The Slave Master said, “There are always rumors.”
“This one concerns a young wildling about eleven or twelve years of age. Near Nettleton.”
“We killed and accounted for all of them,” the Weapons Master said, the sour smell of ale strong on his breath.
The Slave Master nodded. “Relax. I counted the bodies, myself. Men, women, and children. None survived, I assure you.”
The King pointed to the statue, “How long did we pursue them?”
“Seven years, as I remember,” the Weapons Master said. “Perhaps a little longer.”
“Closer to eight,” the Slave Master corrected. “But in the end, we finished them off.”
The King went to the statue and looked into the pained expression the dragon wore. The twisting of the neck made the rear of the statue the one that faced the head of the dragon. “Bear with me for a moment. Imagine if the wife of Brandon became pregnant at the beginning of our pursuit of that damned family.”
Both masters calculated and at almost the same time nodded.
The Weapons Master reconsidered and counted on his stubby fingers. “A child of four, or nearly five years might survive but probably not. One aged six or seven would stand a far better chance. Especially if provided help by a local, or locals. Yes, it could be done in theory, but there was no survivor.”
“It has been six or seven years since the massacre, has it not?”
“There must be a better word to use than ‘massacre’. But, it seems more time than that, but yes, I think you are right. It’s barely possible, I suppose. But we were sure all of them were killed and all evidence erased.”
The Slave Master spun and looked at the open drawer in the wall. Neither he nor the Weapons Master had been completely surprised by it standing open. In his quiet way, the Slave Master turned to the King and shifted his eyes to the drawer. “May I?”
The King nodded, and watched as his friend looked inside. He pulled a thick sheaf of papers from a corner and untied a yellowed ribbon. Carrying the papers to the shaft of light under a window to read them, he sorted the papers into piles. Nobody spoke. Each paper was set aside after examination. At an entry on a sheet that he studied, the Slave Master’s face paled, and he muttered, “No.” then he continued reading. “No, no, no.”
“I think I’m going to need a drink.” The Weapons Master asked, “What is it?”
“How did we not see this? Here in the inventory is listed a wooden horse of the sort small children play with. And listed below it is items of clothing. It contains shirts small enough for a young boy. Child’s shirts, it says. Not baby, or toddler. It says, ‘child.'”
The Weapons Master snapped, “That could be the shirts of any of the demon offspring.”
“No,” said the King, falling into a chair. “Think of the ages. Their sizes. All were born before we found and gave chase. The youngest boy was ten, as I recall. That would make him, at least, seventeen or more, almost a man. In size, anyway. The inventory says ‘child’s’ shirts. Not young man’s shirt. Child.”
“It cannot be.” The Slave Master continued. “I reviewed everything that was there. Accounted for everybody in the family. I personally identified them and counted their bodies.”
“You found and accounted for all we knew of, my friend,” the King said, standing again and placing a hand on his shoulder and turning the Weapons Master to face him. “Your drink will wait, Paul. I want both of you in Nettleton as soon as possible. That fool Edward, the eldest son of the Earl of Witten is also traveling there to investigate the rumor, but you will arrive first, kill this dragon boy and end this madness. He will disappear as if he never existed. You know the stakes.”
Both masters bowed as they backed from the room.
The King did not hesitate. He strode to another cabinet and tossed open the two doors. Within stood six bottles of the finest wines and whiskeys in his kingdom. Fine wines are for sipping and enjoying with feasts and friends. Whiskeys are for serious drinking. His fingers wrapped around a bottle filled near the top with amber liquid while his other hand found the largest crystal glass available.
Nettleton had been a mistake. He’d known it from the beginning, but once a wagon is rolling down a steep hill, it’s hard to stop. He filled the glass and shuffled to the door, downing half the contents of his glass on the way. He opened the door and motioned for the guard to come closer. “I wish that my two sons be advised that I need to speak with them. It’s important, so tell them to leave whatever wenches they’re sleeping with and come to my chambers.”
He closed the door without waiting for a response. The guards were elderly and had been with him since they were young. They knew when to act and, what to say. He trusted them.
Unlike his two sons who were worthless, as far as kings, or future kings, are concerned, both lacking in ambition and competence. They were their mother’s sons, lazy and ugly. However, they were his only heirs. They deserved to know what was happening and how their inheritance was at risk.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Edward climbed upon a saddled white horse with restrained dignity, as if he was already the Earl of Witten. He looked over his shoulder to the train of people and pack animals strung out behind. He’d seen smaller parades on important holidays. A curt nod to the guide that Tomas hired started the procession moving with a wave of his arm. Fortunately, Tomas had been able to buy the guide out of his former job. It had not been cheap, but Tomas assured him he needed a guide who was trusted and knew his way through the dangerous lands between the palace and Nettleton.
The King and sheriff, as well as his father, would hear of his triumphal departure today. He would make them proud. When his father saw how he’d bargained Tomas on nearly every major point, there would be compliments exchanged. Still, troubles clouded his mind. His task was to see the dragon tattoo on the back of a child, without the child knowing that he was looking for it, or at it. He gave a mental shrug. The trip would take days, and he had time to devise solutions for the impossible problem.
“Sir Edward,” the guide called as he trotted his chestnut to the front of the column where the dust didn’t fill the air so heavily that the sun looked hazy.
Edward gave his most regal turn of a head, ignoring the improper address of calling him a mere, sir. The guide was, after all, only a knowledgeable peasant charged with leading the way. “Yes?”
“Have you any thoughts on where we should set our camp this night?”
Edward had no idea as he had never traveled this way. Yet a true leader of men made himself humble while watching and learning. “What are your ideas on the matter?”
“Just over the rise ahead flows a wide stream and if memory serves, a meadow large enough for us.”
“Now? You want to stop now? I think I can still see the towers of the palace beyond the tops of the trees.”
The guide turned his horse and rode beside him, leaning closer to speak confidentially. “You are most observant. I’m sure you’ve also figured out that this is our first encampment, and many of those traveling with us have never set a proper campsite, let alone care for a future Earl’s need while traveling. Tonight is a trial for them and may take far longer than in the future. If we work out the kinks today, then the rest of the trip goes smoother.”
“Of course, that’s what I was trying to say when you interrupted me.”
“I should have held my peace, but I’m not used to working with royals who are so quick and decisive.”
Edward drilled him with a stern expression emulating one his father often used. “You’ll learn. Now get on with it and do not take me for a fool again.”