by Curtis, Greg
“And you girl, do you not bow to us?”
One of the men had turned to face the beast tongue, and Dorn could see the fear in her eyes. But all she could do was sit there and point to the thick iron collar around her neck. She couldn’t bend her head. Thanks to the shortness of the chain she couldn’t even stand up. He was speaking Common to her though, a sign that he recognised her as not being an elf. That had to be good.
The man let out a wordless sound of disgust, and gestured. With a single flick of his fingers the iron chain turned to dust that fell all around her, and immediately the girl bowed her head to him.
“And as for you boy.” The other woman suddenly looked straight at him and Dorn knew he had been seen. “Do not think us fooled by your act of prostration. You hide from us rather than show your respect.”
“There can be no hiding!”
Her eyes twinkled somehow and Dorn found himself transported and lying on the ground in front of her. And yet there had been no sense of movement, no time when he had felt her magic upon him. It had simply happened. But instincts born of years as a serf had taught him well and he immediately bowed his head to her. He had no idea who she was, or even what she was, but he knew she could kill him without straining a finger.
It seemed to be enough as she and the others turned their attention back to the elves.
“So you are also the descendants of Firelis.” The first silver woman strode among the elves while Dorn stretched his neck to watch what was happening while lying on the ground. Who Firelis was he didn’t know, but from the sudden grimace he could see forming on one of the elf’s face, he gathered that they did. He also gathered that they didn’t like him. But the elf said nothing.
“Pathetic! Where is your heart? Your animus?” She expected an answer, but she wasn’t going to get one. All of the elves simply stood there with their heads bowed but keeping their mouths firmly shut. Even in the face of death they would not speak. Was that pride, he wondered? Or ignorance masquerading as it?
“And you boy. You have a touch of that animus, yet you are human. Others of your kind have this as well. Do you know how that is?”
Later he knew he would be worried that they had named him as a wildling in front of the dusky elves. But not just then. Just then the elves were the least dangerous people there.
“I do not know Lady. I know only the ancient tales. That thousands of years ago the elves were a great people. But something befell them and they lost their gifts and their decency both. They became the savage warrior race that you see before you, while in turn some of their magic passed into the other races, and a few were born with the gifts they once had.”
“We became known as wildlings and while many despise us for what we are, the dusky elves are truly our enemies. They hunt us down. They capture those they can use like the beast tongue here, they breed with some, and then they kill the rest.” Words given he lowered his head again to the ground and hoped that they had been the right ones.
“Lies!” One of the elves shouted at him, anger ruling even his fear. His face was distorted by anger and his pointed teeth looked like those of a wild animal about to bite. “Firelis was weak. A failed warrior. He sought to contain us. To leave us as servants. But we were strong and he was thrown down. We became the warriors we always were! Yet in his death he cursed us. He gave our magic unto these pathetic creatures with his last breath. Now we merely take back what is ours by right!”
“By right child?!”
The woman turned on him, her voice filled with cold anger. “If the gifts of the Mother were yours by right they would not be gifts and you would still have them. That she has bestowed them on these children instead shows that she considers them of worth where you are not.”
“Tell them that when you return. And yes, you will return to the land of your birth. On foot. And once you get there you will speak that lesson to everyone you meet.”
“And tell them this too. Firelis was a friend. A warrior who walked the path of the elf with dignity. He fought only for what was right. What you are though, what your people have become, is something else. Something savage and unworthy. You are not warriors. You are not elves.”
“Now go!”
Despite his fear Dorn risked looking up again to see the elves, all seven of them suddenly march off. They took no weapons, gathered no supplies; just walked off towards the front gate. The only one that didn’t it seemed was the one who had been flung into the wall. Death or deep unconsciousness it seemed could override the woman’s power of command. He doubted much else could.
“Now you boy. Who are you and what have you done with the Mother’s gift?”
“I’m Dorn lady. And I used the gift to flee my home when it became known that I had it. I use it still to stay hidden from those who hunt me.”
“Hunted? For what crime?”
“For the crime of having the gift. For being a wildling lady. The church hunts down all who have the gift. They call us unnatural. Abominations. And they kill us. They have a terrible number of ways in which they kill us. Burnt alive on great wooden stakes is the most common.”
Should he have added the last? Dorn didn’t know. But he desperately didn’t want to share the same fate as the elves. If he returned to Lampton Heights to spread their word what would find him was a horrific death.
“Church?”
“The Church of Dica Lady. The God of Fear. Black robed priests. They are the most powerful faith throughout the human realms. The others have been defeated.”
It was also the bloodiest faith. The reason they were the most powerful was simply that their warriors had murdered all the others, killing priests and followers in an orgy of murder that had lasted half a century or more. They’d supplanted the Church of Lue, God of Destiny in Lampton Heights by the simple expedient of violence. The priests had been burned alive in their temples and shrines. Their destiny it seemed had not been as grand as their god would have commanded. The Dicans controlled most of the court and the throne too, for much the same reason. The nobles feared them even as they tried to pretend that they didn't. That they ruled.
