The farmer had his hand out to shake. Shell already had his out.
They discussed details, how to contact Henry in Fleming to deliver his share, and they went to another farm where a man with a white beard listened to each side and drew up a contract. Shell signed and accepted the coins in a small leather bag.
If Henry’s family couldn’t be located, or if they wouldn’t take him in, he had enough to buy a small place, and he could find a job in Fleming. He could grow a garden and have a good life. Shell whistled all the way back to what had been Henry’s farm.
The mind of the wolf touched him. Come fast.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shell ran all the rest of the way. Henry lay motionless in the mud in his front yard. Shell sprinted to his side, falling to his knees. The boy breathed, but he’d been beaten. His eye was already turning color, blood ran from two places on his forehead, as if he’d been struck with a club.
The boy weighed almost nothing as Shell carried him into the house. His left arm seemed to be hurt, and as he squinted to open his right eyes, he smiled. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
“Who did this?”
Henry pointed to the north. The words came forth slow and slurred. “Smithson and his sons.”
Shell spun and walked outside to where he’d found the boy. Footprints left and headed north. Shell followed them, a cold anger growing with every step until he was filled with rage.
A man stood ahead, hands on hips. “Want something boy? Maybe sell me a farm for nothing?”
Four others stood behind him, all bearing similar features, and smiling false smiles. They held clubs, shovels, and one a pitchfork. Shell should have taken the time to grab his staff. But fighting five farmers were a task few would accept. His fists balled.
Run. The thought came from the wolf. But Shell didn’t feel like running. He felt like fighting. Then he felt another sensation. A tingling grew on his back. His eyes flicked to the sky. A small red dot approached from behind the men.
He shouted, “You beat the boy. I’m here to avenge that beating, and all of the rest that you did to him, and to his parents.”
The older man strode confidently ahead, a sneer on his lips. “You’re going to end up dead, just like them.”
“Pudding isn’t dead. Not yet. But I am going to even things up. Pay him for all the damage and I’ll let you go. All of you.
“You’ll let us go?” the man chuckled, as the others laughed. One moved ahead; his hay-rake lifted high.
“This is your last chance,” Shell said, feeling the small red dragon’s anger on his back and refusing to retreat a single step.
The hay-rake swung and missed as Shell ducked. The red dragon screamed as it attacked unseen by the farmers, knocking down one man, slashing open the stomach of a second, and landing long enough to tear at the arm of another with a mouthful of teeth. It leaped into the air and flew higher, then spun and attacked them again. On the third pass, all five men lay in the mud, broken but alive.
Shell reached out and felt for the mind of the wolf, and pulled back in shock and loathing. It raged red, as Shell’s had a few minutes earlier, as it attacked and tore the throats from every farm animal it encountered in the Smithson farm. Cows, sheep, chickens, horses, and goats all lay dead. The wolf snarled in anger and searched for anything else alive to kill.
The dragon flew higher into the sky and circled the farmhouse where smoke rose from the chimney. It turned and flew closer, spitting balls of acid that burst into fireballs when they touched an open flame. If not, they ate their way through wood roofs in minutes, leaving oval shaped holes.
When nothing else happened for a few long seconds, and the five men were struggling to stand and help each other, as they eyed Shell again readying themselves to attack him, three women ran from the house, screaming in terror. The screams drew their attention. The dragon was heading back, falling from the sky as it spit again and again. One of the acid balls touched a candle or fireplace. Flames erupted from the door and windows as if from an explosion, and in seconds the entire house was on fire.
Shell was sickened by what they had done. He knew he was responsible and it was things like this that made the Dragon Clan hated by all. The men before him didn’t know what he was, but the talk would start before he left the valley. They’d ask why a dragon chose that time to attack, and only to attack one farm. The fingers would point.
In this valley, he believed most people would appreciate what happened, more than condemn, but the tales would still have effects. Good people had banded together to burn Dragon Clan villages in the past, more to hunt them down and kill them.
Shell stumbled across the farm to the small house where Henry lay on the floor, eyes closed, bruises already darker than before. One of his eyes had swelled totally shut. A pool of blood spread from his head. “Come on; we have to get out of here.”
Henry moaned but tried to stand and failed. Shell helped him up and grabbed two of the filthy blankets. He filled cooked venison into his backpack with his spare hand and placed Henry’s arm over his shoulder to help him remain upright. He headed for the hillside and the concealing tangles of brush and low trees.
A glance over his shoulder showed the Smithson farmhouse still burning, and no sign of the small red dragon. The tingle on his back was absent. He paused long enough to take a second look. There were no wagons filled with people rushing in the burning farm’s direction, no men and women on foot racing to offer help.
The smoke rose high enough to be a beacon for the entire valley, yet not a single neighbor was in sight. Shell thought that perhaps there hadn’t been time for them to react, but knew that was wrong. There had been plenty of time for any who wished to help the Smithson family. His eyes found people at the next farm standing and watching, an unthinkable action in most communities when others needed help.
The people Shell had spoken with on the farms were reserved in their expressed opinions, but solid, as was usual for most rural communities. Sharing dirty laundry with strangers was frowned upon. They must hold more hate for the Smithson family than I knew. That family must have gone out of their way to bully everyone else in the area. Standing and watching their house burn helped them get even.
Maybe I’m reading it all wrong. Henry sagged, and Shell lifted him higher and pulled him ahead. The wolf waited ahead, protective but angry. No, angry was not the right word, and neither was protective but somewhere between. The wolf had killed, but not to protect. It killed the farm animals in retribution, and it had done so when all Shell could think of was avenging the wrongs done to Henry and his family.
Did I cause the wolf to kill? The thought discerned him. He thought back to the wolf attacking the farm animals. The sheep and cows hadn’t threatened him, only their owners. Then there was the same small red dragon that came from nowhere to attack the men and spit acid at the house. Why had it come at that time? And why did it attack them?
Shell reached an area where the hill leveled out and ran parallel to the valley floor. He turned west and started walking as the rain began to fall again. It would cover some of their tracks if anyone were stupid enough to chase after them.
Henry seemed to be doing better, almost standing on his own. He said, “Are we leaving for good?”
“I don’t know if for good is the right choice of words, but yes. We’re going to find a place to build a fire, and we’ll go to sleep and in the morning, we’re going away from here as fast as we can.”