palace beyond the tops of the trees.”
The guide turned his horse and rode beside him, leaning closer to speak confidentially. “You are most observant. I’m sure you’ve also figured out that this is our first encampment, and many of those traveling with us have never set a proper campsite, let alone care for a future Earl’s need while traveling. Tonight is a trial for them and may take far longer than in the future. If we work out the kinks today, then the rest of the trip go
es smoother.”
“Of course, that’s what I was trying to say when you interrupted me.”
“I should have held my peace, but I’m not used to working with royals who are so quick and decisive.”
Edward drilled him with a stern expression emulating one his father often used. “You’ll learn. Now get on with it and do not take me for a fool again.”
Beyond the rise were the stream and meadow. Edward followed the road to a place where two large boulders sat at the edge of the stream just before it flowed around a curve and disappeared. He motioned to a wagon driver to pull up.
The guide sat high on his horse shouting and waving instructions. He saw Edward and waved as if they were equals and friends, then continued his work of directing every aspect of the camp. Everyone had multiple tasks in setting up the camp. Edward used his insight to tell where he wanted his personal tent set up. He directed his wagons and then spent time with his chef planning the evening meal.
As the guide anticipated, there were hundreds of problems to solve and lessons to be learned. They were traveling, so Edward amended his usual routine and ordered only three courses for the meal and two bottles of wine. The afternoon ride had been tiring. Sitting a saddle tends to wear the body more than walking, in ways better left unsaid. He never even opened the second bottle because he fell asleep in his chair. A helpful servant had awoken him before too many mosquitoes feasted on his unprotected arms and face, but he cared little as he climbed between sheets of silk in a tent large enough for ten.
He was up before the sun rose. As he stumbled around the tent getting dressed, he wondered if he had ever seen the sun come up before. It stood to reason that since it went down each day, it must also come up, but had he actually seen it happen?
The guide delivered his white horse, already saddled. “Good morning, sir. I must say you continue to impress me.”
“Because I am already awake and dressed before my breakfast to be served?”
“No, because you chose a downstream campsite. Your humbleness impressed us all. It was the talk of the entire camp last night.”
“My camp drew that much attention?” He glanced around and found his campsite was far better looking than many others. He puffed his chest out. “What did they say about my camp?”
The guide leaned closer. “They said that usually, a pompous son of an Earl will place his tent upstream from where the cattle and low-class people pee and dump their garbage in the water. You showed you are one of us by making your campsite downstream. Again, I’m most impressed.”
Edward almost gagged. He thought back and realized he had not taken a single sip of filthy water and had not waded in it, yet he had stood within a few steps of the shore. He carefully moved another step away and watched a turd float past. “We best be on our way, guide. We travel a full day, today.”
“If the rains don’t slow us.”
Edward glanced up. A few clouds but no more. “We’ll be fine.”
Before the midday meal, he wished he could take that statement back. His horse struggled in a river of thick mud so deep he dared not dismount, no matter how cold he was, or how much his behind hurt. Those following continued to trudge onward, and so would he. A true leader sets an example.
A peasant's hand passed him an apple as he slogged past the mired horse. Edward ignored the origins of the apple as he rubbed it on his shirt before biting into it. If he could tell them apart, he’d have thanked the owner of the hand. After further consideration, he recanted. The apple was probably rightfully his, to begin with. The peasant simply returned what belonged to Edward in the first place. The rain came down harder.
The guide wore a thin oiled skin animal hide over his head and shoulders draping down his back to keep him dry. Inside it, the guide looked almost comfortable. Edward’s clothing sopped with every drop and sagged. His cloak felt it weighed more than he. Colors that had been brilliant only this morning ran and merged with others, until what he saw of himself looked like candle wax melting on a hot day.
The guide reigned in his horse and waited for Edward at the crest of a knoll. He called, “Asking your leave to make camp early again, today. I know we’re in a hurry, but the animals are beginning to tire in this muck.”
Edward had never heard words so sweet. He kept his face firm and pretended to ponder, then gave in at last. “If we must. Tomorrow we will make up for the time we lose.”
“Ahead lies a small river. Or maybe it is a large one after the rain today.” The guide laughed at his joke before continuing, “That is the place where I suggest we camp for the night unless you have other ideas?”
The cold rain had drawn the warmth from him. Edward’s teeth nearly chattered. “I say, are there any towns or villages we will pass through?”
“Do you wish to avoid them?”
“No. I was wondering if any, might have an Inn. I’m sure my servants will be worn out from walking all day.”
