Dragon Clan #3: Fleet's Story

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fleet covertly watched Camilla. He waited for the first sign that she felt the approaching dragon too. She ate more cherries, then pulled one of the last skewers of rabbit from the edge of the fire. Using her fingers, she pulled strips of meat free and tossed them into her mouth without any indication she sensed the dragon.

The touch of the dragon continued to increase on his back. He determined it felt strongest on his left side, indicating direction, and casually allowed his eyes to drift away from Camilla to the sky.

She stiffened, her attention shifted to him. Then she relaxed. “How long have you felt it?”

Pointing, he said, “For a while, now. I believe it’s over there.”

They waited. A dragon flew above the trees so far away that it was no larger than watching a bird. It flew with long lazy strokes, in the general direction of Nettleton.

She said, “Right where you thought it would be.”

He nodded. For all the good it did, he could detect them at a greater distance, and know where they were, but those skills didn’t make him bonded. What did it matter was that he had once called a dragon down from the sky to attack his enemies if he didn’t know how he did it, or if he could do it again?

The evening passed with them talking long into the night. The following morning, they traveled again, slowly. Camilla seemed to have healed enough to avoid limping too badly, but the bruises on her face seemed even darker and more serious.

A stranger seeing them might think Fleet had beaten her, which might create other problems. Explanations might not be believed. However, the bruises would be long remembered and make the two stand out. The Dragon Clan moved in the normal world like fish swimming in ponds. They made as few ripples as possible while passing others.

The next night was spent sleeping in a stand of juniper. The scent eased their minds, and most animals avoid the bushes because of the same scent. A small fire warmed them, but barely. Water had become scarce, and none was near their camp except for a stagnant pool neither wanted to experience.

They woke early, cold and thirsty. After crossing a barren ridge and two small hills covered with briars and cactus, they found a sluggish river. The banks were solid green with growth, a lot of willow and other water-loving trees and shrubs. Cattails grew near the edges.

Reaching the bank, Fleet drank his fill and looked to the other side. They would have to swim. Up river appeared wider, probably shallower, and the riverbed there was littered with boulders. A deep pool formed at a bend.

“That’s where I’ll fish,” he said.

“The sand bank will make a good, soft place to sleep. Once over there we can find a place to build a fire and dry our things in the sun.”

She was right. Instead of delaying, they should cross immediately. He waded into the cold water, feeling the current threaten to tug him into the water. Another step and the water rose to his thigh. The current no longer tugged, it pulled. The river was not as sluggish as he’d believed.

He dove in, using his legs to propel him nearly halfway across the river before surfacing. Half a dozen strokes carried him near enough to the other side that he felt his hand brush the bottom. He stood and looked behind to see if Camilla needed any help.

She was almost at his side. While swimming she turned her head in the water, and the entire bruise was hidden, then as she took the next stroke the bruised face came into view. It was like seeing two sides of the girl. She often appeared gentle and almost a little girl, but there was a hardness, too. No, not hardness. Fierce was the better word. She was not someone to cross.

They quickly found a place near the sand bank where a stream fed the river. Sand to sleep on, and a bank as high as their heads on two sides to hide the fire from prying eyes. Wood washed downriver from floods littered the area for firewood.

Placing her things on the ground, Camilla said, “I’ll explore.”

Fleet held up his coil of twine and hooks. “Fish for dinner.”

“I’ll see what I can find to eat Just in case you are not the fisherman you think you are.”

He shrugged, holding back his laughter. At the deep pool in the river, he searched the edges for what the fish might eat. He found small, conical insects attached to rocks in the shallows and scraped one free with his knife. His hook held it, and he tossed the end of his line into the water. As it sank a fish took it.

He struggled to bring the fish ashore with the hand line. It was too big, and if he didn’t absorb some of the shocks of the fighting fish with his hand and arm, it would break the line. He backed up and let the fish play itself out. Another step back. Then another.

The fish was silver, leaped out of the water more than once, but finally exhausted enough energy that Fleet managed to slide it onto the shore. It was longer than his forearm. He chuckled. Not the fisherman he thought he was?

He knelt and cleaned the fish, leaving the head on to properly impress Camilla. The head made it look bigger. Still, it was enough for at least two meals for them. He carried it to the camp and decided to explore, also.

