Dragon Clan #1: Camilla's Story

CHAPTER FOUR

Logoff, the weaver, scowled at the worthless boy he called his youngest son. Brix had hands like stones when it came to the delicate business of spinning wool or hemp into the heavier threads required to make rope. Not that Brix didn’t work hard, or try. He worked harder than any of his five older brothers, but accomplished less.

When Brix snapped the feed line to the lead spindle again, Logoff sighed. “Arum will soon need help with his sheep and goats, again. Better gather what you need and tell your mother to cook for one less.”

“Me again? Why can’t one of the others go?”

Telling the truth seemed hurtful, more so than barking at him. Logoff used his sharpest voice, “Get your butt up and don’t let me see you again until there’s sheep in the yard in need of shearing.”

Brix leaped to his feet. He had helped the herder bring his animals down the valley the last two years. He knew what to take with him, and while it seemed right to protest going, he secretly wanted to go. No matter how hard he worked, his spinning never looked as uniform or well-made as that of his brothers. His work had consistency, they joked. His father always preached consistency in a thread, but Brix’s was a consistency of thread spun too thin, followed by too thick. Lumpy. It looked like it was made by a child, not something that sold or bartered. His father had long ago quit telling him what a proper thread looked like.

These days his father often sent him on errands to get him away from the spools, and sacks of wool, hemp, and cotton. For the last year, Brix had welcomed any excuse to get away from the mindless drudgery of twisting and pulling and combing, as well. More than once he’d found his finger tangled with the material and only managed to keep it from hitting the spinning spindle by breaking the coarse thread and starting over. Of course, that hadn’t made his father happy. “Concentrate” he’d shout. But who could concentrate on the dull twirling spindles of twine from the sun up to sun down, day after day?

Brix ran all the way to the modest cabin near Tangle Creek they called home, burst through the front door and reached for his bedroll stored in a corner, already tied and ready for travel. He turned to find his mother at the stove, watching him. “Ma, I’m going to help Arum with his flocks.”

She wrapped him in warm arms and whispered loving words meant for his ear alone, before turning back to her cooking, humming a soft tune. Before her lay a mound of chopped carrots and onions ready for the large urn she simmered daily for the inn. Tonight the patrons would enjoy a bowl of stew fit for royalty, and she would share a small copper snit for the sale of each bowl, sometimes earning as much as a full iron penny.

Then Brix was out the door racing up the hill leading to the winding King’s Road; the main road Nettleton. It led up and down the valley. He would travel it, a wide smile on his face with no thought of spinning string or rope. The sun rose high in the weak blue sky and trees were blooming. Leaves sprang from branches that had been bare only days earlier. Bees flew to investigate his bright yellow shirt decorated with a tiny spinning wheel on his right breast that told the world he worked at a trade. Good thing it didn’t tell them how bad he was at it.

Twice before he’d traveled to the top of the valley to herd animals. He’d tasted freedom, and lately, his thoughts were consumed with how to tell his father he didn’t think he’d ever make a very good spinner. Yet, what other options were there? At fourteen, he was already too old to apprentice for another trade, even if his family could afford to pay a master to take him. In a few years, he would be old enough to pair with a girl/woman, but those thoughts jumbled his mind. They were for another day yet to come.

Brix sang as he walked, a medley of bawdy songs, mostly songs he overheard from his older brothers as they staggered back from the inn on the tenth night. He remembered the tunes and words while not understanding the meaning of several, but his voice was clear, loud, and happy. The path he followed came to a dirt road used by wagons and many feet. He headed down it for the King’s Road. The King’s Road generally followed the small river winding down the center of the valley. In the direction they called ‘up the valley,’ the river narrowed when crossing each stream that fed it. In four days travel the river would shrink to little more than a shallow stream. Fewer trees would have blooms or leaves up that high in the mountains and the nights would be colder. Even the plants would be different, with more pine and cedar.

Ahead, standing in the road were boys from the military academy at the west edge of Nettleton near Clearwater Pond. They stood in arrogant postures, wearing sneers and blocking the road. All five wore the dull brown colors of military students. They looked older than him, maybe sixteen. Brix let the song fade away. The feelings of malice directed his way sent him a shiver of fear. He shook it off, but halted a few steps before he would have in earlier times. “A good day to you . . .”

The tallest said, “But not a good day for you, craftsman.”

“Have I done something to offend?”

A smaller boy wearing a scowl took an aggressive small step closer. “Yes, you offend me when you walk so easily on a road my father paid for. You owe a toll.”

“Your father is a road builder?” Brix asked, thinking that building roads might be work he would enjoy, at least, more than spinning.

A boy with red hair and a scatter of freckles covering his face and arms barked a false laugh before snarling. “Tarter didn’t build it himself, you dope. His father paid the taxes to our king. More than enough for this road.”

“But it’s free for anyone to use the King’s Road.”

