Dragon Clan #7: Shell’s Story

CHAPTER NINE

Quester fell back a step, then more. After the red dragon had spotted them, it had changed direction and flew right at them, wings beating furiously to slow its descent. Quester stumbled back a few more steps, then spun and ran.

Shell remained still. He felt no fear, just a warmth of welcome and friendship. The red dragon locked eyes with him and came to rest in front of him as soft as an autumn leaf falling to the ground. Dust swirled, and Shell shielded his eyes with his forearm, but when he lowered it, the dragon faced him from a single step away.

It stood barely taller at the shoulder than Shell, although much thicker in the middle. The head, at the end of the serpentine neck, would add more to the height if it were not bent forward to peer at Shell so closely he could feel and smell its hot, stinking breath.

Fear never entered his mind, even with the serpentine head so close. However, the mental touch of the wolf reacted, and she charged from shrubbery off to his left directly at the dragon.

“No!” Shell shouted in his mind, as well as out loud.

The wolf skittered to a confused halt and then slunk off. It disappeared into the forest near where Quester stood, appearing too paralyzed with conflicting emotions to move further away from the dragon, his eyes fixed on the eyes of the dragon. The small red dragon stood within attack range, and the huge brown wolf stood a few steps away, close enough to snap off the dragon’s head in the massive mouthful of teeth if the dragon didn’t strike first.

The dragon emitted a low growl that rumbled from its chest, the sound a much larger dragon should make. The wolf responded with a menacing growl of its own. The dragon turned its attention from the wolf and back to Shell and ignored the wolf. It moved its head closer and almost touch Shell’s cheek. It sniffed.

The wolf too saw Shell was not in danger and disappeared quietly into the trees. Quester eased away from the dragon another step, then another. He paused there, as the dragon examined Shell from head to foot. Quester entered the forest while the dragon was distracted by Shell, and disappeared from Shell’s sight, close to where the wolf had gone. I wonder if Quester realizes the wolf is so close to him?

Shell used the time to examine the dragon as it examined him. He had assumed the dragon was a chick because of its diminutive size, but then decided it didn’t look young, just small. There were healed scars evident on its wings and hind legs. Sometime in the past parallel claws had raked across its chest leaving more scars. A claw was missing from a forelimb, again healed, appearing like an old wound. The small dragon had been in far too many confrontations for a young one. A careless toss of a buck’s antlers, the swipe of a bear’s claws, and a bite from a terrified goat might leave wounds the scars displayed.

While predators are the best hunters, there’s a toll that hunting takes on them. Shell had once watched an eagle snatch a lamb, a contest the eagle would almost always win. But the lamb had fought back with a savage kick of a rear leg that connected solidly with the head of the eagle, almost crushing the bird’s skull. The eagle released the lamb and stumbled weakly on the ground for a few steps before regaining enough sense to take wing and fly away, leaving a dead lamb behind.

His attention turned from the scars, the rank smell of rotted meat, the fetid breath, and the piercing eyes. Shell raised his eyes to meet those of the dragon. The design on Shell’s back stung like salt rubbed into a cut with the nearness of the dragon. He ignored it, waiting for the touch of the other’s mind, as he'd been told happens when a man and dragon bond. The hoped-for flood of information exchange never happened. He could not see through the dragon’s eyes.

The dragon leaned closer and sniffed again; then the tongue flicked out, and it briefly touched Shell on his forehead. The red eyes blinked, one at a time and the dragon backed away as if being polite before it spread its wings and took flight. More likely, it had simply wanted more space to fly, but Shell decided to tell the story he liked—the one that made him sound brave and a hero as he stood face to face with a dragon. With a little exaggeration, he might turn it into a tale others retold.

“Is it gone?” Quester asked unnecessarily from the safety of the trees.

Shell nodded. “Is the wolf still in there with you?”

Quester quickly emerged from the undergrowth, watching over his shoulder at the place where the wolf had disappeared. “I can’t believe you just stood there.”

“It was not bravery.”

“You didn’t look scared. Did you bond with it?”

“No, not like I’ve heard about, but it was odd. I didn’t feel it in my mind, but something happened.”

Quester moved closer and waited.

Shell shrugged. “Before you ask, I don’t know. It looked at me and sniffed. Did you see it touch my forehead with its tongue?”

“No.”

Oddly, Shell detected only interest, not disbelief. “It stuck out its tongue, and before I could move or react, it touched my forehead with it, and that was all. Not a threat, or taste, from what I saw. I mean, I didn’t think it wanted to see if it tasted me to see if it should eat me. It was more like a dog getting a scent.”

“Everything about the last few minutes was strange. From the wolf running into the clearing to the small size of the dragon; the way it acted with you.” Quester took a deep breath, and visibly tried to relax. “It’s like the whole world decided to combine here in a tangled mess.”

