Wildling

by Curtis, Greg

  What to do? To risk a battle and death or to let these people be abducted by the elves to live out the rest of their short lives as slaves? Three innocent lives destroyed? Or one guilty one ended? In the end it was that simple.

  But even as he wondered, Rodan laughed mockingly at his prisoners and Dorn's body decided. A heartbeat later he drew the arrow all the way back and released it. After that there was nothing to do save listen to the screams coming from the camp and draw another arrow.

  It hadn't been a perfect shot. He'd been aiming for the man's heart and the arrow instead had torn through Rodan's right shoulder. But that was still a good start. The wildcast was down. Lying on his back, he had been knocked backward by the force of the arrow smashing into him, and he was screaming in pain and fury. At a guess the arrow had penetrated nearly all the way through and if he didn't receive treatment soon fever and disease would set in, killing him. The bad news though was that he was still alive. Dead men didn't scream and curse, and they didn't writhe on the ground in pain or try to get back up. They didn't call storms either, and already he was summoning a lightning blast. That was not good. Even though the wildcast couldn't see him to strike at him Dorn knew that was very bad. He could already feel the nearness of the lightning on his skin. He had to stop it.

  Though he had no real target to aim at Dorn fired and immediately put a second arrow into him, this one narrowly missing his knee and sliding into the meat of his thigh. Rodan screamed some more and the thunder in the sky abruptly faded away. The pain and shock was robbing him of his concentration, leaving him vulnerable. But it wasn't stopping him from screaming and cursing. Or from trying to get back up.

  Dorn notched a third arrow and waited patiently, listening carefully for the sound of thunder.

  In time he realised that Rodan wasn't cursing him in Common. He wasn't using a tongue he knew. But it was one he recognised. It was Elfaen, the tongue of the dusky elves. He'd heard it spoken only a few nights before as a group of them had camped out in in his courtyard. That set him wondering.

  The man carried a battle bow. He rode a horse saddled in the manner of the dusky elves with fur strips on the saddle and bridle. He was going to hand his prisoners over to the dusky elves. Those he called his friends. And now when he was hurt he spoke in their tongue. It was almost as if the man thought he was a dusky elf. And as he recalled the man had called him a hell cat. It wasn't a common term for a shifter. Not even for those who had a cat as their alternate form. But it was the sort of term an elf would use for him, if it had been translated into Common. And a dusky elf would have killed him on sight too. After all they had no use for wildlings such as he. Others they would capture and enslave, but not him.

  “Show yourself!” Finally the man started yelling in Common, and Dorn paid a little attention to him. He was standing as well, precariously balanced on one leg and with one arm hanging limp. But most important of all there was no thunder in the air. Either he wasn't ready to call it, or he couldn't because of the pain.

  Dorn didn't answer him though. He knew that his voice would give away his location, and he wasn't certain just how fast the man could summon his lightning storm if he had to. But he listened.

  “I am Rodan Lightfoot of the Silver Bow Clan, and I demand that you show yourself. That you meet me in fair combat instead of striking like a thief in the night.”

  Lightfoot? That sounded like a Common translation of an elf name. And the Silver Bow Clan? That sounded like one of their tribes. Dusky elves were forever calling themselves after revered weapons and ancient battles their tribes had won. Dorn still wasn't about to answer him though.

  “Thief and cut throat is it? A man of no name and no courage?” Rodan seemed incensed by that. If anything he was even angrier than before, and he started cursing him again in Elfaen. And then he spun around on his good leg, trying to spot him. Of course as he turned he was actually turning away from him which Dorn was quite happy with that. He was also pleased with the amount of blood he could see staining the front of the man's vest. He guessed there was plenty more running down his leg. That sort of blood loss had to be costing him strength. He might not be dying of his wounds, but he would soon be unconscious and that was good enough for him. But then Rodan changed the game.

  “You! Slut! Heal me!” He turned to the woman sitting beside Lorian and in that moment Dorn knew that she too had to be a wilding as he'd guessed. A healer of some sort. Two of the three prisoner's wildlings? That couldn't be a coincidence. So he guessed they were all wildlings. And who else would he be giving to the elves as slaves? There could only be one explanation for his behaviour. The man truly thought he was a dusky elf out capturing wildlings. He was addled.

  The woman held up her hands to point out the obvious, that she was bound and Rodan angrily snapped something unintelligible at her. As if it was her fault that she was bound. But still if he wanted her to heal him he had to cut her free. Anyone could see that.

  Rodan drew the belt knife and hobbled toward her while Dorn wondered what to do. He didn't want the man healed obviously, but he was moving awkwardly, making himself a difficult target. He could well miss. Still, he decided even as he loosed the arrow, he had no choice.

  The arrow barley grazed him, slicing along his back like a knife, but it was enough to make Rodan stop hurriedly, straighten up and scream with fury once more.

  “Bastard!” That was one of the few words Dorn could make out in his bitter diatribe of Elfaen and Common as Rodan screamed his rage. But he guessed the other words weren't particularly flattering as he stood there in the shadows of the forest with his next arrow drawn.