The guide started to speak and choked it off. Instead, he pointed ahead. “Bradenton. We should reach it by tomorrow midday. If your servants are tired, you might take rooms there. I have stayed there many times, and it’s warm and dry. The wine is acceptable for my taste, but you may wish to provide your own.”
“Warm and dry you say? Can it be reached by nightfall, today?”
“On another day it might be possible, but not today. The horses cannot move fast enough. With this downpour make sure your servants set your camp on high ground. The river may yet rise and flood.”
Edward nodded. His camp would be on high ground—and upstream. “Have you heard rumors of any dangers in this area? Robbers, highwaymen, or even of the Dragon Clan?”
“A few highwaymen, but we can handle them. I haven’t heard of a member of the Dragon Clan, in probably close to ten years. Before that there were stories. But there are always stories.”
“Have you ever encountered dragons in your travels?”
“No. I have seen them flying, of course.” He pulled the hood of his animal skin over his face to shed rain. “Once I saw a great green dragon swoop down not a hundred steps from me and grab a calf with its hind claws. The wings beat so hard the air almost knocked me over.”
Edward didn’t know if the story held any truth. “How large was this animal?”
“Large? Well, it carried off a calf into the sky that weighed more than me and didn’t look like it was straining, too much.”
Not one to believe all he heard, Edward set the idea aside. To lift a small cow, the wings would have to be as long as boats. He didn’t believe in goblins or fairies, either. The footing for the horse grew firmer as they topped a slight rise and the river lay ahead. It flowed to his left. He turned right and pointed to a small hillock. The nearest servants changed direction.
The guide noticed where Edward’s camp would be set up and smiled to himself. Edward, son of the Earl of Witten, was learning very fast.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Camilla woke at the first touch of Brix’s hand.
“Be quiet. Time to go.”
What is he doing here? She sat up and tried to see in the darkness as she cleared her mind from the anger of waking to find Brix in her campsite. She had left him at the creek the night before. Instead, she heard the stamp of nearby hooves and felt her back tingle so much it felt on fire. She rolled to her knees and reached for her bedroll, tying the rope to the ends and slipping it over her shoulder. She whispered, “Who?”
“Not friends, for sure,” Brix spoke softly, then half-turned and fumbled with his pants. A yellow stream of pee watered the nearby bushes.
Brix’s act triggered Camilla’s body. She had to pee, also. It was the single problem she faced that she couldn’t hide. She turned and found the path to the road while squeezing her thighs to hold it in.
“What are you doing here?” She whispered as she moved past him to take the lead.
“Following you.” He shrugged as if that answered it all.
They moved quietly and kep
t out of sight as they neared the road. Her back crawled, but no longer hurt. The clomping of hooves told there were more horses strung out behind the first she saw. They hid behind a tangle of briars and watched the King’s men in their colorful uniforms ride past, single file. A quick count said nearly twenty men rode in a ragged line. Their uniforms appeared new and the riders very young.
Camilla glanced at Brix and then back at the soldiers. A shiver of remembrance of the attack on her family led to a flood of nasty memories. Despite the soldiers, Camilla still had to pee, and the need was becoming urgent. Camilla touched Brix’s shoulder and mouthed, “I’ll be right back. Forgot something back there.”
She moved deeper into the forest and relieved herself, wondering how she was going to keep her secret with a boy following her, let alone keeping the birthmark she wore hidden. Could she break apart their new friendship and then join him herding the animals down the valley? It was not a question she had to solve this morning, but it was one she needed to think about.
Concealing either secret from Brix was a chore she didn’t know if she could accomplish for long, and one slip would reveal knowledge only the washerwoman knew. It amounted to being on constant guard. Camilla headed back to the briars with her mind spinning. Her idea of the night before that slipped back into her mind sounded possible.
No, it would work. Most prayers she had observed were said on a regular schedule, but she observed some prayed when they needed help or committed a sin. When needing to pee, she could utter a curse and explain she needed a few moments alone, to say a prayer and ask for forgiveness.
The birthmark was a different story. The last of the riders had passed their hidden position while she was deep in thought. Deceit with a new friend turned her stomach. However, if and when word of her sex or birthmark leaked, her life was in danger. She remembered the words of her father, and her mother had seconded the thoughts with an urgency she remembered well. Always hide the birthmark. Nobody but the family must ever see it, but each of her family wore a similar mark. One was black, another green, but most were red if she remembered correctly. All writhed across their backs in different intricate poses, detailed and fierce.
