by Curtis, Greg
Abruptly Lorian started complaining again and Dorn’s few minutes of peaceful reflection were brought to an end. He had hoped for a little more silence, but it wasn't to be.
They carried along the old trail for a while, heading upstream past a couple of small weirs and a good sized rock pool where the trout probably lurked and things seemed almost peaceful. Dorn had the brief hope that the journey might even be uneventful. But he knew that hope would only last while they were still close to his home, in lands he knew to be relatively safe. And when he heard the snuffling in the distance he knew that that hope had just come to an end. He held up his hand knowing the sound too well. Everyone in these parts did.
“What is it?” She sounded bored instead of properly scared, but he didn't care about that. He cared that she was too loud and he desperately hushed her as best he could.
“Manticore. Be quiet!” He hissed it at her as loudly as he dared and finally something seemed to shut her up.
“What?” At least she'd had the sense to whisper. “Where?”
“Up ahead. The snuffling sound.” People claimed they were the magical combinations of lions and scorpions, and maybe they were. They looked very catlike apart from the huge scorpion tail and the chitinous ridge running along their back. But the sound they made was pure bear and they were the size of one as well.
“What do we do?”
“You stay here and keep quiet while I take a look.” She looked like she wanted to object to that, and possibly send her bird up through the trees to search, but as the snuffling grew louder because the manticore had found something interesting to play with she thought better of it. The hawk could tell her little through the thick canopy of branches above and she needed to have her wits with her. And then Dorn took off his pack and his long coat which led to other questions.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at him.
He ignored her, stuffing his coat into his pack and then his vest as well. It was probably ill-bred to undress in front of her, but there was no way that he was going anywhere near that thing in his human form. Manticores were deadly and panthers were fast. Dappled panthers the fastest of all.
Lorian said nothing when he'd finished undressing and packing, apparently realising by then that there was no point. She even accepted his back pack when he handed it to her. Wordlessly for once which was a blessing.
Then he shifted into his other form and forgot about her.
She gasped of course and recoiled. But then he hadn't told her what his gift was. People didn't understand shifters. Even other wildlings didn't understand them. The bards made up all sorts of strange stories about them. They claimed that shifters transformed into wild animals and ran around in packs hunting people. They didn't of course. They might take the shape of their animals but they still retained the mind of the person they were. Nor did they change in size to become huge beasts or bite people's throats out either. He was in the end a man, and while he could live with using his claws like a knife if he had to, he could not stomach the thought of biting someone.
Some days though it would have been useful to have had some of the thoughts of a beast as well as his own. That way he would have been able to use his nose as a cat could. To follow scents. Unfortunately while he had the nose of a cat he didn't have the thoughts and it was hard to remember one scent from another. He knew only a few. It was worse for those who had the shapes of birds. They had to learn to fly without the thoughts that seemed to come naturally to those born with wings.
But taking the shape of the dappled panther was still a thrill unlike anything else. The power and the speed, the sharpening of his already sharp senses. The feeling of vitality. It was like stretching after you'd just woken from a long nap and rediscovering all your muscles at the same time. It was only when he did this that Dorn felt truly awake. Sadly, most of the time that he wandered around the world as a man, Dorn knew he was really sleeping. But he only knew that for the first few moments after he first shifted into his panther shape. When he changed back to a man he would experience the same feelings in reverse. The sharpness of his thoughts, the usefulness of hands and even the height of standing tall. It was the change that really thrilled – not the shape.
A heartbeat later he padded off silently into the jungle ahead, his companion forgotten as he focused on the threat ahead.
It was a manticore. The musk of the beast was everywhere and he recognised it. There were enough of them about that he knew its powerful stench. The aroma of unwashed wet clothes left hanging in the open mixed with the putrid stink of a swamp. It was distinctive, like the noise it made. Fortunately it wasn't that close and so he had to crawl on his belly through a good hundred and fifty yards of trees and scrub to reach it. That however, was something he could do easily; his body was designed for stealth.
When he finally reached the creature's den he climbed up a tree so he could peer down at it from a safe vantage point, making sure the creature didn't spot him. In the end it didn't even know he was about.
But why would it? Manticores didn't have particularly sharp senses. They could hear quite well and smell maybe a little better, but they were remarkable short sighted. Then again they didn't need to see far. Only far enough to see any prey foolish enough to wander too close to their dens and then to leap out on them. But even if it had had sharp vision Dorn’s coat was dappled so that he blended perfectly into the forest.
This one had only recently set up its den, and it was still in the process of getting everything right. It was currently pushing away rocks from its killing ground so that when it struck there was nothing in the way. It had found an ideal spot and had dug its den into the side of a small dirt hill thirty feet back from the trail with thick bush on both sides. Unfortunately judging by the bones scattered about, Dorn suspected that it had already had some success. Dorn suspected that some of those bones weren't from an animal. Whoever they had belonged to, the men would have stood no chance. They had probably walked along the trail, perhaps with their catch, and seen nothing through the trees until the clearing opened up alongside the trail. By then the beast would have seen them and it would have been too late. Manticores were very fast over short distances and incredibly dangerous. You couldn't really defend yourself against one in face to face combat.
