White Wind Rising

by Dan Davis

  A noise.

  Leaves crunching, off in the undergrowth.

  Archer glanced around.

  There was movement in the trees behind them, back the way they had come. Just a shape. A blur, perhaps a flash of bright red.

  Then it was gone.

  He whipped his bow from his shoulders, nocked an arrow and went into a half crouch behind the trunk. The others stared at him curiously for a moment.

  Weaver drew her knife and crouched too.

  Archer nodded in the direction he had seen the movement. Heard the noise.

  ‘There was something there,’ he whispered.

  They all ducked down low too then, even Burp. Weaver held her knife out before her.

  ‘What was it?’ whispered Writer.

  Archer did not reply. He did not want to say that it had seemed to be too big for a wolf. That would only serve to frighten them more.

  Surely, it had not been what it looked like.

  It had looked almost like a man.

  But that was not possible.

  Whatever it was, it seemed to be gone. He could neither smell nor hear anything on the wind, so he relaxed a little, and stood up straighter. The others relaxed with him.

  ‘Probably nothing. Only got one eye working,’ he said, smiling. ‘Sorry.’

  Weaver tutted. ‘Typical,’ she said, shaking her head as she shoved her knife back into her belt.

  Burp ate a cabbage but they did not stop long enough to have a campfire, as much as they would all have liked one. Archer collected a few mushrooms but they were mostly already half-eaten by whatever forest creatures it was that nibbled mushrooms.

  ‘Archer,’ Writer said as they walked. ‘May I please ask you a question?’

  He smiled. He had never known anyone who spoke as Writer did. She was obviously Downvale sort, from one of the rich families up near Morningtree. The kind his father made fun of for being up themselves and for looking down on you. He would imitate the way they spoke and everyone would laugh.

  But Archer liked the way Writer spoke, and he didn’t think that Writer looked down on him.

  Other than in the literal sense. She was extremely tall.

  ‘Of course you can ask me a question,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to ask a question to ask a question.’

  ‘I believe you do, actually,’ she said without smiling. ‘My question is whether you know where in the Vale we will be when we come out of the hills? How long will it take us to get to our homes from there?’

  ‘We got blown north-eastwards from the Tower,’ Archer said, pointing south-westwards. ‘So we’ll probably be halfway to Morningtree where we come out. A long way home from me. I’m at the opposite of the end of the Vale, back past the Tower and right on up the Vale to the very end. Beyond Bures.’

  Writer was smiling now. ‘I was hoping that you would say that. If we come out there then we will be close to my home which is approximately equidistant between Morningtree and the Tower. I live near the village of Straytford, do you know it? I cannot wait to see my mother and father. It feels like just forever since I saw them. I do hope they have not been too worried about me.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Archer said. ‘It’s only been a couple of days for me and I really miss my family. The rest of you must be desperate.’

  ‘It is the only thing making my legs keep moving forward,’ she said, her smile fading.

  Archer nodded. His eye hurt. He was so tired and sore and hungry but the thought of home gave him strength. ‘How long were you gone for, do you think?’

  Writer did not say anything for a while. Archer glanced at her. She looked upset.

  ‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘Long enough to write out a hundred books and a thousand scrolls. Long enough to learn three languages.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Long enough, perhaps, to forget my own name.’

  ‘But surely that was the Alchemist who did that to all of you?’ Archer said, surprised. ‘That’s what Keeper thinks. That the Alchemist took your names from your memory for some reason, perhaps simply for cruelty.’

  Writer looked down at him. ‘He was never cruel,’ she said, with a ghost of a smile. ‘Well, not intentionally, anyhow, I do not think. The Alchemist saw us simply as tools to be used and put away when we were not needed. But yes, I hope that it was he that took my name from me. The alternative is too upsetting to contemplate.’

  Archer looked down. He did not know what to say. He suspected that he had caused her to feel upset and he wished he could say something to make her feel better. No words came to mind. The silence between them stretched out, longer and longer.

