But he didn’t know if the wolf could read his thoughts, and if it could, would it understand them? No, he didn’t think so. The wolf could read his feelings. It might understand such things as happiness and fear, for certain. But even those carried other, implied understandings.
They traveled all day, walking as fast as the pain increasingly tired legs would allow. He mitigated some of it by jogging or running, especially when they came to downhill sections of the trails they followed. Camilla had not traveled in a straight line. She often took the smaller trails, and twice he found small human footprints near water.
By the end of the day, he located several more, small boots, short stride, and the idea that she should be more careful came to mind. Shell was not the best tracker, and anything out of the grasslands was new to him. If he could follow her, others could.
Glancing behind, he saw his own tracks clearly. Even a child could follow him. One look up at the ridges ahead where the sun sank, and he decided to quit for the day and build a fire before dark. With luck, he would catch up with Camilla tomorrow, the next day at the latest.
As the sun set, his fire warmed him. He wished he had continued and found a stream or small river where he could use his hand line to fish. Instead, he extended his legs in front of him and let the tight muscles relax as the flames held back the growing darkness.
The wolf hadn’t eaten and didn’t seem hungry. She loped back down the path almost to the road, then returned again. Shell was amazed at the distance the wolf traveled without effort. She didn’t seem to move fast or expend more energy than necessary, but moved at least three steps for every one Shell did, and Shell was ready to collapse.
A tingle on his back drew instant attention. He stood on stiff legs and moved where he could watch the sky. A single dragon flew westward, high and off to his right. The sun reflected off the dragon, giving it a reddish glow, but the dragon may have been any color. And since there was nothing to judge the size against, it could have been any.
It could have been a Green, and the sun made it appear red. It might have been a large male. But Shell believed it to be the dwarf Red, the only one he’d ever heard of. He allowed his mind to reach out but failed to get a response.
A dwarf, runt, or miniature, all said the same. Did it come from elsewhere? A place where all dragons were that small size? Or was it a mutant? Did other dragons accept it?
He sat again, lost in thoughts filled with questions he couldn’t answer. If it was the same dragon, and he believed it was, why was it flying west? Dragons do not normally fly at night, but it was twilight and therefore it had to find a place to roost before full-dark. That didn’t give it much time.
Tomorrow he intended to watch the sky closer. While the wolf watched all around him, it didn’t look up, at least not that he knew of. Shell placed two large dead branches across the fire, letting the flames burn the middles. His mother had taught him that trick. Instead of working hard with his knife to cut the hardwood into firewood lengths, he let the fire do his work. When the fire ate through the branches, he would push the ends together. She called it push-wood.
The old memories of camping with his mother were still floating around in his mind with the first hint of warning from the wolf touching him.
“What is it?” Shell asked, forming the words with silent lips in hopes the wolf would better understand as he kicked dirt over the fire. His staff had been beside him, but as he glanced down, he found it already in his hand. He silently eased into a deeper shadow under a tall tree, then remained where he could watch the campsite.
Danger. Man.
Those two words, if they were words, were enough. Someone was sneaking up on him. Shell knelt on one knee to help disguise his silhouette, and yet remained ready to fight, flee, or slink away, whichever was needed. He touched the wolf’s mind again, wondering if he should tell it to attack.
The wolf didn’t respond, although he could still determine where she was. Shell pressed harder, demanding an answer, but other than the awareness of the wolf’s location, little information flowed between them. Shell had been depending on the wolf all day to protect or warn him, and now that he needed help, the wolf ignored him.
Shell decided he’d been too trusting of the animal. He kept his eyes averted from the remains of the campfire to preserve his night vision, and watched, smelled, and listened. Nightbirds chattered, owls hooted, insects hummed and screeched, and the soft night breeze rattled the leaves giving a soft background that deflected and softened other sounds.
A hint of a darker black shifted near the stream. He suspected it was the wolf until he checked with his mind. No, the wolf was off to his right.
A bear? No, the wolf said it was a man. He touched the wolf’s mind again and found an image of pups playing happily outside of a den, a pleasant memory. One was hiding, while the wolf he mind-touched crept up on it. Just before it pounced, Shell imagined the wolf smiling.
Smiling? Wolves don’t smile. The black object near his campsite moved another step closer. Shell realized it had spotted his blanket and thought he was sleeping. The glint of starlight reflected off a blade the intruder held.
The wolf made a soft cough that another might think was a laugh. The image sharpened in the wolf’s mind as it remembered the instant just before it leaped from cover to surprise its brother or sister.
Shell sent a thought to the wolf. No danger?
No.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The intruder stood shorter by a head than Shell, and smaller in other ways, too. The movements were different than a man’s, more compact and confident. As he watched a young woman move into his campsite, and he instantly knew who it was.
“Camilla,” he called softly.
She spun, facing the voice in the darkness, the knife poised to slash or stab. The wolf snuffled again, enjoying the turn of events, the game of hide-and-seek. Shell wanted to tell it to shut up and stay out of his business, but then it struck him as funny, too.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am called Shell. Myron sent me after you.”
“How did you know it was me?”
The wolf snorted with humor again in the distance, too softly to hear, but Shell felt it in the rear of his mind as he stood and walked out of the shadows, hands held palms outward so she could see he held no weapons. He had wisely left his staff on the ground.
“Myron said I would catch up with you tomorrow, maybe. But I moved fast.” He turned his back to her, but in the dim light, he felt sure she would see his action and he lifted his shirt.
“I told him I would go alone.” Her voice was sharp, but tinged with relief as she spun and flipped her shirt briefly up, but too fast for him to see her mark, which was rude and offensive. “But I keep a sharp watch behind, and if someone were following, this would be where I’d see him from the crest ahead.”
Shell let his shirt down and stirred the fire with his heel. As the light increased, he sat on his blanket without inviting her to sit. He didn’t say another word. In the back of his mind, he listened to the wolf enjoying itself. It seemed to understand what Shell was about to say and Shell sent it a strong message. Shut up and stop laughing at me.
The wolf pawed her nose as if trying to do as told, but Shell still felt the animal enjoying the conflict between the two humans. If they were going to spend a lifetime together, the wolf was going to have to learn some manners, too. A lifetime? Where did that thought originate?