Wildling

by Curtis, Greg

  Nobles of one sort or another? There were three realms that bordered the southern wastes nearby; the human realms of The Kingdom of Yed and Lampton Heights, and of course the dusky elves' land of Tellur el Ve. Both human realms did from time to time send patrols in. The southern wastes were close to the border and it was not uncommon for them to chase down criminals or hunt missing people in them. Of course those missing people were usually those the church wanted to burn. That was why he still kept his secret. But usually the patrols never entered too far or went off the trails, or they risked not returning.

  No one entered very far into the wastes. Little Rock was only fifty leagues north of Lampton Heights, and was as far as even he'd dared to go. If he’d travelled further towards the middle of the wastes he would have run out of towns in another fifty. The centre of the wastes was an expanse of complete wilderness two hundred leagues across, too dangerous for anyone to live in. The towns of the wastes were scattered all around it in a giant circle, a ring a hundred leagues thick. And even in the outer wastes the towns were only in certain places. Built far away from the many and various dangers that called the wastes home. This land was filled with deadly creatures.

  Besides, he was a fugitive from the church not from the lords of any of the nearby realms, and the nobles might send their soldiers in but not far. They wouldn't risk their soldiers on a hunt through the wastes for the church. They obeyed the Dicans in many things – they had to when the church held so much power. But there were limits. He also doubted whether after six or more years on the run, that the church was still looking for him. In the end he was just another wildling, and there were so many others on their list of people to kill. Other priests, other wildlings, any other people they didn't like. And even if they were still hunting him, it seemed unlikely after so long that they would know where to find him.

  Brigands? Now they were a real possibility. Brigands loved the wastes for the protection they offered them. Hidden deep within their embrace, not many patrols would risk life and limb chasing them down. In fact some of the brigands had settled in the wastes and in time formed towns of their own. Broken Falls a few leagues to the north was said to be one of them. And it was likely that there were a few brigands passing through Little Rock from time to time. But they could have no reason for coming after him even if they knew he was here. They would know the fort, and they would know it held nothing of any value. Besides, they survived in the wastes the same way everyone else did; by keeping strictly to the safer areas and avoiding anywhere with a history. The fortress had a very bad history. In fact it was one steeped in blood according to the tales.

  But who else did that leave?

  He didn't have long to wait to find out.

  “Elves! Shite!”

  Dorn cursed his misfortune under his breath when he realised that his luck was even worse than he’d imagined. More dangerous at least. Eldas had deserted him. Worse than that, he knew that the elves had come for him. Maybe not for him personally – in fact almost certainly not; they had no idea who he was. But they’d obviously guessed that there was a wildling calling this ruin home, and they hunted wildlings. They enslaved them.

  It was ironic in a way. A very bitter way. According to the stories elves had once been people of great wisdom and magic. The humans of that time they had considered as little more than primitives and savages. But that had been thousands of years ago. Back before whatever misfortune it was that had befallen them. Since that time they had lost their magic and become the savage warriors they had once accused humans of being. Some even claimed that it was since then that they had grown their pointed ears and dagger like teeth. That once they had been a people of great beauty. Whether that was true or not he didn't know. No one did. However long ago the elves had fallen – if they had actually fallen – had been so far back that there were nothing but tales. But he knew that the elves were now ugly in all things.

  They lived in clans and tribes which in truth were little more than great war-bands, and fought with one another constantly as well as anyone else who dared come too close. They worshipped Talos the God of War, and wore his sign upon them always by way of an amulet or tattoo. They believed that Talos would bring them strength and victory. But considering that they mostly fought other dusky elves who also worshipped Talos, he thought that unlikely. It seemed more likely to him that if there was a god guiding them it was Heiros the Jester. The dusky elves were a bitter jest perhaps, but still a jest.

  They did not farm or fish or make things. They took whatever they wanted. And when they needed things regularly they used others as their servants. There was another race who did things for them like grow food and build shelter; the wood elves. A smaller, weaker race that were essentially their slaves. Dorn knew nothing of the wood elves, but he pitied them.

  They also had a relationship with harpies. No one really understood what it was. Not that he knew of anyway. It wasn't one of friendship or alliance. It wasn't one of master and servant. But where their war-bands rode harpies often followed. Like scavengers following large predators around. And if there were elves here then he knew harpies would not be far away. Which could only mean that there were elves in Little Rock. And that was why Veria had come to pray.

  But worst of all for him was why the elves were there. Since they had no magic at all, they stole it. They kidnapped those unfortunate humans who had any fraction of it in their blood. The wildlings. And then they set about turning them into their slaves. Sometimes it was said, for the purposes of breeding. They had a dream of one day regaining their magic and breeding with wildlings and then having those children back breed with them was one way they hoped to do it. It could not be an easy life for the wildling women they captured.

  A slave like the raven haired woman riding with them.