  They walked on.

  And on.

  Burp lumbered gamely on with them on his chained wings right up to the end of the day.

  By the time the sun sank, flickering through the trees, they were all so tired. All they could do to was collect wood, start a small fire and curl up together under the sheets of cloth they had carried with them as blankets.

  They barely shared a word between them as they lay down. Despite the hunger that was like a large stone inside his belly, Archer was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

  It rained through the night. A fine, relentless drizzle that coated everything and then soaked through leaves, their blanket and clothes. After waking once in the dark of the night, he never got fully to sleep. Especially when he shivered so hard that his teeth rattled.

  His dreams disturbed him.

  There seemed to be yellow glowing eyes all around him but he knew that could not be right. He was dreaming about wolves, he knew that much.

  The wolves he had seen earlier were long gone by now. Wolves moved fast through the woods, chasing the deer which were their prey. Archer and the others had spent the day only moving as fast as a crippled dragon could hobble. The wolves would be very far away. He knew he was dreaming the wolves. But he was so cold that he could not think straight. And exhausted as he was unable to wake up enough to look around properly.

  Burp was next to him on one side. Writer and Weaver on the other. Keeper was tucked under Burp’s chained wing.

  Archer edged himself right against Burp’s scaly back and right away felt the heat coming off of him. It was not much but it was enough to take the edge off the intense, wet cold. In the gradual lightening of the before-dawn, he finally fell into a deep and restful sleep.

  When he woke it was barely light. The sky was a washed out smear of grey beyond the sodden leaves. But getting up and moving was preferable to lying under a wet blanket shivering a moment longer.

  His movement woke the others. Everyone was groggy and none of them spoke beyond a few grunts. Everyone was pale and had dark shadows under their eyes. Archer was sure that he looked even worse than they did.

  He peeled back the top of his wet tunic and looked at his bruising. It had spread further and gone a bizarre purple and blue and red pattern. Like the inside of a poisonous mushroom goes when you cut it in half with a knife. The sight of it made him feel sick and he wished he had not looked.

  He went off to go for a wee behind a big elm tree.

  There were paw prints.

  Everywhere in the mud. All round the camp, print after print. So thick upon the ground that newer prints overlaid older ones where the wolves had paced back and forth around the edge of their camp.

  And there seemed to be something else. Some other tracks, much larger. They looked almost like Archer’s own boot prints only much larger and deeper, like a fully-grown man’s boots would make.

  There was no doubt about it.

  He was looking at a man’s footprints. They were not more than a few hours old.

  Someone had been watching them sleep.

  The Outsider

  The boot prints were all squidged about so it was difficult to be certain what he was looking at. The sun was barely up, the trees were dense and everything was dark. Eventually he discovered that the man prints led away into the undergrowth.

  He peered through the l
eaves into the shadows between a holly bush and a thicket of blackthorn. It was hard to see. The shadows were still as deep as night.

  He listened on the wind. Leaves rustled, swishing in time with the wind. He could smell nothing.

  There was no one there.

  And there was not likely to be, either, he thought, looking again at the ground. Because the wolf prints were pressed over the man’s boot prints. That meant that the man had been here earlier than the wolves.

  If his half-awake dreams could be trusted, the wolves had been around the in the camp in the dark of the night. In the deep blackness that comes just before dawn.

  The man must have been there in the early part of the night. But it could have been no earlier that sundown, else they would have seen him.

  Whoever he was, he would be long gone by now.

  Probably he had been a man from Polstead or Great Wenham out collecting firewood and so it was nothing to worry about. In fact, he thought, if they ran into someone out here they might even have some food.

  And yet he felt uneasy.

  If a local man had come upon them in the dark, why had he not introduced himself? Why had he crept about, perhaps watching them as they slept, only to leave? A local villager could have helped them out, guided them home. Surely, anyone in the Vale would have done so.

  Who else could it be?

  Archer had a prickly feeling on the back of his neck. As if he was even now being watched.

