by Curtis, Greg
One came rushing out of the seamstress' store – the gods alone knew what he'd been doing in it – and immediately accosted him.
“Who are you?” What are you doing?” The man was in his cups and his words came out in an incoherent slur of speech, but Dorn understood him well enough.
“Dorn. Trapper. I'm just here to buy supplies.” It was near enough to the truth and exactly what everyone knew him as anyway. But apparently it wasn't good enough for the soldier as he drew himself up to his full height and shouted at him.
“You're an elf!”
“What!” Dorn was shocked. He hadn't quite known what the soldier might say, but in all the years of the world he would never have expected that. “I am not!”
“You are!” And then as if to prove his crazy theory the soldier lunged for him, reached out and grabbed him by the ear.
“Ow! Shite!” Dorn tried to pull away instinctively but the soldier wouldn't let him. He might be well into his cups but he was still uncommonly strong as one hand had a firm grip on his hair and the other was tugging at his ear. It hurt. The man was far from gentle as he tried to check his ear for points. In fact he almost seemed to be trying to pull his ear off his head. Meanwhile several more of his comrades had rushed out of the store and were laughing themselves silly as they watched. They laughed a lot harder when the man couldn't find any points on his ears and started complaining that it was all some sort of trick. Just before he fell to the ground in a drunken heap and started snoring.
Which left Dorn standing there, rubbing at his sore ear and wondering what to do as an entire patrol of soldiers seemed to have lost their senses as they made fun of their fallen comrade. Whatever Carr was putting in his ale these days it had to be strong. But at least none of them seemed to want to hold him as a suspected elf.
Eventually, still rubbing at his ear Dorn carried on down the street and made for the bakehouse, while the soldiers behind him fell about themselves laughing. They seemed to think the whole thing some sort of brilliant jape. They were alone in that he noticed. The villagers weren't laughing, and Dorn guessed that they'd had time enough to grow weary of the soldiers' drunken ways. Just how long had they been in the village he wondered?
In the bakehouse things were calm. Veria was there, standing behind the counter, her front covered in flour as usual. And he could hear her husband in the mill beyond, cursing as he did something with the wheel. A customer – Agnes – was with her being served, or actually haggling with her about the price of a small tin of tea that she'd already accepted and there was another woman he didn't know exploring the shelves. Veria's bakehouse doubled as the village store for most dried goods. Little Rock simply wasn't big enough to have a separate shop for such wares.
Meanwhile he chatted with the stock boy, a young village lad he didn't know, but who was happy to tell him all about the soldiers. And most of what he said wasn't complimentary. He didn't like them. No one did he claimed. Dorn could understand that. He wasn't too pleased with them himself just then.
At least things were normal in the bakehouse. Peaceful. Dorn liked that, then more than ever. With the soldiers in the street harassing people – and when he looked out the window it was to see them bothering more villagers – it was good to have a place where things were calm. Where no one was attacking his ear.
But then as he was watching the soldiers he saw a sight he had never expected to see again. A nightmare from his past given form. A black robed priest wandering the street, heading for the soldiers. A Dican.
The blood drained from Dorn's face and a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the black robed priest walking down the street, and he had to suppress the immediate urge he had to run. It was panic pure and simple, worse now than it had been six years before when he'd been hiding from them in Lampton Heights. But then when he'd hidden from them he'd known the rules. His parents had drilled them into him night and day. And they suddenly came back to him again as if it had only been the day before that he'd learned them.
Never run. Never draw attention to yourself. Do exactly what you always did, and the same as everyone else. There was safety in numbers. Never show fear. Wildlings were frightened of the Dicans and the priests knew to look for that fear. Fear was their god after all, and they knew his face.
And above all else never let anyone know your secret. No one was to be trusted with that knowledge. Ever. Dorn liked Little Rock. He liked the people here. But he knew he couldn't trust anyone. Not even here. So he'd never told them. He liked them but they weren't wildlings. They could never find out that he was one.