He left in the opposite direction Camilla had taken, thinking he’d maybe find something different than her. Climbing the bank, he looked for a high place to sit and watch. Hunters always seek out a place to observe a new area. Sitting on a ridge like the one he saw in the distance allowed a hunter to spot game moving, and often determine the usual habits of animals.

Knowing a herd of deer went to drink at a specific place each evening, and which trails they took, allowed the hunter to become an ambusher, a much more productive way to hunt. Fleet selected the location to where he could watch the valley and walked to the bottom of the ridge to look for a route up.

His eye caught sight of several things out of place. At the base of the ridge, among the rocks there were bones. Old, white, but not all from a single animal. He examined the bones. There were marks on some that came from a knife, both slices, and scrapes. A few pottery shards lay to one side.

Fleet soon found a path that took him to the top. Brush had been placed there to provide shade and to conceal the watcher from sky-lining himself. Someone, or more than one, had watched the bend in the river and valley from this location. More bones lay on the gray rock, smaller ones. Chicken or bird bones, he’d guess. Ants were cleaning the last of the meat from them.

Picking one up, he snapped it in half. Still soft. Bones lying in the sun for a few days are dried out and brittle. He moved to the immediate area, searching for any sign of a path the watcher took to arrive or depart. If he found and followed it, he could find who sat up there and ate chicken while watching over their campsite.

Near the river, he spotted movement, and his eyes were drawn to Camilla as she moved through the brush, searching for food. The distance was too great to see detail, but he easily determined it was a person dressed like her in faded greens and browns. Beyond, a coyote or wolf moved in the harsh landscape, from one place of shade to another.

A more perfect observation point couldn’t be found. The person or people using it didn’t live where they watched, so he turned away and swept the ground with his eyes. The ground on top of the mesa was a solid rock covered with a thin layer of sand. Sage and low grasses grew where the sand accumulated in cracks and crevasses. They looked like they struggled to survive, most small and twisted.

When the wind blew, the thin layer sand coating the surface shifted, but he found a faint trace of a path leading away. Less than a path, it was simply a place where fewer stunted plants grew. Following it a few steps, he raised his gaze and examined all beyond.

The flat mesa top butted up to a series of hills where a strip of green vegetation told of a stream. Water was the key to life in the semi-arid land. One person, maybe two. Keeping to themselves.

Fleet dismissed the need to follow the path to wherever or whoever it led to. They lived in a hard land away from others. He didn’t need to know why. Before the run-in with the gypsies, he would not have been so concerned. However, that incident couldn’t rule his life, but it would make him more cautious.

Finding and spying on whoever used the mesa to watch for animals would improve his situation. It might hurt if they took offense. If he were found spying on them, they would naturally react so he’d be careful. On the other hand, he now knew a little about the watcher, and it would be easy enough to climb the mesa each day and make sure the person hadn’t returned to spy on him and Camilla.

Shrugging, his decision made, he headed back to the campsite. Moving quickly so Camilla wouldn’t be worried, he almost missed the footprint on the edge of the path. His eyes found it, but he was jogging and never broke step. It was not his footprint, and too big for Camilla’s. But it was fresh. The glance told him it was probably made a very short time ago.

Someone was here. His burst of speed as he ran down the slope leading from the perch on top of the mesa had flushed someone down here watching them. That person was close right now. That same someone was trying to remain unobserved but had left a footprint.

One rule was king. Strangers are dangerous until proven otherwise. He had been willing to keep his distance, but the person who left that print had as much as invaded his camp. If he didn’t find who and why he would get no sleep.

A bank rose on one side of the path, taller than a man. A boulder at the bottom of the incline stood waist high, only steps away. Above that boulder a juniper grew tangled and twisted, several branches hanging over the top. Juniper is tough, stringy and the roots go deep.

He leaped to the top of the boulder and tossed his staff over the top of the bank. He grabbed a gnarled branch and used it to lever himself over the top. His staff was there but in another’s hand.

The man holding his staff was small, his back twisted from some long ago fall or accident. He wore a blanket over his shoulders. His hair and beard hadn’t been trimmed since Fleet was a child, and his eyes were wild.

The staff was held in his left hand while a bow with a nocked arrow was in his right. Fleet realized that before he could cover the ten steps between them the man could release the staff and draw the arrow. And releasing it from a distance so close couldn’t miss.

Fleet glanced aside. He could dive over the edge of the bank and probably escape in the dense willows growing beside the river if he survived the fall.

“You might hurt yourself if you try,” a gravel sounding voice said.