  He looked around, ducking low to see under bushes. He stretched up tall, as tall as he could go, which was not very tall at all. But he could see nothing, nor hear anything on the wind. Nor smell wood smoke or any other scent that would suggest somebody was nearby.

  He shook the feeling off and wandered back to the others, thinking to himself that he would not say anything to them about the man prints.

  After all, he did not want to frighten them. They were all looking tired and scared enough as it was. They all standing together, talking excitedly. Weaver had her arms crossed.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t see them,’ Keeper said, his voice full of wonder.

  ‘Wolves?’ Writer said. ‘Are you absolutely certain that you saw them?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Writer,’ said Weaver. ‘He never saw no wolves.’

  ‘Of course there were,’ said Keeper. ‘They came over to say hello.’

  Weaver laughed at him. ‘As if they did,’ she said. ‘You were having a nightmare, mate. A bad dream. It happens when you get really badly hungry.’

  ‘I was not having a nightmare,’ said Keeper, snapping at her. ‘I saw them, loads of them. But it wasn’t a nightmare because it wasn’t scary at all. They were friendly wolves.’

  ‘Wolves ain’t friendly,’ said Weaver. ‘If there’d been wolves they have eaten us all up, just like that.’ She clicked her fingers in Keeper’s face.

  Burp growled up at her and she snatched her hand back.

  ‘Archer?’ said Writer, looking at him strangely. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Archer swallowed, his mouth dry. ‘But Keeper is right. There are wolves in the forest,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that. They always stay well away from people, don’t they? I spend a lot of time in the hills near the border of the Moon Forest and I know. And I saw a pack yesterday morning when you were all sleeping. They headed off. They usually stay away and they move fast so I never told you about it. Then last night I saw them, just as you did, Keeper. Even when I woke just now, I assumed that I was dreaming. But, look around. There are wolf tracks over there and all about from here to that tree and beyond. They were all around us while we slept. For sure.’

  ‘Why did you not wake us?’ Writer said, looking horrified. ‘You should have told us.’

  ‘We could have been killed,’ said Weaver.

  ‘No, no,’ said Archer. ‘Honestly, wolves aren’t dangerous.’

  Weaver scoffed and Writer looked confused.

  Keeper nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘It’s the truth, they don’t attack people, not ever, my dad says.’ Archer thought for a moment. ‘Not unless they’re really starving hungry and the person is injured and bleeding, or the wolves are backed into a corner or they feel threatened by the person.’

  ‘So that’s basically all situations,’ Weaver said. ‘Or near enough.’

  ‘I’m just saying they’re not going to hurt us,’ Archer said. ‘The Moon Forest is full of deer and squirrels and things for them to eat. Only sometimes, when the winter has been really long or something, they come over the hills and they take our lambs because there’s nothing left in the forest. And that’s when I’m supposed to use my bow to defend our sheep. But they barely do come and when they do I just shout and make a fire and they stay well away. I’ve only seen them a few times and I’ve been shepherding since I was six.’

  ‘We knew they were friendly,’ said Keeper. ‘Didn’t we, Burp?’ He rubbed the dragon behind the horns. Burp made a soft sizzling sound.

  ‘How could you know?’ Weaver said. ‘There’s no way for you to know that, you’re just too stupid to be afraid of anything.’

  ‘No I’m not, I’m afraid of lots of things,’ Keeper said. ‘I just knew I didn’t have anything to worry about, is all.’

  ‘How did you know, though?’ Writer asked, because she always wanted to know the reasons for something, Archer was realising.

  ‘Because I wasn’t afraid,’ said Keeper. ‘So obviously there was nothing to worry about.’

  Weaver sighed and shook her head and Archer could tell she was about to call Keeper stupid again so he cut in quickly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ Archer said. ‘We’re not that far from home now. We should be at the edge of the forest later and into the hills by the middle of the day, with any luck. We could be down into the middle Vale before dark.’