Fortunately they were also stupid.
Dorn let out a small roar and watched as the manticore immediately rushed back into its little den, no doubt thinking that prey was coming. He'd known it would do that just as he knew exactly what it would do next. It would lie there in wait until something crossed the path in front of it. And it would not move. It would sit there for hours, maybe even days, waiting, and nothing would disturb it. Nothing except movement on the path in front of it.
That was good. It meant Lorian and Dorn could simply wander around behind the lair and it would never bother them. The horses might not like leaving the trail and having to force their way through the bush and Lorian would undoubtedly complain, but it was safe. Still, he knew he couldn't leave the beast there to strike out at the next person who crossed the trail. And there was a way to kill them safely. It was just a lot of hard work. But it had to be done. It was the duty of every man in these parts to kill them, before they started to increase in numbers.
Quietly Dorn crept down the tree and then worked his way around behind the lair until he was standing on the hill just above its den. Then he shifted back into his human form and started looking for rocks. Luckily there were a few around. The hill like much of the land all around had once been nothing but rock and dirt and it would be a long time before grass fully claimed it. After that it was just a matter of tossing the rocks down the bank - well, in the case of the larger rocks, actually rolling them down. He knew the beast wouldn't notice. Its attention was focused completely on the trail in front of it. A few rocks and a bit of dirt landing in front of the mouth of its den would be nothing. Even when they started obscuring its view. They weren't prey. And they would keep being nothin
g until the creature was completely walled in. It was that stupid.
This was the typical way a manticore was killed. And they were killed wherever possible, though usually it would be as a result of a few men with shovels doing the digging while another man made noises in the distance to keep the beast thinking there was prey nearby. Nothing could overcome the manticore's basic instinct to hunt.
It took time. There was only one of him and he didn't have a shovel. But luckily there were enough rocks lying around to make up for that problem, and about an hour later he was satisfied that the pile of debris piled up in front if the den was enough to stop it rushing out at anything that passed nearby. Then he spent another half hour pouring dirt over the rocks, hoping that the air would be in short supply too. In time he hoped, the creature would suffocate. And until it did it would lay there silently waiting to pounce on the prey walking along the track it could no longer even see. They really were stupid creatures. But then according to legend they'd not only acquired the stinger of a scorpion when they'd been created, they'd gained its thoughts as well.
Of course he and Lorian would still have to go around it. If it somehow sensed that they were in front of it even through the rocks and dirt, it would try to strike, and though it would be slowed, it would still try to push its way through the rocks. It wouldn't catch them, but it might eventually realise it was trapped. They did have some basic wit. Then it would try to dig itself free and if it succeeded it would set about fixing its killing ground, ready for the next group to pass by. He didn't want that to happen, so signs would have to be posted on both sides of the trail. That too was normal.
But at least he could return to Lorian and inform her that the danger had been overcome. He doubted it would please her – nothing else seemed to. But even if she wasn't pleased she would finally know that he wasn't a wildcast.
The gift varied from person to person, and even members of the same family shared different types of gift. The sages said that in reality they all had the same gift; it just manifested itself differently according to the shape of the possessor's soul. But whatever the truth there was always one rule that applied to them all. No matter who you were or how powerful you were, a man had only one gift. Dorn was a shifter so he could not be a wildcast. She had seen him change so she could not deny him that. Surely? Unless she had a second gift herself – perversity.
He wondered about that as he made his way back to her. And about the new complaints she would make when he told her that they'd have to force their way through the bush for a bit. But still, he decided as he approached, one threat was ended. The journey had begun well.
Dorn changed back to his human form, stood up and pushed his way through the last of the bush to meet up with Lorian again. But when he'd finally emerged from the trees he was brought up short in surprise.
“What the -.”
Lorian wasn't alone. Another man was there beside her, a thin dangerous looking man with a long thin beard sitting on a dark coloured mare wearing the saddle and bridle of the dusky elves. Dorn instinctively didn't trust him. “Who are you?”
“Rodan.” The man nodded at him, but it wasn't the polite expression of strangers meeting. It was something else. Something cold, almost threatening. Dorn didn't understand that. He'd never met the man before. He knew nothing about him. And to make matters worse there was some sort of thunder in the air. A strange rumbling that made him nervous.
“I'm -.”
“You're the hell cat.” The man interrupted him bluntly leaving Dorn standing there wondering what to say. Wondering why Lorian looked so frightened. But he didn't have to wonder for long. Unexpectedly the temperature dropped and the air became heavy and he knew something was wrong, very wrong. He looked around hurriedly, trying to understand.
“What's -.”
“Goodbye.” The man smiled at him unexpectedly and Dorn's blood chilled. He knew something bad was going to happen, but he didn't know what. And then he saw light all around him and he understood. The man was a wildcast.
But it was too late to do anything about that, as the light ripped through his eyes and something burnt right through him. Lightning. It was too late to do anything but scream as he was blown off his feet and sent flying in an explosion of pain and wind. And he couldn't even do that as the wind stole his voice.