“But still fun to watch,” a voice called from the other side of the clearing where a man of perhaps forty stood, hands held palms outward in the universal display of saying he held no weapons. But a long knife hung at his waist, and a staff lay at his feet.

Both Shell and Quester reacted defensively. Quester unslung his bow and Shell raised his staff to the ‘first’ position, parallel to the ground, hands spread to absorb a blow or ready to strike with either end. The stranger smiled at their reactions, then slowly turned to face away.

He lifted the back of his shirt and displayed a dragon-shaped birthmark while smiling and saying, “My name is Trace, Dancer’s younger, better-looking brother.”

Trace allowed them time to examine his mark of the dragon before letting the shirt fall back into place, facing them again. He said nothing but waited politely.

“Uh,” Shell said, “I think he wants us to display.”

“Oh, sure.”

They turned their backs and tried to ignore the sour grin on Trace’s face. When they looked back again, Trace still smiled, and Shell hoped the red flush from his embarrassment at his poor manners had all but disappeared. My mother taught me better than that. “I’m sorry, I’ve only met a few strangers in my life.”

Trace stepped forward and stood at ease. “I took no offense.”

“You’re Trace, of the Bear Mountain Family.”

“And the two of you are?”

“Shell, of the Grasslands Family.”

“Quester. My Family was killed, but we lived beyond the grasslands at the edge of the Blue Mountains.”

Trace’s eyes skipped from Shell to Quester in puzzlement. He started to speak but paused as he thought of what to say. “Shell is a strange name for someone from the grasslands, and Quester is just as unusual.” His eyes remained on Quester. “You have a strange story to tell, but asking you to tell it twice is rude. Will you return to my village with me?”

Shell finally found his tongue. “That’s our destination.”

Trace glanced at the footprints of the dragon in the dirt in front of Shell. “I thought you were seeking to bond with that dragon right here.”

“I came here and hoped to see one. Or more. But bonding is like a tale from a story.”

“You didn’t bond?” Trace asked. “I’ve seen a bonded man, once. Raymer. This looked the same as he and my brother described.”

“No. I’ll explain all at the council meeting. How did you find us?”

“My watchers reported you to me last night. They have watched your progress for two days, now.”

Quester’s voice rose, “I don’t believe that.”

Trace shrugged and raised an arm to indicate the far-off hills. “Up there. We’ve had a long time to find places where we can watch great distances. The way south of Bear Mountain is like a funnel. You can only travel a narrow passage.”

Shell saw Quester was about to talk again. He said, “Shut up. Wait for the council.”

Following Trace required them to increase their speed. Shell kept an eye on the sky while watching for more dragons. But he didn’t need to turn his head to know the wolf ran parallel to them. He searched in his mind for a similar ‘touch’ the wolf left, but if it was there, he couldn’t locate it. “When will we be there?”

“Long before dark,” Trace said without turning to look at him.

“Will there be time to call a council meeting today?” Shell asked.

“It has already been done.”

Shell hadn’t seen a signal and didn’t know how the council meeting could be arraigned without Trace telling someone. “How?”

Trace waved to the hills again. “My watchers know we are going to our village. If I had turned you back or killed you, there would be no need for a meeting. Since I am allowing you access, a council meeting is required, and one of my people has gone ahead to warn them.”

A while later, after deliberation, Shell said, “I know of you and your family.”

Unexpectedly, Trace said, “I know of you and your family also. Your mother is a remarkable woman and she leads her council with dignity and respect.”

Walking behind the other two, Quester said, “What do you know about my family and me?”

“Nothing.”

The single word told all. Trace knew as little of the Blue Mountains as Shell. Distrust. That word also leaped into the forefront of Shell’s mind. Trace didn’t trust Quester. What would he think when he discovered the presence of the wolf? Would Shell become part of the Wolf Clan? Was there such a thing?

Struggling to keep up with Trace, Shell decided to put his deep thoughts aside. He used too much energy trying to resolve ideas where he had too little information to consider. He had nothing to hide at the council meeting, so that didn’t worry him until the image of the wolf crept back in his mind. Besides the wolf, he had nothing to worry him, but Quester. And Dragon Clans he’d never heard of, and other kingdoms across unknown mountains. And a tiny dragon that licked him. And invaders to his land. No, he had nothing to hide or worry over.

The path they followed carried them higher and higher, almost always moving uphill. Shell’s calves protested, and his thighs burned. His breath came in short pants, but he wouldn’t complain until Quester did. Quester remained silent.

The greenery changed to taller trees and more undergrowth. They crossed a hundred small streams, mostly wide enough that they could step across without getting their feet wet. The sun sank lower, and Trace had said they would arrive before dark. Shell thought about pulling a strip of venison from his backpack to chew on but didn’t. If the Bear Mountain Family used the same manners his Grasslands Family did, a meal would be waiting. To do less than eat their food was a poor reflection of him and his upbringing.

