Dragon Clan #3: Fleet's Story

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As hoped, Fleet found a small stream flowing at the bottom of the canyon. Less than a canyon, it was a split in the flat ground that he managed to climb to the bottom in a short time. The sun hadn’t set, and he gathered a large pile of dry wood, most of it less than the diameter of his thumb and it would burn quickly. The entire pile came to his waist, but he doubted it would last the night.

It would get cold. He kept gathering sticks and whatever else he found, lost in his solitude and loneliness. If nothing else, Camilla could have offered suggestions on how to contact the family and he should have asked her.

Bending to gather a handful of sticks, a shadow moved. He jerked his head up and found three men standing where his pile of branches, backpack, and staff lay. In an instant, he realized they were trouble.

One stood slightly apart, cleaning his fingernails with a rust-free knife that was all too impressive in contrast to the filthy rags he wore. The other two were dressed no better. All wore smiles, but the smiles didn’t reach their eyes.

Fleet felt his heart beating faster. He drew a deep breath and forced a false smile of his own. “Good evening. I’m called Fleet.”

The one cleaning his nails said, “I suppose that means you’re going to be ‘fleet’ and run away leaving us with all your belongings.”

The other two laughed like idiots.

Fleet glanced at his pack containing his food, and his water jugs beside. His blanket was rolled, and the idea flashed through his mind that he didn’t have time for worthless dregs like those facing him. He was on an important mission. His anger began to grow, but he held it in check.

“I’m not going anywhere without my belongings.” His voice had not cracked, and to Fleet’s ears, he sounded calm and not afraid. Afraid. No, he was not afraid, he found. He was angry. Angry at allowing himself to be cornered by the likes of the three in front of him. He needed to prevent them from stealing his things to accomplish his mission.

Other than the single knife, he saw no weapons. Without looking down, the bed of the stream held round rocks as large as his fist. They were weapons if used right. The item that kept his attention was that if he could reach his staff, he would defeat the three men easily.

“I wouldn’t try it,” one warned, a second knife that had been held behind his leg appeared as he watched Fleet’s eyes.

The third held up a larger, but rusty knife. His smile was almost sad. “We’ve been watching you all day.”

“I haven’t been here all day,” Fleet said, just for the sake of correcting him while he decided what to do. He could run as one suggested. Then he could follow them and try to get his belongings back. But that would take days, perhaps before he recovered what would be left of his supplies. He could run and let them have it all. Sewn into his shirt was more than enough coins to purchase it all again.

He decided to fight. None of the three displayed weapons that would reach any distance. A rock thrown in the face of one would put him down. Pulling the knife at his side and charging would probably make the other two flee. If not, he’d fight.

But as he tensed and his anger grew, a faint tickle touched his back. Instead of reaching for the rock at his feet, he stood still.

The one that had been cleaning his nails said, “I want your knife, too. And we’ll take what else you have. If you drop the knife and run off, we won’t chase you.”

The tingle on his back was growing stronger. “I’ll die out here without fire or blanket.”

“Not our problem dumb-ass. But, it’s the only way you leave here alive.” He spat at his feet and took a tentative step in Fleet’s direction while motioning with his hand for the others to join him.

Fleet stood his ground, twenty steps away. He said, “You don’t know it, but the three of you may not leave here alive. I suggest you run, instead of me.”

The leader gave a puzzled look at the others, then back at him again. “What’re you going to do to us?”

“Me? Nothing. But you fools have chosen to attack the Dragon Clan. Do you know what that means?” Fleet felt the touch of the dragon increasing. “It means I have a dragon at my command, and I’ve called it to fly down into this canyon, and I may tell it to kill the three of you.”

The feeling on his back had turned to stinging pain with the approach of the dragon, but he welcomed it. In his mind, he pictured the dragon flying low and screeching as it passed over them.

He noticed a flick of movement from the sky behind the men. He relaxed and smiled, but said nothing else. The leader started walking in Fleet’s direction, the other two on his heels, but after four or five steps, a sound of soft leather beating against the air made itself known. Rhythmic. Steady.

Three heads turned as one. Despite knowing what was to come, the screech sounded and echoed off the walls of the canyon, making it seem even louder. Fleet covered his ears and waited. Three more flaps of giant wings and the dragon flew directly over them, so low the force of the wind from the wings stirred dust.

The men scattered. Fleet flashed a mental image of the dragon grabbing them in its claws and flying off, then did his best to put the image out of his head. He ran to his staff and turned a full spin, searching for an enemy.

Fleet gathered his belongings with the last of the light and traveled along the side of the stream until finding a place to climb the steep wall. Before leaving the stream, he knelt and drank as much of the tepid water as possible, and topped off his four jugs. Then he climbed to the flat of the desert floor and walked by starlight until he found a shelf of protruding rock as high as his knee. It was a ridge that continued into the darkness to either side.