Brix felt the animosity building in the air like sparkles before lightning storms and saw no way to avoid the confrontation, despite how friendly his words might be. The boys looked for trouble. In contrast to their drab uniforms, they were dressed well, the material finely woven and evenly dyed. Two of his older brothers had had fights with military students in years past. The military boys provoked them, too. However, in each case the local magistrate, Goodman Donald ruled in the military student’s favor, the side of wealth on the issue. Brix took two careful steps closer to the edge of the road.

The freckled boy pointed and taunted, “He admits he travels this road without paying his toll. I think we’re duty bound to take what little coin he has in his purse and spend it impressing pretty girls at the inn.”

A humorless chuckle filled the air as several of the boys laughed without humor.

“Or beat it out of him,” the tall one said, eyes gleaming like he was about to bite into a loaf of bread coated with honey.

Tarter, the boy who claimed his father owned the road, placed his hands on his hips and said, “If you tell us what we desire, we may let you pass without paying.”

“Tell you what?” Brix shuffled another small step closer to the edge of the road as if adjusting his bedroll. A glance told him he could dart onto the pathway that led up to Copper Mountain. The trail was narrow, rugged and twisting as it wound through brambles and then up the hillside of sage and cedar. The boys would have to chase him in single file. If any slowed, those behind would too. Later the trail wound through scrub trees, across a stream that could be leaped, and then it climbed. Loose rocks and shale laid over hard packed clay. It continued right up the side of the mountain all the way to the deserted old mines.

Hands on hips, Tarter continued, “We’re looking for a wildling boy, about your size. Probably limping. He lives about here, somewhere. For the answer of where he lives, we will allow you to pass unharmed and use this road without toll.”

Brix had seen the wild boy a few days earlier, as well as a hundred other times. At least half of the sightings were on this side of Copper Mountain, the others usually in the village where he caught sight of him skulking around. It might be valuable information to them, perhaps even enough to satisfy these greedy toll-takers. However, he felt defiance surging within. “I don’t know him, or where he lives. Why do you want to know?”

“That is our business,” the boy with red hair said, his voice as cold as a winter draft.

At the same time, the tall boy said, “We owe the wildling a beating.”

“Well, I don’t know him, and that’s the truth. I’ve never spoken to him.” On impulse, Brix pointed to the trees growing thick on the opposite side of the road, and shouted, “Hey! Is that the one you’re looking for?”

As the heads of all the military boys turned away to look where he pointed, Brix darted across the other side of the road, onto the Copper Mountain trail. Running, he felt the wind ruffle his hair and pull at his clothes. He had, at least, four or five steps on them. Lengthening his stride, he held his bedroll against his waist to keep it from flapping. His escape gave him an oddly free and excited feeling. Rounding a bend on the trail he allowed a glance over his shoulder and saw only three students had taken up the chase, and they looked winded already, as they fell back.

Brix lowered his head down and concentrated on running faster and longer if for no other reason than to let those boys know he was better at something than they were. Claiming ownership of the King’s Road. That was pure rubbish. Did they think he was a child?

Another glance over his shoulder told him they’d halted and now huddled. They were talking heatedly. One pointed at him with a menacing finger and called a taunt in his direction. Brix ignored it as he kept on running. The lower side of Copper Mountain held little in the way of cover. It was mostly barren rock and clumps of sage, but no trees or shrubs large enough to hide him. He stood out like a speckle on a clean sheet. The boys could watch him from below and move to meet him when he went back down unless he waited for dark. Even then, he feared facing again, these newly made enemies.

Brix continued up the side of the mountain for a better view of the slope and the road. Maybe he could manage to race ahead and get away. The act of running from them had been an impulse, but it put him forever at odds with the five students who studied at the military school. They’d leave Nettleton and join the regular army in a year or two, but while living in Nettleton, they would be enemies. Brix’s older brothers wrestled and boxed, two activities he didn’t enjoy. When he returned home, maybe he needed to beg a few lessons.

His thinking shifted to the wildling boy. Why did they want to know where he lived? They mentioned owing him a beating, but what could the boy have done to deserve that? He was most irritated with their attitude. Owning the King’s road! Charging tolls. Those boys were all the sons of nobles and wealthy merchants. Everyone else was supposed to do their bidding. Their teachers taught them, others fed them, and the washerwoman cleaned their uniforms. What do they do for themselves?

Bricks slowed, his legs burning. Like his older brothers, he had now managed to make enemies of the second sons at the school, and if their pattern held true, he was in for as much trouble as the wildling. Too late to take it back and tell them where he suspected the wildling boy lived, but he wouldn’t if he could. Many in the village believed the wildling boy was welcome because of his good deeds. They said he delivered firewood to the widow Natter's sisters on dark winter nights. He left them apples and berries in season. They were too old to cut it themselves, but the wood box on their back porch was never empty, and the kindling always split.

There were loaves of bread left in the wood box, too, placed there by Old Mrs. Natters, some say, in return for the wood. She also left bowls of stew or parts of a cooked chicken. There were other rumors of the boy helping the villagers, too, like a lost calf returned to its mother. The list went on and on.

If only half the rumors hold true, the wildling boy would be welcome in any town or village. No, Brix would not be the one to tell those military students where to find him. But he might warn him of their intentions if he saw him.