“Truly this is a shocking world we have returned to.” Done with him the woman turned to the beast tongue.
“Girl, tell me of yourself.”
“Lorian Lady. I was in training to become the apothecary for my village of High Fold when the elves attacked. I mostly used my favour to help with the hunts for the missing and to aid the patrols.”
“You did not see the attackers coming?”
“I did Lady. I warned the village and the defences were readied. But there were too many of them. Hundreds fell before the flag was raised. A deal was made that I and Marian the healer would be given as slaves to the elves along with a harvest if they would spare the village. They accepted the deal, but after we were taken away in chains they sacked High Fold anyway.”
She seemed upset. He could understand that. But she shouldn't have been surprised. Unfortunately hers wasn’t an original tale. The dusky elves respected only strength. If an enemy surrendered they weren’t a worthy enemy. So deals with them would not be honoured. There was no winning with them.
In that the dusky elves and the Church of Dica were the same. They made plenty of deals, but they honoured none of them.
They were also alike in that they were both plagues on the land. And if High Fold had been taken by the elves, and then more had gone on to Little Rock, it meant that this was some sort of invasion and not just a small incursion. Two towns twenty leagues apart overrun within days or weeks of one another – there could be no other explanation. The disease was likely already spreading throughout the wastes. There would be more of them all around.
“So what have we then? One who cedes and serves. And another who runs and hides. Surely it is a jest that two such as these should have the gifts of the Mother.” The woman shook her head mournfully.
“If I was a wildcast like him I would have fought Lady. The accursed elves would have p
aid for their evil in blood! As they did in Little Rock.”
Lorian was angry, something he could understand only too well, but again as she glared at the silver woman he had to wonder why the beast tongue also accused him of being a wildcast. Just like the elves. And what had happened in Little Rock?
“And if I was a wildcast Lorian the Dicans in Lampton Heights would have been ashes long ago, not to mention these elves just gone and the harpy I felled with an arrow a few days back.”
For some reason the accusation bothered him. He didn’t get an apology though, just a suspicious look as the beast tongue stared at him. She didn’t believe him, but she knew that this wasn’t the place for that conversation.
“And if either of you had even the wit of an ass you would know better than to speak when you've not been spoken to!”
“Sorry Lady.” They both fell silent and bowed their heads again.
“Do either of you know the temple of Balen Rale?” It was one of the men who asked, and Dorn quickly guessed that it wasn't a casual question. He was asking for a reason and it wasn't because he needed directions.
“I know of it Sir,” Dorn replied. “It is far to the north of the wastes, bordering on the ancient province of Terris Lee. But I have never been there and I do not know of anyone who has.”
There was of course a reason for that, most of which related to the dangerous terrain that had to be crossed to get there. Even if they skirted the centre of the wastes there were still plenty of dangers to face. And then only a very few leagues beyond it lay Terris Lee itself. The land no one ever returned from.
“Good. Then though it seems a waste of our time, you will know the path to travel there. And you will travel there.”
As he said it Dorn felt something strange happening within him. It felt as though the words somehow had a weight and resonance that words shouldn't have. It was like a command being laid upon his will, telling him that he had to go there. A hex. It wasn't an order – orders could be disobeyed. This was something more than that. Something he didn't understand but which he knew he could never disobey. No doubt it was the same thing that the elves had felt before they had marched out of the fort and back to their people.
“There you will both be assessed. Your character and your animus both. You will be judged and it will be seen whether you are worthy of the gifts that have been bestowed upon you. If you are able to use them as you should. If it is within you to learn how.”
“Others are already making this journey. Many more will do so in time. And all of you should think of this as a boon. A chance for you to become the people the thirteen hoped you could be.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes Sir.” They spoke as one, and though Dorn was sure the beast tongue – Lorian – had no greater understanding than him as to what awaited them, he was sure she understood the same single thing he did. They were going to the temple. There was no choice.
“Good.”
And with that they were gone. How he didn't know. Nor did he know where. All he knew was that they had been there and that they had left. And having done so that just left the two of them and the dead elf. But even as he remembered the elf he heard a noise and turned.
The elf had got up. Apparently he wasn't so dead after all, though he didn't look that healthy either. And then while Dorn watched, the elf walked out of the courtyard, looking neither to the right nor the left. He was just as bound by the hex as the other elves Dorn knew.
And they were just as bound as he was.
Chapter Five.
“You know we'd travel a lot faster if you'd ride a horse.”
Dorn's blood started to boil again as Lorian berated him about his decision to walk for what had to be the thousandth time that morning. He was getting very tired of explaining to her that he didn't ride for two very important reasons. The first was that he couldn't. He'd never been taught. Serfs weren't taught things they didn't need to know. He could carry a pitcher of wine, make a bed and read a ledger, not ride. And the second she could surely see for herself. Horses didn't like him. He might look like a man and walk like a man, but he didn't smell like one. So her bringing the second horse had been a complete waste of time.