For nearly twenty years he'd lived by those rules faithfully, and they had never failed him. They all had until his little sister had forgotten them in her wonder at playing with her new found gift. She had been only eleven at the time so he forgave her her lapse. But he would never forgive those who had forced them to live by such terrible rules. To hide their gifts. And when he saw the Dican there was anger as well as dread lurking in his heart. Terrible fury. But for the moment there were soldiers in town and a Dican who commanded them. Now he knew it was time to live by those rules again.
So he continued to chat about nothing with the shop boy. And when it was finally time for him to be served he did exactly what he always did. He ordered a sack of the wholemeal flour, a sack of oats and a small bag each of salt and sugar. The same things he normally bought. The same things most trappers and hunters and others who lived alone would buy. He made a few remarks about the burnt buildings and the drunken soldiers, because that was exactly what anyone else would do. And he paid for his purchases with half a dozen coppers as he always did. When this was over and he was gone he wanted no one to think of him as being anything other than the somewhat taciturn trapper he was known as. If it was possible he wanted them to forget they'd even seen him.
Then when he was done he stuffed his purchases into his pack as he always did, wished Veria and the others a good morning, and left the store heading back up the street. He would have preferred to slip around the side and then follow the river bank north, but someone might have noticed him avoiding the soldiers. He didn't want to be noticed.
Dorn walked as easily as he could, not too fast, not too slow, and tried hard not to stare directly at the priest as he passed him by. Instead he focussed on the drunken soldier lying in the dirt like everyone else. He carefully controlled his hands too, unclenching them when they seemed to want to do nothing more than to ball up into fists. No more could he be too rigid in looking away. That was not normal and the priest might have noticed. He had to do exactly what everyone else was doing, and for the most part they were staring at the sleeping soldier and his drunken comrades and laughing quietly at the sight. He did his best to do the same.
In the end it probably wouldn't have mattered if he had stared straight at the Dican. The priest was too busy dressing down the drunken soldiers, accusing them of being a disgrace to their uniforms. The soldiers for their part were simply trying to keep from bursting out into more laughter as they picked up their fallen comrade and mocked the unhappy priest. Soldiers often had little respect for anyone who wasn't a soldier, even the priests who supposedly directed them in their crusade of violence and oppression. The priests didn't like that and this one was becoming angry as he berated them. He was threatening them with extra duties and occasionally berating the onlookers as well. But Dorn cared about none of that. None of them had eyes for him and that was all that mattered.
So Dorn passed them by without incident and breathed a small sigh of relief when he didn't hear anyone calling him. But he was careful not to show it. Careful also not to forget his act. It was after the pressure was gone and the danger seemed past that many got themselves caught. They relaxed too much, walked a little faster to get away, and sometimes even stood a little straighter than before. It was then of course that they gave themselves away. The priests were good at spotting such things. Relief or fear they knew to look for. And fear was always their friend. It was t
heir god.
A few minutes later he was heading across the fields out of town and towards the safety of his forest. He suddenly felt an overwhelming love for his forest. But when he made it into the trees, and after checking back to see that no one was following, he found himself confused as well as frightened. First the elves and now the Dicans. Just what was happening? Why were they in Little Rock? Why were they in the southern wastes at all? And what was he to do about it?
Things were obviously happening in the world. Larger events of which he had no knowledge. And for some reasons the soldiers and their priestly masters from either Lampton Heights or the Kingdom of Yed had risked the journey north. Chasing the elves maybe? He had no way of knowing.
It had been well over a month since the elves had been blasted out of the town by Rodan and the soldiers had arrived shortly after that. Or so he had been told in the bakehouse. And from what he had overheard it seemed that while the towns’ folk had been happy to see them at first in the wake of the dusky elves, as the weeks had passed and they had not gone out riding after any of them that happiness had faded. They were just hanging around the town drinking and making a nuisance of themselves. And the Dicans had arrived a week later once the town was safe and started asking about setting up a temple according to the shop boy. This was too small a town for a temple though. He guessed it was a ruse. They were really just enquiring after anyone who had the gift or followed a different god. Looking for shrines. Preparing for the executions.