  It was time to end this he knew. The man was dangerous and angry, and Dorn knew Rodan would not let him live if he survived. But the man was moving around as he screamed incoherently at him, hobbling awkwardly and making himself a difficult target, and Dorn really wanted to end it quickly. One shot through the heart. A quick death as he'd planned. Unfortunately he'd have to wait until he stopped moving.

  In the end though it wasn't up to him. Rodan kept hobbling around screaming with rage, concentrating only on him. But in his fury he'd forgotten one thing. He had three bound prisoners that didn't like him. Rodan passed too close to them, screaming incoherently at the bush and the male prisoner suddenly leaned backwards until he was lying on his back, raised his legs to his chest and abruptly kicked him with all the strength he had. It was enough.

  Rodan went tumbling forwards on his one good leg and then fell face forward into the fire. A heartbeat later he was engulfed in flame. He tried to get out of the fire and barely managed it. But with a damaged arm and leg it took him far too long. He barely made it at all. And when he did he was still on fire. Frantic and screaming in torment he started rolling around on the ground desperately trying to put the fire out. But it was too little too late. It would not go out. Worse he did himself more damage in the process, snapping off the ends of the arrows in his flesh and driving the broken shafts in deeper.

  Dorn stood there in the forest watching in horror as the man screamed, his feet frozen to the ground. He’d seen others die in flames. Other wildlings. And though he did not like this man at all, and he had had to be killed, to see him burning and screaming like that was a terrible reminder of the past. No one should die like that. Especially not another wildling.

  Ten or twenty seconds later Rodan stopped moving and Dorn knew the battle was over. Rodan would harm no one else. Dorn breathed a sigh of relief and uttered a small prayer, grateful it was over. Grateful that the man no longer screamed. Those screams haunted him.

  It was then that Dorn walked out of the forest, longbow still in hand and an arrow drawn just in case. He didn't know who these other people were, save that they were wildlings like him. But he knew that they had shared an enemy, and the enemy of his enemy was a friend.

  “Dorn!” Lorian recognised him immediately, and her mouth dropped open in shock. “I thought you were dead!”

  Was she disappointed
he wondered? He really didn't know. And just then he didn't care.

  “Shifters heal.”

  He walked over to Rodan's still burning body, patted out the last of the flames and grabbed back his knife, quiver and his coin purse. He also pulled the key to the collars off Rodan’s belt and tossed it to the others. Then, knowing that he couldn't leave a body out there anywhere near them, he started dragging it away from the camp. He had to, and quickly. The odour of meat, especially cooked meat, would travel. It would bring scavengers. Luckily enough he had plenty of strength even as weakened as he was. Shifters were usually strong even in their human forms. Even more luckily there was a small cliff nearby.

  A few minutes later he'd tossed the body over it and could return to the camp knowing that they were far enough away to be safe for the night. Before he tossed Rodan's body over though he did make sure to check one thing; his ears. And sure enough he found points on them. Small ones but they were there. And when he checked his chest he found the sign of Talos tattooed over his heart. It was enough to explain something of the man.

  The man was part dusky elf. Probably not half, a quarter at most, but that was enough. Everyone knew the stories of the fates of some of the women the elves captured. Those who had the more powerful of the wildlings gifts. That they were sold off to various tribal leaders and turned into breeding stock. The dusky elves were determined to regain their gifts any way they could, and they thought that by breeding with their wildling captives and then breeding the progeny back into their lines they could do just that. Whether that would work or not he didn't know. But what he did know was that while the captured women were considered to be little more than property, some of those children were raised to ride with their fathers. That he guessed had been Rodan's fate.

  On his way back to the others he did wonder if his life as the product of such a union had been a good one. Rodan had a powerful gift which the elves would have welcomed. But his blood was far from pure, and dusky elves valued such things as purity. They liked their pointed teeth and ears. In fact he had heard it said that some actually sharpened their teeth. Still he said nothing about it to the others when he reached them. There were other things that needed to be spoken of.

  “I'm Dorn.” He introduced himself to the newcomers as he cut them free. With their hands bound they hadn't been able to use the key.

  “I'm Marian, a healer and this is Petran a hound.”

  Marian? Dorn knew that name. He'd heard it recently though he couldn't think where. He'd never seen her before though. She had the long white blonde hair of the Wayfarers and a pretty smile that he would have remembered. Petran he didn't know at all. The middle aged man with deep wrinkles in his tanned face and the wiry muscles of someone who worked hard for a living did not look at all familiar. But he knew hounds. The nobles used them. They were trackers, able to hunt down people by their magical taint, and also soothsayers. They could not be lied to. They were also supposed to be good fighters. So how had he been caught? But maybe, he decided as he wondered whether or not to untie Lorian, that was a question for later.

  “Well?” Lorian snapped impatiently at him. He guessed she was unhappy at still being bound.

  “You did sit there while he attacked me. You could have warned me.”

  “He was holding me prisoner you oaf! And he threatened Marian's life! He would have killed us both!” She glared at him, unrepentant. “And I didn't know he was going to do that. I thought he'd just capture you like the rest of us.”