He wrapped the blanket around himself and cursed the three men again. He’d have a cold camp on hard rock. Just before falling asleep, he realized he had never once thanked the dragon that usually stayed out of sight, but seemingly remained close enough to fly to his rescue. They were not bonded, yet the dragon seemed to have an attachment to him. Fleet decided to ask the elders at the drylands branch of the family if they could explain the relationship. There may be more than one kind of bonding.

All he had to do was locate the family that successfully had hidden in the desert for generations, and survive the heat and thirst of the desert, plus highwaymen, criminals, and the king’s army, long enough to ask them. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

He woke cold and scared, time after time. Dreams of three men sneaking up on him kept him alert. A mouse scurrying across the sand caused his staff to find its way into his hand. When the sun finally rose, he didn’t stand. Instead, he sat and let the warmth sweep over him until it penetrated his blanket and clothing. When he warmed his eyes closed, and he fell into a fitful sleep.

After a sip of water and a handful of salted fish he walked. He’d heard salted fish helps in the desert. Looking to the south terrified him. Fleet had lived in the mountains on the slopes of Bear Mountain his whole life. Ahead lay brown sand and rock, broken here and there by small bushes or cactus, and even those plants were more brown than green. The little green in sight was subdued, faded, or growing in hues of brown that blended with the sand.

There were no hills to stand upon look ahead. The sun reflected off the sand with so much intensity that he considered wearing his shirt on his head. The heat of the sand started seeping up through his feet.

He kept walking, forcing himself to wait before drinking any water. If it took three jugs of water to walk into the desert, it would take at least the same to walk out. He would only go into the desert the same as it took to leave. Late in the day, he found the terrain changing. The ground grew rougher, there were hills and to his right, the land rose. Where it was higher, were the effects of water gouging out the landscape.

At one place he found where several small canyons on the hillsides emptied near the same place, and there was green. He shifted directions slightly and headed for it. Arriving, he found a shallow swampy area.

Water oozed from where he stepped, but what little was standing was used by animals. Hoof prints and footprints were everywhere. The shallow water was brownish-yellow from the animals relieving themselves. The stench was overpowering.

But there were reeds growing at the edge. Fleet went into the reeds and after cutting an armload, carried it away from the water to the shade of a boulder that was taller than he stood. If there were hoofed animals, there were predators. He didn’t want to become a meal for a pack of wolves or dogs.

The reeds were green, as long as his arm, and pliable. He placed a circle of them, all touching in the center and spreading out. Then, using a simple under and over method he wove other reeds until he had a hat twice as large around as his head. The sun was almost down, but he kept busy until he had a cone, along with a chin strap.

It was lopsided, stray reeds poked out at odd angles, and it smelled. But his red face and neck would be thankful tomorrow. A feeling of mastery over his environment, pumped up his sagging confidence.

Then the mosquitoes attacked. Blackflies swarmed in clouds that buzzed as loud as a rattlesnake. He choked on them. Mosquitoes fought for space on his bare skin to suck his blood. Waving his arm seemed to attract more. And the temperature started falling.

There could be no sleep under the conditions. Fleet gathered his things and started walking, determined to out-walk the insects. Finally, he decided he was far enough away and curled up in his blanket. If anything, the second night was worse than the first.

He woke before dawn and trudged ahead despite the cold. His new reed hat felt odd, but when the sun came up, he would give thanks. The backpack still held plenty of food, but his second jug of water was half gone. He might last until the end of the day—but sometime soon he would have to leave the desert or risk dying from lack of water.

The terrain to his right continued to get rougher. Instead of washed out gullies, there were canyons as large as any he’d ever seen. The other side of the dryland held much the same. Fleet realized the drylands extended much farther than he anticipated. The chances of locating the other family were about as great as him becoming king.

There was one option the family council suggested. He found a twisted cedar growing from a split in a rock. It provided almost enough shade to protect him. He downed the last of the water in the second jug. In the morning, he must retrace his steps before his water ran out.

Closing his eyes, he made a mental picture of a dragon flying nearby. When nothing happened, he tried to project danger. If not danger, then fear. He would not fail.

Still, nothing happened. He had been so certain the dragon would come. It had five or six times previously, and it had been the first on Bear Mountain to allow him to approach. He became scared. Not scared in the physical sense, but scared that he would not accomplish his goal. Perhaps they should have sent Camilla, after all.

No. She didn’t have the ability to call a dragon. In an emergency, she might, just like any of the family might do. He spread his blanket and ate. It would be another cold camp, but as he lay and watched the blue sky, he continued to call on the dragon.

Shortly after dark, he quit. Maybe the dragon had flown back to Bear Mountain. Maybe it was ignoring him, or it didn’t like deserts. Before he left, he would try again. On his second trip into the dry lands in a few days, he would carry more water.

He would also attempt to contact the dragon every day until he knew it was close. His next venture would not fail.