  The woman with the iron collar around her neck was a wildling like him. Judging by the hawk flying above them he guessed her gift was in the calling. She was a beast tongue. She had a companion. And it was said that a wildling with the beast tongue could not only command her companion, but see through its eyes. He knew why they’d brought her with them. She was there to help hunt him down.

  It was then that Dorn decided to squeeze himself under one of the fallen statues that covered the roof. Hawks could see well, but like cats they noticed movement before anything else. The bird would see his vegetable garden and the roof of his shelter; there was nothing he could do about that. But as long as he remained still under the statue, it wouldn’t see him. And hopefully the elves would have no idea how to reach the roof. But even if they did, they couldn't get through the hatch if he slid the bar home.

  He would be safe until nightfall. And night was his time. To do what was the question. His options seemed limited. On the roof he was fairly safe as the elves couldn’t reach him. He also had a good supply of food from his garden and water from his rain tanks. But he was also trapped there. And sooner or later the elves might give up on looking for a stairway up. They might try scaling the wall.

  He could try fighting and rain down arrows on them while they slept – assuming they were foolish enough to sleep out in the courtyard. But there were eight of them and one of him, and they were trained soldiers and experts with the battle bow whereas he was but a single serf, brought up to run and hide. They were also followers of Talos the God of War, and he might well grant them some extra gifts in battle adding to Dorn's troubles. But even if he won – which was far from certain – one of them could still get away and bring back more elves.

  Or he could run. Switching to his beast form he could slip past them in the small hours when most of them were hopefully asleep. But that was a wager with chance, and even if he won, this was his home. He would be abandoning his only home in this dangerous land. Besides; they could track him.

  Run, hide, fight. None of them seemed like good options and yet they were all he had.

  Chapter Four.

  Dorn was lucky that night. Though it hadn’t rained for days
it was still a cloudy night, and the cloud covered the moon making things darker than normal. He was grateful for that. The darker things were, the greater his advantage. And the hawk was down for the night, sitting on a makeshift perch beside its mistress. Hawks didn’t fly by night. That let him move around on the rooftop without being seen, as long as he didn’t go too near the broken edge of the wall.

  It had allowed him to get some dinner too. A cold meal of salad and dried meats from his stores – he didn’t dare risk a fire even in the bricked up fire pit he'd built – but still he always felt stronger for having some food inside him. And he would need his strength.

  Still, he didn’t feel confident. Not when he knew that one of his options had been removed. He couldn’t continue to hide safely on the roof. Not when he knew that in the morning the elves would come for him.

  For most of the day he’d hoped that they wouldn’t. That they would just leave. He’d watched and listened as they’d clambered up the bottom wall and then searched the ancient fortress from one end to the other, before concentrating on the top story. As expected they’d found nothing. The trap door hatch and the ladder leading to it were well hidden. They could wander around for days and not find it.

  For a while he’d felt almost safe. But then late in the afternoon just as the sun was setting, they’d started unpacking ropes and hooks. Climbing equipment. He’d known then that hiding was no longer an option. In the morning they’d scale the wall.

  They’d said as much. All day they’d been shouting up at him, telling him they’d find him, and demanding that he show himself. They were pretending that they knew, but as the hawk flew overhead again and again, it was clear that they didn’t. They knew there was a garden and a shelter on the roof. And they also knew that someone had shot a harpy from the fortress. They were just guessing about the rest. But in the end what they knew and didn't know didn’t matter. Once they reached the roof they’d find him.

  It was time to fight or run. Because the one thing he was certain of was that he didn’t want to end up like their beast tongue. When the sun fell they’d thrown her a few scraps of food and a mug of water and then chained her by her collar to the front gate like a dog. Barely inside the fort’s walls at all, and a long way from the warmth of the fire. It seemed that they might want the benefit of her gift, but they didn’t particularly care if she lived or died.

  Of course he knew the elves wouldn't be even that kind to him. The woman was useful to them. A shifter wasn’t. He would remain a slave only until they knew what he was. In order to use his gift for anything they’d have to let him loose and then they’d have no way of making sure he did what they wanted or that he’d return. The woman they would keep alive so long as she could serve them. They might even use her as breeding stock. But the moment they knew what his gift was they’d kill him. Which was more evidence that they had no idea what he was. If they had they wouldn't have been interested in catching him at all.

  What he didn’t understand though was why they kept calling him errin. In their tongue it meant lightning, and was usually used to refer to a wildcast of lightning storm. But there was no wildcast here. Certainly not him. And even if he had been one, he hadn’t cast any lightning bolts around. On the other hand it would be nice to be able to. He could think of some dusky elves down below that could use a little roasting.

  Still, it was probably best to run. He knew that. He had the advantage that he knew the region. And there were plenty of places in the forest where he could find shelter and hide. He was faster too. In his panther form much faster. And if the worst came to the worst he could lead them through some very dangerous places. Places which a cat could slip through unnoticed but where men on horses would become prey. Places they didn't know about. The elves were not locals. They might know a lot about their own forests and lands but they didn't know the wastes. They'd likely only heard stories about the terrible creatures that called it home. They would never have seen them before.