  He was going to tell them that he had seen a man’s boot prints nearby too. As far as Archer was concerned, that proved they were near the edge of the Moon Forest. Near enough for a villager or forester to be nearby.

  Yet he stopped himself. What if it was not a friendly villager? He did not want to scare them again.

  More importantly, he did not want yet another useless discussion about it slowing them down.

  ‘We have to stop standing around talking all morning and get on,’ Archer said. He picked up all his things and the sodden blankets made from Weaver’s cloth. ‘There’s not a moment to waste.’

  In no time they were walking again, following a deer track southwards through the trees over undulating ground. Archer kept glancing at the mud but he did not see any more wolf prints.

  The sun rose higher but barely forced its way through the sodden clouds and trees above. They were all too tired and hungry to speak. Burp’s pace did not seem so slow any more.

  Way behind them, a branched snapped.

  Archer spun round and peered through the trees and undergrowth.

  Nothing.

  He had reached back to grab his bow but he let go.

  Why was he unable to shake the feeling that someone was following them? It was possible that someone was collecting firewood or mushrooms. But why would they be hiding from and following four children?

  ‘Why have you stopped?’ Writer asked, looking back at him.

  ‘I haven’t,’ Archer said. He did not continue walking.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Weaver asked, looking around.

  ‘Nothing,’ Archer said, lying. ‘Writer? Do you think that they Alchemist could turn himself back into a man?’

  Writer looked surprised. ‘I should not think so,’ she said. ‘I cannot imagine how he would utter an incantation without the ability to speak. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason,’ Archer said. ‘Just wondering, is all. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Well, can we actually stop, Archer?’ Keeper called out, then. ‘It must be midday by now.’ He stretched his back.

  The others were all standing, watching him. Burp
leaned against Keeper’s legs, his head drooping.

  Archer glanced up through the trees. The day was overcast but through the low clouds he could see the sun. Not quite as high as it would get but near enough. Midday was a good time to stop. So he said they could rest at the next likely place.

  Keeper sighed and they trudged on. Archer glancing behind every few steps but there was nothing there.

  Only a few hundred yards further down the track they came to a clearing they stopped to rest.

  A huge oak had fallen years ago and now there was a space in the forest around the rotting timber. Saplings shot up all about the clearing and patches of nice green grass were here and there underfoot.

  ‘Thank you,’ Keeper said. ‘Burp was getting tired, weren’t you, Burp.’

  The little dragon sat his behind heavily down on the grass. Then furled his wings up underneath himself and lay down.

  ‘Burp hasn’t ever had to walk this far before, not his whole life.’ Keeper threw himself down next to Burp and lay back on the damp grass, sighing. ‘Come to think on it, I’ve never walked this far, neither. I’m not made for walking. Nan says I’m built for the smithy.’ Keeper, still lying on his back, held his bent arm up in the air. ‘See? Just look at the size of these muscles,’ he said.

  It was not very funny but even Weaver laughed a little and Archer felt grateful for having Keeper with them.

  They all sat themselves down around Keeper and Burp, dropping what they were carrying. Archer was hungry, and thirsty. His lips were cracked and he ached all over. His eye hurt and he could not see too well on that side.

  As long as they kept walking, he would be home soon. That was all that mattered.

  ‘Is that what your family has always done, Keeper?’ asked Writer. ‘Blacksmithing?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Keeper said. ‘All my family, all the way back as far as it goes. Right now grandma and grandpa are the smiths of Cobnut Forge. I’m the apprentice smith. But back before I was the one helping, it was my dad smithing with them. That was until him and mum died in the Plague.’

  ‘What plague?’ Writer asked, looking confused.

  ‘The Plague,’ Keeper said, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her, his red eyes glowing like coals. ‘The plague from when we were babies. When everyone in the Vale got really ill. The one that killed all those Vale folk. My mum and dad and my big two sisters. And my big brother. I never knew any of them so it’s not bad, or anything. They call it the Plague, don’t they. That’s the plague I’m talking about.’