Dragon Clan #1: Camilla's Story

CHAPTER SIX

Camilla settled herself on a convenient rock behind a clump of silver sage that was blooming with tiny blue flowers. From there she could see the whole side of Copper Mountain while remaining unseen. Caution had always been part of her daily routine, but now she moved as if her life depended on anticipating an ambush. The short rope looped over her shoulder was tied to each end of the rolled blanket and groundsheet.

The pole the washerwoman had given her rested in her right hand, the knife concealed at her hip where she could draw it quickly. The purse tied at her waist now held most of the coins Robin loaned her, in addition to her broken slice of flint and steel. Two of the iron pennies were rolled in the blanket she carried. Best to always split your assets in case of trouble.

Concealed by the head-high sagebrush, she carefully examined the side of the mountain and the trail she intended to travel in reaching the King’s Road. If her enemies were near, she wouldn’t stumble into their trap. Not again. Not ever.

This might be the last time she’d see this mountain for a while. She had no idea of how long the trip would take, other than the washer-woman said four or five days to reach the herdsman, Arum. She guessed at least twice that to return. Far more than ten days, one way or another, and probably closer to twenty when the sheep and goats slowed them down.

She’d stopped by her cave to store her few belongings in several nearby caches, and to make sure everything was secure for the time she’d be gone. She turned over the stones used for her small fires, concealing the blackened portions in the ground. She made sure any noticeable trace of occupancy was wiped away. The boys from the academy would be searching for clues to her location, and she didn’t intend to make it easy for them.

Maybe they’d forget about her after a while and chase after someone else. But for now, their anger and fear fed each other, increasing as they moved closer to their prey, like a pack of hungry wild dogs. The boys were not hungry; it was their way. In their school they learned to fight for their king, and using those skills on a weaker opponent came to them naturally. Like the lamb, Camilla was the weaker, and, therefore, a target. If they knew she was a girl, it would probably be worse, so she had trimmed her hair again with the small knife and walked heavily on her heels, like boys. She swung her shoulders back and forth instead of her hips as she walked. She’d been doing that ever since she could remember. But, as the washerwoman mentioned, her body was changing and soon she wouldn’t be fooling anyone.

Beginning her trip up the valley brought anxiety and a thousand unanswered questions, but the washerwoman was the only person she trusted to ask. Why she trusted her was another unanswered question, but orphaned girls don’t often question mundane items like why does the sun rise, or why is there dirt beneath their feet, or why to trust some and not others. They simply accept.

The exposed location on the side of the mountain placed her directly in the sun. Sweat beaded and ran down her neck and forehead. Still, she remained still and watched.

Below, snaking down the side of her mountain wound the narrow path taking her to the King’s Road, and the upper valley. Much of the mountain was clear of trees. Sage, scrub, and dried grasses competed for the meager soil, and plants grew low, twisted, and sparse. After the mining of the mountain, the plants never recovered.

Far below she’d spotted movement a while ago, so she hid and waited. At the bottom of the mountain near the road, she spotted a distant figure running in her direction. Running usually means danger. Watching the path that strung out behind the runner for a time revealed there were three more runners.

Why would four people race up the path to the Copper Mountain mines, and incidentally in the same direction as her small cave, unless they were after her? It could be for another reason, but she needed to be sure. Somebody may have seen her leave the washerwoman’s place, or might have followed her in the past, and told another. The boys from the military academy often paid for information, and if they bribed a villager who knew her cave location, they would be after her.

Careful to remain still and hidden, she watched the four race up the path in her direction, as she reviewed her actions and options. She hadn’t done the boys any harm, not a rude word or disrespectful glance in their direction. Yet they singled her out as the weakest and the one with the least support in the village. She became their target.

She came to another conclusion. Rich boys can get away with anything.

If they continued up the mountain and found her cave, the opening hidden behind the cedars and pines that she’d planted last summer, they’d only find three old blankets stored in the rear, and perhaps her stash of nuts and dried apples in a hole under a flat rock. But it would take a hard search to locate the cave and more to find the few items still there.

Arum, the sheep herder, was not expecting her, so a small delay in her departure shouldn’t matter. Camilla wanted to know if the boys searched for her, or if they had another reason for running up the side of her mountain. She needed to know as much as possible because she planned to return. If they found her cave, she had to make other arrangements.

The one running in front wore a bright yellow shirt and was clearly a faster runner. He quickly outpaced the other three, and in a short while, only two of them ran behind. Then only the leader continued, as all the others slowed and then turned back. They shouted and raised fists at the lone runner. Camilla watched him continue, puzzled by their actions. The lone boy was a fast runner. Fast, but not as fast as me.

The huffing of a winded runner sounded as he trotted nearer to Camilla’s hidden location. Peering through the foliage, Camilla saw the craftsman wearing a yellow shirt, not the brown of a student warrior, but close enough in color to be confused at a distance. Looking again down the path to the other three runners, she convinced herself they wore military brown, but the distance was extreme. Maybe the boy soldiers chased another victim. Were there others that the boys fought and tortured? She didn’t remember them chasing another villager, but there had been fights. Now and then a boy or two from the school would get into a fight with a villager. She had watched more than one, always from a distance, but not for at least two years.