  In particular there was a den of furies less than a third of a league east of them. The tiny little winged terrors would ignore him if he was quiet and only walked the periphery of their land – there wasn't a lot of meat on him and he was fast enough through the forest to outrun them. But were a party of riders to walk on to their land, then they would descend on them like a plague. Between their poison and their numbers the elves wouldn't stand a chance, and the furies would eat well for many months to come.

  It was as he was thinking of the elves' demise at the hands – or rather the teeth and claws of the little monsters – that things changed. And at first he didn't even know that they had.

  Glancing out into the night Dorn spied a pale glow in the distance. And then slowly as the glow strengthened he realised it was coming closer, moving through the forest. People were coming, with what looked like torches. But if they were then they were odd since the glow was silver rather than yellow. Still, it was the only explanation he could think of. Sometimes clouds of fireflies lit up the darkness of the forest at night, but they didn't travel and it was the wrong time of year. Besides, they liked rivers and these people were travelling away from the nearby river and towards the fort.

  Dorn watched them carefully, realising that his chance of escape had just died as this second group of people approached. There being nothing else he could do he lay there and waited for them to emerge from the trees. Then at least he would finally set eyes on them and know who they were. His worst fear was that they were more elves. But he couldn't hear the sound of horses' hooves on the ground, so if they were elves they were on foot. That seemed unlikely.

  When they finally did emerge from the forest Dorn wasn’t sure what to think. They were people as he'd guessed, but they weren't elves. They might be on the slender side like them, but their ears did not have points or poke out through their hair.

  But neither were they human. Humans didn't glow, and these people did. They glowed with a silvery blue light. A light bright enough that they didn't need torches.

  There were four of them; two men and two women and as they strode easily across the grass to the front gate he realised they were naked. That was surprising, though it didn't bother him. He was a shifter after all and so was often naked. His clothes didn't shift with him.

  They were also magical. Powerfully so and not in the way that a wildling was. Wildlings, no matter how their gift was expressed had only one. His was to shift into the form of a dappled panther. These people had at least two gifts. They glowed somehow, and they travelled faster than their walking would suggest. Somehow they were foreshortening the distance, each step covering more ground than it should. They were travelling as the gift was known. But there were only a very few travellers. Even among the wildlings it was a rare gift.

  Once it hadn't been though. Once, according to many of his books of epic verse, there had been many travellers. Just as there had been many more wildlings, and their gifts had been far greater. But that was hundreds and even thousands of years ago, even assuming that the words were true and not the exaggerations of the poets. If the stories had been true though, and if times were still the same, the elves would have posed no risk to them. The beast tongue would have been able to free herself, able to call upon all the beasts of the world to come to her aid instead of just her bird. And he as a shifter would have been able to master a third shape, perhaps a hawk or an eagle. Dorn often wished for those tales to be true, and for those times to come again.

  It took the four only a couple of seconds to walk the fifty yards or so from the trees to the gate, even though they seemed unhurried. Then the gate was simply pushed open without them touching it and he knew they had a third gift. They could force things with their thoughts. They were pushers.

  “Shite!” Dorn barely whispered the curse as he watched the shining figures walk into the ruin's courtyard, and then choked back the curse fearing that he had been too loud already. But it wasn’t every day that he saw naked men and women simply stride into his
home as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Or for that matter, shine like the stars in the darkness. It spoke of some sort of powerful magic. And it spoke of confidence. For the four of them to simply march up to the sleeping elves, it had to mean that they weren’t worried by them, even though the dusky elves were all armed and always happy to shed some blood.

  Of course they were asleep, except for the watchman who was sitting up, propped against a tree, pretending to be a statue. Or was he? Was that fear holding him rigid? Or had the four silvery people done something to him? Had they used yet another magic on him? Dorn had no idea.

  “Dorial ess liare fin gnate!”

  Clearly the new arrivals were confidant. For though he had no idea at all what the woman said, he knew a command when he heard it. And he knew she didn’t care that they woke the elves, or that some of them reached for their weapons. But then she had no need to worry.

  One of them, the first to reach for his battle bow as he got to his feet, had no chance at all to raise it. Instead he found himself flying across the courtyard for no obvious reason, and smashed into the side wall. After that he fell to the ground and didn’t move. Dorn guessed that he was either unconscious or dead. The others quickly dropped their weapons as they found their feet. And then they found out how to bow.

  Watching them from above Dorn was certain that they didn’t want to bow their heads to the shining silver people. Dusky elves bowed to no one. They simply had no choice. And they knew it. Not one of them even bothered to look around at their comrade in arms, to see if he was still alive. But it had been a heavy impact, and if he wasn’t dead than he was surely badly hurt. Dusky elves had no sympathy for the injured. A man either recovered quickly or he didn’t. And if he didn’t what had been his went to the next strongest in the tribe while the elf was left to rot. There was a reason that the dusky elves were also called baby trolls. The chances were that if the others survived this night they’d simply divide up his possessions in the morning.