by LeRoy Clary
“Probably. Strips of material that were torn from the old shirts are not very strong.”
“Okay, I just don’t want them laying there all night and freezing or dying from a bear attack.”
She would worry about the lives of two men who were intent on selling her life for a few coins. He used his staff to hold branches and brush to the side as he slipped by her. His rolled blanket felt natural at his hip, and the air seemed to have a quality that set his mouth singing. Fleet held back a song, but barely. Despite his earlier concerns, he now felt better about being with Camilla than if the council had appointed any other to travel with him.
To distract himself and his threatening song, he reviewed the little he knew of the Dragon Clan at the Summer Palace. There was one piece of information Robin and Myron had told him that he might use. The new King Ember had been childhood friends with the Earl’s eldest son, Edward. Rumor said they had fallen out over a variety of issues lately. Edward was not yet Earl, but his father’s health was failing.
The important thing was that Edward had once visited the family village at Bear Mountain. They let him live, which was unusual. However, he left as a friend and whenever the subject came up at Princeton Edward kept his word and carefully sided with the Dragon Clan.
Rumor also said he visited Nettleton, now and then, and he always stayed at the Red Dog Inn. After Fleet spent a night there and found the inn clean, but too simple for royalty, the rumor was probably false. A dreary room in an inn situated in a farming community at the edge of a mountain pass didn’t compare to a palace, especially the opulent rooms Earls occupied.
A deer leaped across the path in front of them, bounding first one way then the other. Camilla dropped to her knee so fast he wondered if the deer had injured her. Then he realized that if they had startled the deer, it would have leaped off in another direction, not directly at them.
He went down, too, his ears perked. His hand clutched his staff. He heard clothing scrape against branches and shrubs. A heavy foot sounded clear, somewhere off to his right.
Clumsy. Not forest dwellers. Fleet looked to Camilla, ready to follow her lead. Fight or flee. Or hide.
But why were there men deep in the forest? The two they had tied had accidentally had followed them, the key word being followed. These men were ahead. Or parallel. But that didn’t make sense. The King’s Road was behind them, well protected and easy to travel. He and Camilla kept off of it because they were wanted by the king. Were there others who traveled away from roads with the same objective?
His answer came quickly to mind. Of course, there were. But they were probably people he and Camilla didn’t wish to meet. She made a motion with her hand. She slipped forward to observe, and he was directed to remain.
I am in charge. But a good leader must also accept orders. He stayed still and used all his senses to determine what was happening. He heard nothing of interest for so long he decided twice to move ahead and talked himself out of it twice. If he wanted Camilla to obey his orders, he needed to return the respect.
A dog barked. Not a prolonged stream of barking, but a single, warning, bark from a large dog followed by a low growl. It sounded as if the dog had cornered prey.
His initial reaction was to charge ahead. But if he did, the two of them might be cornered by the dog. He waited.
A shouted question came from ahead, although he couldn’t understand the words. It sounded like a man but was definitely not Camilla. A second man answered, a short staccato of words, but none clear. The dog growled again as if threatening.
Fleet heard talking getting louder and, at least, two people not even attempting to hide their noise coming in his direction down the path. He glanced to the right and saw the underbrush was too thick and tangled. He crab-walked to his left and eased under nettles so tall he’d normally avoid them. But only the leaves stung, and they were head high. He stayed low.
Huddled under the thick stand of nettles he heard the footsteps continue in his direction, not even bothering to try being quiet. One man called, “Be there when I’m done checking to see if she’s alone.”
Fleet waited. Two men came into view.
The first was tall and thin. While people Fleet was familiar with wore mostly greens and browns that blended into the forest, the man wore a red shirt with a bright yellow belt. His hair was curly and shorter than most. A gold loop swung from each ear.
The second man looked younger, wider and shorter. He wore a bright blue shirt and blue hat. Gold earrings also dangled from his ears, and a heavy gold chain hung from his neck. He held a curved blade in his left hand.
