Why the red followed him on, his mission was unknown. Yet there were stories that went back generations. Dragons seemed to sense when Dragon Clan members needed help or faced danger. But when he’d tried to approach the dragon when it was on the ground earlier, it obviously didn’t want him to come closer.
While deep in thought, he managed to put more distance behind himself. The road to Fleming curved in his direction, and he turned slightly to meet it. There was a single wagon pulled by a mule that looked old enough to have retired to pasture years ago. The driver looked even older. The wagon passed slowly in the wrong direction without either the man or mule glancing at him.
Gray turned and looked behind once. He didn’t see Stinson and felt both relief and regret. He’d have to explain when he returned, and there were those who would blame him, especially Stinson’s parents and older sister. He doubted many others would care. Some would be glad to be rid of Stenson. It was a task Gray had begun to suspect was a secondary objective of sending the two together.
Dust filled the dry air. A new scent hinted of salt. He walked down the road and started humming an old song, intent on his thoughts, and the problems created by Stinson. Leaving him again created a sense of freedom he’d never experienced. The feelings softened the harsh conditions of the landscape. His eyes barely saw the scrubby plants, the brush, cactus, and other desert plants on the sides of the road.
He concentrated so much on his task that his ears heard little until footsteps crunched the gravel of the road. Gray spun to confront Stinson again.
It was not Stinson. It was a tall, thin, young man dressed in colorful green from head to foot. A stranger with a quick smile and scraggly beard. “Hey, I know the words to that song.”
“Who are you?”
“Don’t stop humming, I said I know the words and believe I have a fair voice to join with yours.”
The man moved up to his side, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. He was unknown to Gray. He must have come up the road from behind and walked faster, and without noise. But the road had been empty of travelers a short while ago. Where had he come from if not the road? Gray continued walking, but without resuming his humming.
The man began singing anyhow. His voice was semi-pleasant and loud. Gray eventually found himself humming along and then joining in when the chorus came around. Their voices didn’t blend. In fact, they struck an odd, disjointed cord that was almost painful to Gray’s ear, but both sang on anyway, laughing together.
At the end of the song, the stranger stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Prater, the oldest son of a cabbage farmer extraordinaire.”
“Does that mean you also grow cabbages?” Gray asked.
“Would you believe I sing for my livelihood?”
When Gray laughed aloud, so did the other. If he sang for a living, he was poor. Then Gray realized he didn’t know how to introduce himself. He hadn’t discussed it. The trip was planned only two days earlier. He had not yet made up a story.
“Gray,” he managed to introduce himself, still puzzled as to what he should say about his background and decided, to say little.
“And why might you be traveling to Fleming, my new friend?”
“I have family business there. Nothing really just messages for a few relatives.”
“I also travel on family business. I think at least five of the true gods are determined we travel together, and we wouldn’t want to offend them, right?”
Gray found the answer funny, and the pleasant attitude refreshing after Stinson. “To Fleming.”
“Together. Tell me, will you remain in Fleming for long?”
Gray shrugged, keeping his answer intentionally vague without appearing to hide anything. “A few days. Perhaps longer.”
Prater said, “I will remain only two days, but perhaps we can share a meal or two.”
The invitation couldn’t be resisted, and neither could the infectious, good-natured kidding that followed. Gray remembered Stinson’s mean humor and pulled himself back to reality. The feelings depressed him in a flood of sadness.
The revelation of inner feelings scared him. Had he become so callous and cold that he lost all feeling of losing a member of his extended family? Quickly he searched inside of himself and found that if others in his family died, he would feel more than sad. His new sense of detachment extended only to Stinson.
When he returned to the road, feeling much better, Prater was sitting, chewing on a strand of grass, a smile still on his face. Prater asked, “People new to this land often have problems with their stomachs. If that’s the case, I may know a cure. Wine and ale. Do not drink water in new places where you travel.”
“No, not that at all. To be honest, I just needed a few minutes to think about one of my family and what to do about him.”
Prater stood and shrugged, then added a warm, welcoming smile instead of one containing humor. “We all have a few of those in our families. I notice you carry a staff.”
“And you a sword.”
“Only to protect me. And of course, to warn away any who might wish to harm me. Does your stick do the same?”
“My staff is respected by those who fight. Making light of it shows ignorance.” Gray lifted his chin a little at the statement, feeling proud he’d spoken up.
Prater laughed as he whipped his sword from the scabbard and spun to face Gray, the sword intended to be lifted high above his head. However, as his sword was raised, it flew from his hand at the slap of the staff, as Gray swung a short, reflexive, defensive parry. The sword spun in the air, sunlight flashing off the blade before it struck the ground.
Gray’s move had been a reaction to the attack; a maneuver practiced a thousand times as a child. When Prater started to dart after the sword, he found his shins tangled at the end of the staff as he fell. Again, a reflexive move Tessa had admonished him about not practicing, but his body remembered. He knelt and helped Prater to his feet while apologizing over and over.
Instead of being upset, Prater said, “I didn’t see that first move coming. Nor the second.”
“That’s what makes a staff so dangerous. The attacks come from either end or the center, instead of just the point of a sword. As one end of the staff that you watch raises to strike you from above, the other is at your knee—and you seldom see it coming. If you do, the upper end strikes your head.”
Prater picked up his sword and examined it for damage. Wiping off the sword before returning it to the scabbard, Prater said, “But mine has a sharp blade.”
“Perhaps two ends to strike you with are worth more than one sharp blade.”
“Maybe I should invent a short staff with a blade at each end.”
Gray nodded as if he agreed. “Then all you would need is twenty years to learn how to properly use it.”
“Which you have?”
“More, although I admit that I’ve been lax about training for quite some time.” Gray realized he’d said too much with his teasing and bragging. Without meaning to, he’d told Prater he came from a warrior family, if not from the Dragon Clan. He said quickly, “My father insisted I learn. There are highwaymen and worse near my home.”
“And of course, the king only allows certain people of birth to use swords.”
“Which makes me ask, how is it you wear one? I do not see a lot of cabbage farmers wearing swords.”
“Ah, you misunderstand me. My father raises them by the thousands. I am not the eldest son so had to find other employment. I served the king in his army for a time, and then joined a guild that offers protection to the wealthy.”