The others started moving back down the mountain. Only the craftsman remained. He had pulled to a stop a hundred paces from Camilla and dropped to his knees, catching his breath. When he raised his head, it was to watch the path behind himself as if making sure the others turned back, and it was not one of their tricks. He carried a rolled blanket similar to her own, a piece of rope over his shoulder, each end tied to the end of the blanket.

The boy in yellow seemed to have shared enemies with her. She had watched him often enough around the village but never spoken to him. However, common enemies can make good friends. Perhaps she should step into the open and say hello. Perhaps offer her help and support.

How do you ever know the manner a stranger will greet you? Will he smile and shake her hand, or will he scowl and kick her rump? Camilla stayed hidden behind the sagebrush, and as always, thinking before acting. The boy on the path now breathed somewhat evenly and stood on shaky legs. He climbed to the top of a nearby boulder where he could better see down the mountainside where he came from. Camilla realized the boy could have just as easily climbed to the rocks above her perch, and then what would she have said? Sorry, my name’s Camilla. I was just watching you run from your enemies like a scared rabbit?

Camilla could have smiled at her thoughts, but the events she’d witnessed were still a puzzle she needed to resolve. For now, she knew of the presence of the other boy, but the reverse was not true. If looked at in one way, she held the upper hand, and that was always good. ‘Knowledge is worth more than gold,' her father had said.

My father said that? Where had that thought come from? She barely remembered the man, let alone what he used to say. But there was a remembered friendly timber in his voice, and an odd accent, words pronounced slightly different from those around Nettleton. Different, but understandable. And a smell of smoke and sweat lingered about him that was comforting to remember. Camilla tried again to form an image of her mother in her mind and couldn’t. Instead, there were other things. Softness. And warmth. And laughter. But no mental picture of what she looked like.

Did she share the same dark hair as Camilla? Was she pretty, or slim and tall? Nothing came to mind.

But other children were floating around in her dim memory, all unnamed and older than her, but sharing her almost black hair. They bickered and fought, always taking her food and sweets in their teasing, then returning them with laughter. Warmth and smiles. A good life. Then one day came screams cold enough to freeze winter hawks. Cold and fire, as their wagon burned amid the snow and shouts of unknown men. She had gone to the edge of the trees to pee. An arrow had landed at her feet, only the last of the fletching remaining above ground. Horses carried shouting men and whirling swords flashed. They raced rampant in their campsite. More screams sounded. Then none.

Camilla remembered glimpses from the underbrush near an oak tree where she ran and hid. The horses were fine animals, their saddles polished and the men riding them wore matching uniforms. Blue and red. One soldier used a sword to cut one of her older brothers nearly in half as he tried running away. Then Camilla turned and ran. She ran into the forest as far and as fast as she could.

Her attention returned to the craftsman boy standing on the path. He stood still and watched down the mountain as if undecided what to do. The path led down to the trees beside the road. The three who were chasing him had gone down there, probably to join the other two that completed their pack of angry students. They couldn’t be seen in the trees.

The craftsman’s eyes moved down the side of the mountain and paused. Even if he didn’t follow the path, and if the boys were watching him from concealment in the trees, they could see him. They could move to intercept him wherever he emerged on the road. Camilla decided the boy would probably wait until dark before going down. That was the smart way.

It was easy to see the young craftsman’s intentions and follow his train of thought. Camilla watched him come to the same conclusions as if she could read his mind. The boy looked a year or two older, and he was slightly larger than Camilla, but not as big as the trainees at the academy. The academy accepted boys around twelve or thirteen, and they departed for duty a few years later. Camilla knew the sizes when they arrived and when they left. She also knew to avoid them, no matter their size. This was not the first pack to give her problems. Two summers ago, there had been another. They beat her once, but she escaped and avoided their attention until one fine spring day they rode off on horses together, under the command of an adult dressed in a blue and red uniform. The color of uniforms that set her heart beating in fear as she remembered her family and the same uniforms.

As she watched, a sensation of tiny crawling things tickled her back. Before looking at the sky, she knew a red dragon would be up there. She spotted it immediately and allowed the tingles and tickles to flow over her back like butterflies touching their wings to her back from neck to bottom.

She watched and thought back to when she had painfully twisted her ankle a year ago. And last winter when she fell after tripping on loose rocks on the side of her mountain and struck her knee so hard she couldn’t stand for days.

Both times a red dragon had flown overhead and circled above her. Looking up had made her think it watched over her. When the pain went away so did the dragon. She knew it was just a silly daydream of a girl without much to dream about.

The red dragon flew high and fast as if it had a place to be in a hurry. Dragons were not exactly rare, but they were not seen every day. When one did fly over, people paused in their endeavors and watched the majestic and dangerous beasts in fascination. Most found it almost impossible not to look.

Camilla was even more impelled to watch, no matter the color. But red ones were the best. Always.