The hills on either side of them became sharp, gray cliffs with a single point of passage between. Shell had wondered how he would have found the Bear Mountain Family then realize he didn’t have to. They found him.

Trace stepped into a wide clearing and pulled to an abrupt stop. At least a dozen stone huts with steep slate roofs spread out, and beyond, animals grazed in the valley. Before the huts stood a small group of people waiting in front of at least twenty others who remained silent and observant.

The old man closest to them stood alone, and closest to them. He turned and lifted his shirt, displaying an intricate dragon face-on, looking directly at them. After he had given them time to admire it, he stood, turned and said, “I am Myron, the council head.”

Shell turned and raised his shirt, and as he did, he saw that Quester did not. “Hey, display your mark.”

Quester didn’t move. He stood rock still, looking at the people behind Myron.

Quickly, Shell stood, turned and introduced himself. He motioned to Quester and said, “He is Dragon Clan. From a family, we don’t know about. He has the mark, but there is more to his story. And he does not know our customs, and he had never seen a group of Dragon Clan like our family.”

Myron said, “Let him speak for himself.”

Quester turned and raised his shirt, but when he faced them again, tears flowed.

“Joyful tears?” Myron asked.

“When I was a boy, our village looked a little like this. We gathered in a group . . .”

Myron stepped forward to comfort him when Quester choked up and couldn’t continue speaking. He placed an arm around Quester’s shoulder and said, “Come. Eat. We’ll talk and hold council later.”

Myron led them past the others, each of whom proudly turned and displayed their backs. Tables were laden with food. A semi-circle of benches faced a small shelf of rock that would be the stage for the council members, and Shell and Quester.

As they ate, various members of the family introduced themselves. Robin, the washerwoman who had lived with Myron’s son, Pylori, took a seat beside Shell. Later he met Brix, the spinner’s boy, the only other non-Dragon Clan members to live with them. Shell had heard their stories many times.

But while there were several young girls present, he didn’t see a one that matched the description of Camilla. Shell wouldn’t ask about her, at least not yet. Her name would certainly come up. He would meet her when the time was right when he didn’t seem like a dolt chasing after a girl he’d never met. She might be hunting or even be one of the watchers who had kept track of him and Quester.

The talk during the meal was kept to generalities, funny stories, and the like. After all were finished, Shell and Quester were shown to a small hut set aside for visitors, and a fire started at the base of the rock stage where the council would convene.

As they gathered, Myron reintroduced them and warned them that the meeting might continue well into the night so cloaks, blankets, or other warm clothing might be needed. Then, he said simply, “Shell, we will hear from you, first.”

Shell had expected to answer questions, not make a speech. He stood and faced the others across the orange flames of the fire. “I have herded sheep and goats my whole life. In a few years, I’ll be thirty and have done little besides care for my animals. I decided to leave my home, at least for a while, and help defend us against Breslau.”

He started to sit, but Robin barked, “Is that all?”

“All?” he stumbled, standing tall again. “What else is there?”

“Are you wed?”

Gentle laughter floated on the night air. Shell shook his head, too embarrassed to speak.

Robin said, “There are young women here who are already whispering about you, so I’m assuming you may have to run away from this village to escape without a good wife.”

The chuckles turned to gales of laughter, from men and women, old and young, and Shell felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He attempted to sit again, but Trace called over the laughter, “Tell us about the red dragon.”

Shell squared his shoulders and remained upright, glad for the change of subject. He gave them a short, accurate account of the incident.

A woman asked, “Then it was not a true bonding?”

Shell turned to her, a woman a few years older than him, with a child asleep on a blanket near her feet, and an infant held bundled in her arms. “No, at least not what I know of bonding. There was no mind touch, just the normal feelings on my back when a dragon is nearby.” He didn’t mention the night whispers.

“You say it was small?” A new voice shouted from the rear.

He held his hand up to indicate the height of the red dragon. A few chuckled at the idea of a miniature dragon, but most remained respectful.

“But you believe it was an adult?” the same voice called.

Shell drew a breath. “It was only the second dragon I’ve ever seen, and the only one close up. But it was missing a claw. The wound looked like a battle scar but healed. There were other scars, all healed. I’d think it would take years to gather that many wounds and let them heal, but again, it was the only dragon I’ve ever been close to.”

The same man asked, “Trace, what did you see?”

“An old dragon the size of Shell. A Red. I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I what I witnessed is the same as Shell’s story.”

“It licked and sniffed you?” a boy sitting near the fire asked.

When Shell nodded, the boy said, “Did it scare you?”

Shell said, “I think so, but not really if that makes sense.” He started to sit again, angry at the small dragon somehow diminishing his stature in the Clan, and the idea that it may not have bonded because of the wolf interfering. His mood had turned foul, and he didn’t want to talk about a diminutive dragon. A great Red would have placed him in the same category as Raymer.

Before he could sit, Trace said in a voice that crackled with authority, “You have not told us about the she-wolf.”