He was also getting sick of explaining to her that Veria had lied to the elves when the eight had ridden into town and seen the rest of their dead clan mates all around and demanded answers. She'd obviously only said there was a wildcast in the fort because she knew there was someone there with a longbow, and she'd hoped he would kill them for her. He wasn't a wildcast and she surely knew that much.
But he did have to wonder if somewhere in Little Rock there might be one. It wasn't impossible. Wildlings, especially those who had escaped from Lampton Heights, were naturally secretive. It was the natural outcome of living in a land where everyone could be a spy for the accursed church and where the penalty for being discovered was to be burnt alive. If the memories of those wildlings screaming in agony as they died lived with him, he was sure that they would live with others. And if the understanding that secrecy was the only true defence against that lived within him, it would surely live within them. So there could be other wildlings living in and around Little Rock, and he would never know it. They would not know him as one, and he would not know them. In fact save for his family, Lorian was the only other wildling he knew.
Before they'd left that morning he'd said a prayer to Xeria and made her an offering of lavender and jasmine, both of which grew wild nearby. It was his custom to do it at least once a week as he asked for her help with his family. But he was beginning to think that he should instead have given his prayers and offerings to Antag Golden Tongue, in the hope that he could have granted him the words to shut Lorian up.
“And we'd have less chance of being overheard by bandits if you'd stop complaining,” Dorn snapped at her.
Of course bandits were the least of their worries. From what she'd told him there were dusky elves throughout the southern part of the wastes, and there were always any number of dangerous beasts as well. But there was no point in mentioning it. Again.
Lorian quietened again as the thought of bandits penetrated but he knew it wouldn't last. Sooner or later she'd start up again with her complaints. She couldn't seem to help herself. And always it was the same things over and over again. That he hadn't struck the dusky elves down with his lightning. That he wouldn't ride a horse. That he hadn't spoken up to the glowing foursome. But in the end all of it came down to two things he guessed; fear and anger.
She was afraid of this place. Afraid of being out in the wilds alone. Which was actually quite sensible. And she was also afraid of what had happened to her home in her absence. Which was also understandable though there was nothing she could do about it.
The anger though was for a different reason. She was angry that he'd done nothing to help her while she'd been held prisoner. And that unfortunately was also true. As was the fact that he'd been planning on running away and leaving her, something that she probably also suspected. But what could she really have expected? There were eight elves and only one of him. And they were trained soldiers. In the end the path he'd chosen had been the coward’s path, but if he'd chosen differently all he would have done would have been to die and she would still have been their slave. Naturally she wouldn't hear that. She couldn't.
Barely a few hours old and the trip was already something he hated. He wanted more than he could say to be back in his fort sitting on his rooftop, perhaps enjoying the midday sun as he read a little poetry from his collection. He loved poetry. He loved reading the words and enjoying their rhymes and cadence. He loved the way they led his thoughts down fantastic paths to visions of other places and the people they depicted. He loved the fact that the words often let him reflect on the hidden messages and the deeper truths they contained. Good poetry was a fine food for the soul. Something to be savoured. Walking through the forest with a companion who was by turns sullen, distrustful and bitter was not.
> Lorian and Dorn carried on in relative silence for a little while after that. The only noise that could be heard was the clip clop of the horses' hooves on the hard baked dirt of the trail. And that was good. It gave him a chance to listen for anyone or anything that might be nearby. Even in his human form he had exceptionally good hearing. Luckily all he could hear was the sound of the river babbling away as their path took them north along the fisherman's trail. But that would only be for a few more leagues. By nightfall they'd have to press on through the wilds without the benefit of any sort of trail to follow.
Unless they decided to carry on to Broken Falls at the far end of the trail. There they might get some directions as to trails they might take and the dangers they would face. But it wasn't a town he knew and it was rumoured to have been settled by bandits. Too many towns in the wastes were homes to bandits. He preferred to head off before reaching Broken Falls and travel through the wilds where his natural skills as a shifter would serve him better. But if they did they would be without any knowledge of what lay ahead. He wasn't looking forward to that.
Truthfully he would have preferred not to make the journey. But it wasn't as if he had any choice. Neither of them did. The four glowing figures had set them a course and they had to follow it. To travel from his ruined fortress in the southern wastes to another ruin a hundred and eighty leagues away at the very northern most tip of the wastes. And that was as the eagle flew. Skirting the central wastes as they had to would add many more leagues to their journey. To his mind it was a pointless journey through dangerous lands and one which he didn't want to make. But still he had to go. They both did.
He had tried to resist the hex. Tried to ignore it. But it was too strong for him. Every time he tried to resist it he could feel it telling him he had to press on. Not in words but in an impulse far more primitive and powerful.