Fleet glanced at his back-trail and noticed where his foot had slipped and turned over the leaves, leaving a dark, wet place. The red-shirted man stumbled along, only a few steps away. There was no way he could miss seeing it. Fleet tensed, ready to flee deeper into the forest.
But he remained still. The man paused, turned to the heavier man in blue and said something that Fleet couldn’t hear. They both laughed. Then they kept coming closer. The first man stepped right over the wet leaves. The second placed his foot right on them and kept walking and talking loud enough for people clear out on the road to hear.
Gypsies. Fleet had heard of them. They traveled instead of living in one place. They stole, cheated, and swindled. In sharp contrast, they were also friendly, sang hundreds of songs, danced, and ate heartily, even if it was often food belonging to others.
They could also be dangerous. Fleet watched the two return and pass within a few steps of him. He felt he could almost fall in line with them and walk wherever they were going without the two ever seeing him. Fleet smelled alcohol.
He followed at a distance far enough behind that he couldn’t see them, but he could hear their stumbles, crude laughter, and talking. They had no fear of discovery or secrecy. Fleet admonished himself for thinking they were the strange ones in the forest. It was not them. It was him that was sneaking through.
Normal people didn’t have to move through the forests like wisps of fog on cold mornings. They didn’t fear others hearing or seeing them.
Ahead he saw more bright colors. A new voice called. Redshirt replied, and they all laughed.
Fleet kept the bright colors in sight as he moved silently to his right. Now and then the underbrush cleared enough that he saw three wood-covered wagons pulled together in a clearing, all painted in bright splashes of colors. A large fire burned in the center, and two unknown women in long dresses tended a haunch of meat rotating on a skewer. Another sat in a chair. All wore dashes of contrasting colors, and all displayed gold.
A massive black and brown dog lay at the sitting woman’s feet. Suddenly its ears came up, and it sniffed. Fleet tightened his grip on his staff and prepared to defend himself.
The dog finally put its head back down and closed its eyes. Fleet saw no sign of Camilla until he noticed her staff leaning against a wagon. No one in the camp seemed upset, excited, or angry at the young woman who had been near their camp, but he had no way of knowing what went on in the wagons. With the dog on watch, he had to be careful.
He moved to his right again, intent on circling the entire camp before deciding what to do. A rut of a road showed where the wagons had left the King’s Road and pulled into the meadow. Grass grew on the two tracks indicating no others had passed over for a long while. On the other side of the road flowed a small stream that ran beside the meadow.
Fleet noted the stream flowed away from the camp, and from the smell, it was where they relieved themselves. They probably cleaned themselves in the stream, too. He crossed it, ignoring any desire to drink.
Further along, Fleet waited and watched an older man climb from a wagon and make his way to the stream. The dog watched him. Fleet moved to the opposite side of the clearing and decided he wouldn’t see much more of interest if he kept circling.
The sun sat low, casting long shadows. Fleet eased deeper into the forest and sat on a fallen tree while he considered his opt
ions. An older man and woman. Two younger men. Two women. Three wagons. It looked like three couples. No children. One dog. Darkness approaching.
He began formulating a plan. Fleet was an expert with his staff. There were not many who could win a fight with him, not if they were alone. He needed to rid himself of two male opponents. He’d see about the dog. Dogs just do their duty, and a man cannot hold that against them, or dislike them for protecting what theirs was.
He heard singing, but remained still. The moon would rise before sunset and provide enough light to move about. He rested and waited. Finally, Fleet stood and went nearer the meadow where six people were near the fire. The tall man grabbed a woman and danced as another played a stringed instrument like none Fleet had ever seen.
The older couple ate and watched. The dog observed it all. Camilla was nowhere to be seen. Fleet moved to the stream, and nearer to the camp than he liked. He settled under a fir with drooping lower branches, sitting in near darkness despite the moon.