Naturally the townsfolk could have told them little about the wildlings at least. This was the southern wastes, still not far enough away from the southern realms for him to feel safe. And neither he guessed, would it be for any other wildlings. He was sure there were other wildlings around. Many would have fled this way and some like him might have stopped here, thinking they were far enough away. But lifetimes spent hiding their gifts would have trained them to always be suspicious. Any wildlings in or around Little Rock would have kept their secrets to themselves. Certainly he didn't know who might be one.
Dorn had no answers for what was happening in the world. Just the certain knowledge that it was bad. Bad for the people. Worse for him. But he did know one thing as he headed home, making sure that he left no tracks. It was time to hide. And time to prepare for the Dicans. Because if there was one thing he was sure of it was that if they were planning on staying in town they would be hunting his kind. And from what he had heard they were already building their shrine to their poxy god in the inn. Soon he knew, they would start looking for informants. People who could tell them who had the gift and where the shrines were. Offering gold for information and promising a painful death for those who resisted. Turning Little Rock into a village of spies and frightened people. And in time if they weren't stopped, they would begin their purge.
His first full day back! Elves and Dicans! And it had started out as such a pleasant morning. Dorn cursed his rotten luck. But he didn't let that cursing slow his feet any as he headed back home through the forest.
Then again he suddenly thought, maybe it didn't have to be just his rotten luck? Maybe it could be the Dicans' rotten luck as well. It was a strange thing to consider when all his life he'd lived in dread of the black priests. And yet he did consider it. He didn't have to just hide. He could fight. And after all if he could fight elves he could surely fight a few priests. And as he walked home there was something within him that wanted to. There was a darkness that had been lurking in his soul for all of his life. A hatred that would not die away.
This wasn't Lampton Heights. He didn't have to worry about a city full of soldiers reporting to the Dicans. He didn’t have to worry about having nowhere to hide. About having a family he could place in danger if he was seen. This was the wastes. It was his home and he knew them as no strangers did.
He could make them suffer. Suffer as terribly as they had made others suffer. As he walked along the ancient trail that dark thought kept whispering to him. And behind it were other thoughts. Plans. Weapons and tactics a man could use to battle armies. To break their minds, shatter their courage and completely destroy them.
He couldn't help but let a small grin turn up the corners of his mouth as he thought on just how they could be punished. And they would be. And damned be Lady Sylfene's self righteous judgement.
They would pay for their crimes!
Chapter Seventeen.
Three weeks later the Dicans came to the ruined fort.
Dorn was ready for them. He'd heard them coming from the battlements long before they'd emerged from the trees, a full patrol of soldiers on horses and wearing armour that clattered as it moved, making a lot of noise. He'd expected the visit long before then of course. He'd been waiting for it. He'd been preparing.
For weeks he'd been carefully scouting the surrounding forests, watching the soldiers as they went about their work, trying to find out what they were doing in the wastes. And while he still didn't know why they were there he knew most of what they were doing. The same things they did everywhere else.
They were annoying his neighbours. Now that the elves had left the region the soldiers felt confident enough to roam the lands freely. Actually they were becoming bold, something that was a mistake out in the wastes. This was not a place where you wandered boldly. This was a place where you walked cautiously and always steered clear of trouble. Some of the soldiers had already paid the price for their boldness not that far from his home and the furies had fed well.
Even so, for some reason the soldiers were still leaving the safety of the town and the roads and trails and heading into the forests. Searching out everyone who lived there. And there were quite a few. Until then even he hadn’t realised just how many.