  Dorn shook his head gently. He didn't believe her. Not completely. But he knew there was little point in saying anything more. It would just add to his problems. So reluctantly he cut her bindings. But he did finally remember where he'd heard the name Marian before. She was the other wildling in the town of High Fold that had been handed over to the elves. She was the healer Lorian had spoken of. And Lorian had said she herself was in training to become an apothecary. An apothecary and a healer, both wildlings and both living in the same town. They were likely friends. And if what she said was true she wouldn't have given up her friend for a man she didn't know and didn't like. He understood that.

  “Everyone's heading to Balen Rale?”

  He was sure they were, so he wasn't at all surprised when they started nodding. The glowing people had given them all the same instructions. Go to the ancient ruined temple and be assessed. He wondered how many more they'd given the same instructions to. How many more they'd encounter on their journey? And of course what they'd find when they got there. More glowing people?

  “Rabbit?”

  Dorn looked around to see that Petran had rescued the rabbits from the fire which Rodan had knocked them into when he'd fallen. And he seemed quite pleased with himself for doing it. In fact he was holding out the spit and smiling as if nothing had happened. Maybe it was nothing to him.

  But it was something to Dorn. It was the first time he had ever killed a man. And though he had no feelings of remorse for the act, only for the appalling way Rodan had died, and though it had been necessary, he thought he should still remember this day and this deed. Especially when it was a wildling he'd killed, no matter how crazed. One of his own.

  He bowed his head for a little bit in silent prayer to Zylor the Lord of Justice, hoping that he would find it within him to forgive him his terrible deed. That was something Dorn had never done before. He didn't worship gods, new or old. They seemed pointless to him. Except Xeria for obvious reasons. And they had never answered any of his prayers before as far as he knew. But just then he felt the need. Now that he had taken a life. Now that he was kin slayer.

  What the ancient god could or would do for him he didn't know. And he knew he should probably seek out a speaker of the faith at some point to learn about the proper atonement. If there were any such priests still living. But for the moment he knew there was only one thing he should do. Above all else he should make sure that he never had to kill anyone else.

  Chapter Nine.

  “Hold.”

  Dorn held up his hand and the others came to a stop behind him. Though as always there were questions. He might be unofficially leading them, but his rule wasn't secure. It was only that he'd rescued the three of them that allowed them enough trust to follow him. That and his skill with the longbow which was catching them dinner most evenings. Now that he had his knife and his fletching kit back he'd been better able to fletch his arrows and his accuracy had improved enormously. He'd also been able to drive off the only threat they'd encountered; a hippogriff. The creatures weren't really dangerous save to people on their own and on foot, but still hearts had fluttered. Fortunately a quick shift and a few decent roars from the panther had set the hippogriff flying away, looking for some easier pickings.

  However his days of leading the others he guessed were about to come to an end. There were several more riders ahead, cutting their way sideways around the river channel. He couldn't see them as they were hidden behind a small hillock, but he could track them perfectly by the noise they made.

  He told the others that, and of course they all immediately guessed that the riders had to be more wildlings. They were in the middle of nowhere, skirting the north east mountain plains that ran down from the Eteris ranges. The ranges were the natural barrier that separated the heart of the wastes from the outer wastes. He had taken them as close as he dared to the ranges themselves, hoping to shorten the journey, but not into the foothills themselves. Where the land gave way to the mountains was where the dangerous beasts of the outer wastes gave way to the truly deadly. And the mountains were reputed to be filled with trolls and rocs, and perhaps worst of all, goblin hordes. The thought of those little bald apelike creatures filled him with dread as it did most people.

  They hadn't seen a town or a man in several days, and he hadn't expected to. Only a fool or someone who had absolutely no choice was likely to be riding through these rocky tundra covered hillocks. After all, no one lived there. The land was useless, the soil poor and the
weather inhospitable. Even though it was spring they were high enough up that it froze every night while the wind howled during the day. Animals had nothing to graze on and only the toughest of plants would grow there. He doubted there were even any mines around. Certainly they'd seen no smoke and no tracks in days. All of which told him who these people had to be. Wildlings like them passing through this bleak land on their way to Balen Rale.

  One thing that had surprised him though had been the altar tables they'd come across to Tiblissi. Ancient though they obviously were and worn by time as well, the symbols carved in to the stone were unmistakable. Which had left him with an unexpected riddle to ponder: Had these lands, rugged and inhospitable as they were, once been fertile? Had crops once grown here? He couldn't imagine it and yet he could think of no other reason for there to be altars to the goddess of the harvest here.

  There was a story, a tale told in the alehouses and inns that once the wastes had been a paradise. But that something had happened. That the entire heart of the wastes had risen up out of the ground to become a mountain plateau two hundred leagues across ringed by mountains. And that from them the rest of the nightmare creatures that called the wastes home had sprung. That seemed impossible to him. The sheer scale of such a thing was beyond imagining. Even if all the gods had acted as one they could surely not have caused such a thing. And yet the altars suggested that this part of the wastes had once been fertile. And if they had been at a lower altitude perhaps that would have been so. After all everyone knew that the higher you went the less crops and trees could grow.

  Still, this was no time to ponder such questions. Not when they had strangers to meet.