Their night-sight was ruined by the large fire. The woman not dancing stood and walked his way. He didn’t move. She passed him, went further down the stream and relieved herself. She passed by on her way back to the wagons only a few steps away.
The blue shirt man said something and laughed at his own joke as he walked away from the others. He walked on the same path the woman had used, but not as far. He came to a stop only five or six steps from where Fleet crouched, and he peed into the stream.
Fleet took two careful steps while still crouched down. He held his staff pointed ahead, waist high. As blue shirt man finished, he turned and took a single step back to his camp. Suddenly, the end of Fleet’s staff drove into his stomach. The air went out of him with a whoosh.
In a single bound, Fleet reached him, his hand over the man’s mouth just as he started a moan that would have alerted the others. Fleet had his knife in his hand and let the blue shirt man see it before he cut the shirt into strips. The knife would cut him as easily as it cut the material.
Quicker than he hoped, the man was securely bound and gagged. Fleet had considered threatening blue shirt to call redshirt to come to him, but that seemed too risky. He shoved the man far deeper into the trees. There he tied his feet and left him as he went back to the same fir tree and ducked under to hide again.
With luck, he might get another before those in the camp knew there was a problem. From the whooping and laughter, he guessed all were drinking heavily. However, Dancer, his father, had warned him that some men simply become mean when drinking. And women fight, too.
He had only lowered the odds to five against one, and they still had the dog. However, he intended to reduce the odds by at least one more. The tall, thin man in the red shirt headed his way. A stroke of luck that will cost me extra prayers.
Fleet waited again, hoping for a repeat situation, but the red-shirted man called, “What’d you do pass out? Will, where are you?”
In a rush, Fleet charged to distract the man. In the dark, he never saw the staff swinging low, at his shins. One solid strike and the man’s mouth opened in pain, but no sound emerged. Fleet used extra strips already cut to gag him and tie him. Then he carried him off to join his friend.
Fleet waited under the fir tree again. Soon the older woman called, “Jess? Will?”
When they didn’t answer, the old woman told one of the others to go find them.
A younger woman said, “No, you.”
Another female voice, “I went last time.”
They bickered back and forth until one finally shouted, “Okay, but you have kitchen duty.”
Fleet waited until she called for them as she walked down the path. When she was beside him, he rushed her, his staff held in front like a plow. She went over backward, struggling and kicking. He pinned her long enough to get a loop around her neck and stand. She reached for it, but he pulled it tight before her fingers touched it.
“You don’t want to do that,” He said softly. Then raised his other hand holding his staff to indicate what would happen. “Turn around.”
She turned, and he quickly tied her hands behind. Then her feet, leaving enough for her to take tiny steps or fall on her face. With the loop around her neck, he steered her to the clearing.
At the edge, he called, “Hello, the camp. Tie your dog or place him in a wagon.”
“Who are you to give me orders?” The old man shouted, peering into the darkness, but with eyes that were spoiled by the firelight. He couldn’t see anything.
Fleet tapped the woman on her shoulder with the staff, none too gently. He aimed for the point of her shoulder where there was little padding for the bone. She wailed in pain.
“The dog. Tie him up.”
As if it knew what he said, the dog climbed to its feet and growled into the darkness, looking ready to charge. Fleet called, “I like dogs, but if I have to, I’ll kill it right after I kill this woman.”
“This dog might get you first,” the old woman said, standing and looking for him. “Won’t be the first time.”
Fleet dropped the staff. They were effective weapons, but never impressed like knives. He pulled the knife at his waist and held it to the woman’s throat, removing her gag at the same time. “Tell them the dog may kill me, but you will die for sure.”
“He has a knife to my throat. Do what he says.”
The old woman said, “He’s bluffing.”
The old man and woman were hard as rocks. He wouldn’t kill her. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her neck and started backing down the path, away from them. The firmness of the hold told her not to speak, even if she could. He said nothing more.
“You hear me, boy? I’m gonna sic this old dog on you if you don’t let her go.” It was the old woman talking.