Naturally there were a lot of hunters and trappers like him. They couldn't carry out their trade in the towns and villages, so many of them had cabins strewn throughout the forests. There were fishermen as well. A number of rivers ran through the nearby forests and again many had set up cottages alongside them so that they could catch the plentiful trout that swam in them. There was good coin in fresh fish.
To the west of his home there was a small mine where three families spent their days digging out the plentiful silver in the hills. A couple of herbalists had made their homes not far from him as well. And then there were a few who had simply left the towns, seeking the peace and quiet of their own company.
The soldiers were seeking them out one by one. Heading off the tracks wherever they saw a likely break in the brush and then using dogs to hunt the people down. For the most part they weren't doing any more than harassing them, and of course stealing. It was expected of the soldiers from Lampton Heights. Soldiers earned only a pittance and they had to pay for their ale somehow. So they helped themselves to anything that looked valuable and was just lying around. But they left the people alone after beating them about a bit, and he did nothing as he lay in hiding, watching them. It was shameful not to help, but a few cuts and bruises were no terrible tragedy. They would heal. And he was only one man.
But wherever they went they brought the accursed priests with them. Always at least two, and he knew that they were really just hunting out wildlings and the priests of other faiths. Those who had fled Lampton Heights for the relative safety of the wastes. He was far from the only one to have made the desperate journey.
Already he had felt the need to act. He didn't want to but he had had to protect one of his own. When he saw the priests interrogating her and then heard them calling for torches, he hadn't had a choice. He hadn't realised that old Gwyneth was a beast tongue. Not until the priests had started threatening her and her wolf had attacked. That was a mistake they wouldn't make again and the priests had fled in a hurry. Still, the soldiers had driven the wolf off. One beast against a patrol was no fair fight. And then they had grabbed her and called for the priests to return. They would have killed her had he not immediately put half a dozen arrows into the soldiers, crippling them and sending them fleeing as
well.
They'd naturally thought that a party of dusky elves was coming for them. And being few in number they'd fled, carrying their wounded away with them while he'd celebrated. Especially when he'd made sure to add to the Dicans' misery by putting a couple more arrows in their softer parts. They wouldn't die. He wanted to kill them – his hatred for them was overwhelming – but he wasn't willing to incur any more of the glowing woman's wrath if she found out. But the priests would likely never walk without a limp again.
But even victory had really been defeat. After they'd fled he'd still had to help Gwyneth pack and told her to head north. Her home was gone. Now that the Dicans knew about her they would return. And they would bring a lot more soldiers with them. Then they would burn her alive. They both knew that. But he'd also told her about the temple of Balen Rale. He wasn't sure that it was a wise thing to do. It was a dangerous journey for an old woman travelling alone, even with a wolf by her side, and he had no idea whether she would be welcome among them. But he thought there was a chance. And if they did accept her then that was the one place he knew she would be safe.
After that he'd decided to harass the Dicans a little. Maybe it was wrong. Certainly it was foolish. But encouraged by his victory as small as it was, and powered by a lifetime of rage, he'd felt the need to walk the path of the warrior again. And he knew where they were going. So every so often as they travelled the trails he would stand in the trees and put an arrow in the side of any Dicans travelling with them. It was easy to get an arrow or two away and then simply slip away into the depths of the forest while they wheeled about in confusion. And it felt so good. It was pure hatred, nothing more noble than that, but he didn't care. After a lifetime spent living in dread it was paradise.
Since the attacks the Dicans had been more cautious. Much more cautious. No longer did they travel with just small dozen man patrols. There were always thirty men at least. And they wore armour too. Dark leather breastplates that they wore under their robes, no doubt thinking they would keep them safe. They didn't. He'd seen the awkward movement of their black robes over the leather and known they were wearing armour even before he'd seen one priest remove his robes to tend to his injuries and seen the breastplate itself. And he was a better shot than they realised. Better than even he had realised. All it meant was that he put his arrows in their thighs and upper arms instead of their sides and shoulders. Nasty wounds that would never heal completely.