The man had outwitted Fleet. He had anticipated Fleet’s every move. Even the footprint had been left on purpose. Turning to look at him again, Fleet said, “Who are you?”

“You first.” The man gestured slightly with the bow and arrow.

“My name is Fleet, and I’m traveling with my sister, Camilla. We’re going to the king’s Summer Palace to visit an uncle. Now you.”

“Not so fast. Why were you up there?” His eyes flicked to the place on top of the mesa.

Fleet hesitated. The old man hadn’t threatened or made any demands. Sometimes the truth is the easy way. “We plan to stay a day or two and were checking the area out for food or danger. I thought that would be a good place to get a view of the land.”

“Good instincts, I’ll give you that.”

“Now, will you tell me what’s going on?”

He lowered the bow and let the tension off the string by letting the arrow slide through his fingers. In the next move, he held the staff out to Fleet. “You might as well take this. I never learned to use one, but there’s plenty who swear by them.”

Fleet stepped closer and accepted his staff. Up close, he saw the clothing was old, and patched, but clean. He flashed a smile of thanks.

“You guessed right. I live back near that little stream. I saw you start to go there and then you decided to let me be. That would be my guess.”

“You watched me, but I’m wondering what would have happened if I had gone there?”

“I would have taken your sister hostage until we figured it out. Not because I wanted to, but because you forced me to protect my own.”

Camilla would have surprised him if he tried to take her. “I said I’m called Fleet. You never offered your name.”

“Any name I give will be a lie. Do you insist on one?”

Fleet laughed and said, “Well, Noname, I caught a fish too big for us to eat at one meal. Would you care to come back to camp and eat with us? Or take part of it to your place to eat?”

The old man cracked a thin smile. “You don’t have much curiosity, do you, son?”

“I know how to mind my own business if that’s what you’re asking.”

Nodding and muttering to himself, the old man said, “I think I’d like to meet your sister and have some fish. Company and fish. I like both.”

The old man walked with a twisting limp, obviously in pain with each step. He moved slower than Fleet usually walked, but Fleet also noticed the man left little trace of his passage. “You set a trap for me back there! You left that footprint on purpose, so I’d climb that bank to look for you.”

“I suspected you’d toss your staff up there so you could climb.”

Shaking his head, Fleet said, “I fell for it.”

“Using your brain is always better than using your back.” The old man was still chuckling to himself as they entered the camp and found Camilla roasting the fish.

Fleet said, “I brought a guest for dinner, although I can’t properly introduce you.”

Camilla’s eyes went from him to the stranger and back again. “Good company is always welcome,” she said, repeating the mantra common to the highlands.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you. It’s more to protect me.” The old man attempted a smile and failed. He sat without being invited.

“Your explanation gives us room to let our minds wander,” Camilla said in a semi-jovial voice as she sliced another cut of fish and skewered it. “You wouldn’t be living in a desolate area like this unless your life was at stake, and that means King Ember wants your head if I’m any judge of people.”

The old man looked ready to leap to his feet and flee, but a warning look from Fleet stilled him. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders tighter around him.

Camilla kept her back to him as she continued. “If it were simply a matter of skimping on your taxes or trifling with a serving wench, you wouldn’t be here. Only three crimes come to mind. You could have stolen a large sum of gold from the king . . . You killed someone important . . . Or, you are one of the Dragon Clan.”

There were other crimes, such as treason, or bribery of officials, or bedding a woman of royal birth, that would be serious enough to send a man into isolation for the rest of his life. But not many. And Fleet admired Camilla for framing her statement so carefully, and keeping her back turned as she made it. Therefore, the comments appeared innocent.

Camilla depended on Fleet to watch the man for a reaction. Her trust in Fleet came as a surprise. More than that, she had broached the Dragon Clan subject in such a way that it wouldn’t trigger any warnings from the other. He again suspected the girl/woman was his intellectual superior and was possibly the better choice for the task they were to complete.

He began to see the wisdom in the family council. While he had reached the age of majority and would travel to other clan families seeking a mate and finding his life’s work, she became the anchor of his boat in a storm.

He liked the analogy. She didn’t try to control things as he did, yet she was often in control in more passive leadership roles. Only now was he beginning to recognize her value and importance. The family had been right in sending her with him.

However, her methods had paid off with her comments. When she accused him of killing or stealing, there had been no reaction. Only when she mentioned the Dragon Clan had he attempted to bolt.