While he could see them clearly around the fire, they never saw anything of him. He took her to where the other two lay and cut strips off her dress. He tied her and re-tied the two men, just to make sure neither had managed to work free. Then he cut off the gags and disappeared into the darkness.
Back at the fire, the three left there were shouting threats and demanding answers from him. He said nothing, but collected his staff and circled the camp to the opposite side. The three who were tied started shouting for help.
He made it a quarter of the way around, ignoring the continuing demands. The old woman finally gathered the other two, all holding knives for protection, and sent the dog ahead to where the three still shouted for help. Fleet considered his chances of opening the doors of the wagons and finding Camilla before their return.
It didn’t seem good. If they returned and he had not freed Camilla, they would both be in a dangerous situation. If stealth will not work, maybe direct action would. Three to one was far better odds than six to one when they released the three he left tied. He ran to the center of the clearing and called, “Hey, I’m right here.”
The dog charged teeth bared, a low growl coming from deep inside. Fleet stood in a well-lit clearing with plenty of room for his staff to move. The others couldn’t possibly get to him before he fought the dog.
He crouched and held the staff in the defensive position, chest high and parallel to the ground. As the dog raced near, it leaped for his throat, as most dogs will do. He’d been waiting for it. Fleet swung the left end of the staff ahead in one sharp movement. While in the air, the dog couldn’t turn or twist away, besides it was intent solely on its opponent. It never saw the staff coming from the side. The jolt of striking the head of the dog went right up his arm to his shoulder.
Fleet brought the other end of the staff around, poised to chop down for the kill as the dog struck the ground, but held off. The animal lay dead.
He whirled on the three people who were starting to move in his direction. Instead of backing off or remaining still and holding his own, as a normal person would do, he charged. The staff went over his head, twisting and twirling in intricate patterns, and he ran at them, shouting. “I love dogs! Look what you made m
e do!”
The old man broke first. He spun and sprinted into the depths of the trees. The two women saw him run and glanced at each other. They ran in opposite directions, as Fleet continued to chase them and scream his anger. “Come back and fight! Damn you, cowards!”
When he reached the edge of the clearing, he paused and turned. He inhaled deeply and strode back to the nearest wagon. He threw open the door. Camilla was not inside. He went to the second wagon. She was bound with coarse rope and was lying on the floor inside. Her eyes were closed; several bruises evident even in the dim light. “What have they done?”
He quickly untied her and managed to wake her enough to stand on shaky legs. Fleet saw a bottle and poured water into her. He sat her on a chair beside the fire and walked back to the center of the clearing again. Hands on hips, he called, “Come back and fight me! The killing is not done this night.”
When nobody answered, he shouted, “I am Dragon Clan, and I will burn everything you own for what you have done to this poor girl.”
Camilla climbed to her feet, eyes unfocused, but she stayed on her feet, even as she weaved from side to side. Fleet went to her and placed her arm around his neck to support her, but he took both of their staffs in his other hand. In the firelight, the bruises were far worse than he had seen, and his anger raged stronger. Blood stained her clothing. One bruise covered the entire left side if her face, mostly red, but already turning black and angry.
He grabbed the ends of sticks from the fire and threw them into each wagon, watching blankets and clothing burn. When each was burning, he moved to the next, but was not satisfied. He felt the first tingle on his back indicating a dragon flew in response to his anger and fear. It was near.
Fleet said, “We need to get into the trees and away from here.”
“Why?”
“Because I am Dragon Clan!”
CHAPTER SIX
The screech of the attacking dragon was heard just before the sound of massive wings flew over them. The screech was a sound so loud and so fierce that every living thing in the forest was awakened and afraid. As it flew over the wagons, a hollow pock of a sound came from the dragon. Then another, as the dragon spit the flammable substance. An orange flare soon illuminated the entire nearby forest and flames began consuming the three wagons and all around them. The dragon flew past them and then returned, spitting again. And again.