After that things were confused. There was pain, burning pain shooting from his shoulder to his foot. There was more pain as he felt his skin being flayed off him by branches as he crashed through them. And then there was some sort of impact and what felt like a bone in his chest breaking, a rib maybe.
Things went black for a little while after that. But the darkness couldn't last. Not when the pain was there to rouse him.
He came to, hearing voices; a man and a woman arguing about something. The sound of twigs snapping and bushes being pushed aside as someone tried to force his way through them as he hunted him. But he didn't care about that when his entire body felt like it was on fire. He was burning inside and out.
Instinctively Dorn shifted, knowing as all shifters did that the transformation helped. It healed them in a way that nothing else could. It sealed wounds and stopped any ongoing damage. It ended disease and stopped poison as well. Moments later he was on four feet and the pain had ended. He could see again, and make out the sounds of the man getting closer. And he knew he had to get away. The shift had stopped the burning and started the healing process as he knew it would, but he was still kitten weak and would be for a long time to come. He couldn't take another blast like that.
Somehow Dorn got to his feet and then lowered himself into a natural crouch as he crept further away into the bush, unheard and unseen. Soon the sound of the man breaking his way through the bushes grew quieter behind him. That was good, but at the same time he was growing weaker with every step. He couldn't go much further. The damage done to him had been too great and the strength needed to heal it enormous. He needed to rest and to feed.
It was then that he spied the cedar ahead and knew his safety lay in it. He had to sleep and he couldn't sleep on the ground. Even if the wildcast didn't find him there were other predators that would. Predators that wouldn't care that he was a panther. Trees were a safer option.
Dorn crept as quickly as he could to it and then ran up thirty or so feet until he found a place where two branches emerged from the same knot on the tree trunk. A place where more branches below would screen him from those on the ground. And that he knew as he collapsed and wedged himself into it was the safest place he would find to sleep.
It had to be, because as the last of his strength was leaving him the darkness was already taking him. Food would have to wait.
Chapter Six.
Lorian was angry and shocked. So angry that it was overcoming even her fear as her captor laughed quietly to himself while he played with the knife he'd taken from Dorn's pack. He’d strewn the rest of Dorn's stuff around the trail. Rodan had had no use for his clothes. He'd taken the knife, his arrows, food and some coins and thrown the rest on the ground. It was worse than disrespectful. To have murdered him in cold blood and then to simply throw what he'd stolen from him away! There was no word for how terrible that was.
She hated him for that. And for having forced her to sit there and say nothing as Dorn had walked into his trap. But the fear was there as well, lurking, waiting to pounce as she found herself once more a captive. Her freedom had lasted a single day. Not even that. And worse, even though he hadn't collared her, and even though he was human, Rodan was in every other way exactly like the dusky elves who had taken her and Marian prisoner a week before. Cruel and intolerant and worst of all a killer without remorse.
“You murdered him,” Lorian snapped and accused her captor of his crime and then wished she could do more than just use her words. She wanted to use her fists. To hit him. Beat him. Maybe even kill him.
“I defeated him,” Rodan corrected her, and then smiled as if he was pleased with what he'd done. And the
truth was that he was pleased. She knew that. She couldn't understand it, but she knew it for the truth. He didn't have the pointed teeth of the dusky elves but he had their cruel smile. “He was an enemy and now he's vanquished. That's not murder. That's battle. If he had been stronger or smarter he would have killed me.”
He laughed at her as he threw away the last of Dorn's pack and then let out a whistle – a piercing sound that cut the air. Moments later she heard the clip clop of hooves and turned to see Marian and the other man heading up the track to them. Both were bound to their horses, wrists cruelly strapped to the pommels, legs strapped to the saddles. And both were still bleeding. Rodan had beaten them for some reason. Probably because he enjoyed it. He liked to cause pain. Her wrists were hurting simply because he enjoyed tightening the leather straps too tight. And her head throbbed from where he had hit her as she'd sat waiting for Dorn to return.
“You lied to me.”
“So? Who are you to demand the truth? The truth is for those who are worthy of it.”
He laughed at her some more, as if she'd said something funny and she hated him for that. But she feared him too. By all the gods he sounded like a dusky elf. He said exactly the same things as they did. He did the same things as they did. Yet he was human. There was nothing of their impossibly thin build in him. His eyes were green blue, not yellow. His teeth were flat and even. And his ears didn't stick out. He was pure human in form and pure dusky elf in heart.
“Lorian” Marian greeted her as they drew close, her voice full of sorrow but not surprise and Lorian was glad to hear her voice. But not to see her. Marian's face was damaged. Horribly so. Worse so than she remembered. At some point Rodan had punched her, and put all his strength into it. The left side was completely black from the bruises and the eye itself was blood red. She could barely open it at all. There was even blood on her long white gold hair. That was a terrible thing to do to a woman, especially one who had never done anything to anyone but try to help them. She was High Fold's healer not some brigand. And she wouldn't have put up a fight. She couldn't. She was part wayfarer, and they were always people of peace. Anyone could see that.