Dragon Clan #1: Camilla's Story

CHAPTER TEN

The King paused only long enough to peek out of a small window on the third floor from the edge of the drapes. Seeing nothing dangerous down in the courtyard, he continued jogging down the hallway to his chambers, as feelings of impending doom filled him. Once he’d dismissed the servants and barred the door behind them, he went to a certain stone behind the edge of an old tapestry depicting three hunters with bows, and three leaping stags about to die. Pushing the stone inward released a lock on a hidden compartment. A drawer smoothly emerged from the wall, several fake stones attached to the front. Until the release was made, they had looked like any others on the wall.

The drawer was wider than his outstretched arms and deep enough to hide a man, as family rumors said had happened a few times in the past. Rumors also said more than one woman had escaped the attention of angry queens by hiding in the drawer. Inside were several objects. The largest was a red stone carved into the writhing image of a red dragon as big as his forearm. The wings were folded against the body, but the head was twisted back on the long neck, as the ugly face and black eyes met his. The statue was the creation of a master carver. And one insane.

Pounding sounded from the only door to the chambers.

Lifting the statue carefully, the King carried it to the center of a table where he often did royal paperwork in private. He set it down in the center and hurried to the door. Using the peephole first, he threw the lock and cracked the door open only enough to ensure that the Weapons Master and Slave Master were alone. “Come inside and be quick about it.”

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.