by Curtis, Greg
The Dicans had returned. Anger flashed through him for them, and for his failure. He should never have let them go. He should have killed them all.
But it was too late. As he watched another flaming fire ball arc through the sky, reaching its apex before beginning its long graceful plummet to the ground, he knew it was far too late. The Dicans had struck back at the enemy of their accursed church. The shrine to Xeria. The fort was under attack. And they had brought their giant war machines with them to make sure that this time it was completely destroyed.
For a week or two there had been rumours. He had made sure to visit the Griffin's Nest and listen to what was being said now that the Dicans had fled and only a few soldiers remained. Soldiers talked and drunken soldiers as these ones mostly were, talked more than most. And they had said that there were plans afoot. Plans that would once and for all end the cursed elves. It seemed that the minor conflicts he had helped create between the dusky elves and the Dicans had escalated, and the allies were no longer quite so united. Or maybe that was just the local soldiers. They believed they had been repeatedly attacked by them after all.
Regardless, the soldiers claimed that their commanders were making plans. Moving their troops around and bringing in reinforcements. They planned on bringing much of the region under their control one way or another, and driving the elves out. But he had discounted their tales guessing that they were embellishing them. Telling the locals what they wanted to believe and not what they had actually been told. The people of Little Rock believed the same thing. They laughed at them behind their backs. They said they were in the thrall of Heiros the Jester to say such things. And they had good reason to think so.
Since the Dicans had left the soldiers had only received two messengers according to the villagers. And the people of Little Rock had watched the soldiers closely. Both messengers had left within the hour and nothing had come of them. The soldiers had not mounted up and ridden anywhere. They had not drilled in the fields. They had not even assembled. When the messengers had left they had done nothing more than continue drinking themselves into a stupor in the Griffin's Nest before repairing to their beds and collapsing – assuming they were fit enough to make it that far. Those did not sound like the actions of soldiers preparing to march into battle.
Yet as he watched the second fireball descending Dorn knew that they had spoken more truthfully than he'd guessed. This was no jest. The Dicans had returned to destroy their enemies. And the Dicans had decided long ago that the ancient fort was one of them. Since the failed attack though they'd obviously decided that it was a dangerous enemy. So this time they weren't going to do something as silly as actually enter it. They had learned their lesson. They were going to stand a long way back and let their trebuchets destroy it. They would turn his home to rubble.
As the second burning ball of rock and oil hit and exploded Dorn suddenly knew it was time to act. Past time.
The fireball missed thankfully, crashing down on the clearing to the side of the fort, almost exactly where the first one had, and he knew that would continue for a while. Their war machine was on the trail three hundred or more yards away, and they were firing blind, unable to see their target through the forest. Doubtless they were using spotters and runners to send back to them how close they were, a slow and awkward system as the men had to run through the forest with word. But they would get more accurate and sooner or later they would hit.
He couldn't allow that.
Grabbing his bow and tying it to his back Dorn raced for the trapdoor, climbed down, shifted and then dashed down through the fort as fast as he could. He didn't even worry that his clothes were torn off and left strewn through the fort as he ran. His life and his home's continuing survival both might depend on speed and he didn't have time to undress.
Outside he ran the battlements as only a panther could and then leapt off them, landing gently in the grass fifteen feet below and then raced for the safety of the forest beyond. But it wasn't just safety he was searching for in the trees. It was the spotters. Stop them and he would blunt the attack and gain himself some time.
Instantly he saw the spotter. The man was just standing there at the edge of the clearing, staring at him, his mouth hanging open and his face pale, and Dorn knew he'd watched him escape the fort. He was being remarkably quiet too, trying desperately not to make a sound, probably terrified that the big spotted cat would hear him and pounce. He hadn't apparently noticed that Dorn had a longbow strapped to his back or realised that he was a wildling. Fear had robbed him of his wits.
Dorn charged him immediately, roaring as only a panther could as he ran, and the man shrieked like a frightened child. Then he turned and ran screaming, dropping things with every step. His helmet, his shield, the range finding instrument in his hands. Anything that could slow him down. But it wasn't enough and he should have known that. He should have drawn his sword and stood shield in hand. Not that that would have helped him either.
With another roar that echoed through the forest, Dorn sailed straight over the head of the still shrieking soldier and reached out a paw. A heartbeat later and the man was flying through the air, his shoulder torn wide open, and still screaming. But the noise stopped abruptly when he smashed into a tree. After that he just lay there, badly injured, moaning and not moving a lot.
His screams and Dorn's roars had alerted the other soldiers that there was trouble, and instantly he could hear them running through the forest. Unlike the first man they had a little courage. It wouldn't do them a lot of good though. He silently promised them that.
As they ran, yelling their heads off and thinking to perhaps scare off the beast, he doubled back and went around them. They were not his most dangerous enemy just then. The war machine was. That was what would destroy his home, not the soldiers.
Naturally it was easy enough to find. Trebuchets were huge devices standing the best part of thirty feet tall. And though they were on wheels and could be moved, they could never have left the trail. He spotted it quickly. The huge machine had a team of oxen pull it together with a crew of eight men. They weren't alone. Three Dicans, some more soldiers and another wagon and at least forty horses were also standing there. Unfortunately for them they were all staring foolishly into the trees after the soldiers, hoping to see them return and hear that the beast was dead. They never saw him as he ran through the trees. Not until it was too late.
He struck the priests first. It probably wasn't the cleverest target but his hatred for them immediately overcome any thought of strategy. And they were easy targets. As they stood and stared nervously at the forest they never knew he was there. They never heard him pad silently up behind them. The first they knew was when he struck, and by then it was far too late.
He leapt, reaching out with both paws and as he passed between two of them used his claws to rip huge gashes in the cheeks of the priests. Their hoods were no protection. They screamed and fell in complete terror not even knowing what had happened. And Dorn was fast. So fast that by the time they hit the ground he was already in the trees on the other side of the trail.
Once down the priests didn't get up again. They just lay there, shrieking and bleeding, barely able to understand the terrible damage he had done to them. That only left the third priest who'd barely even seen a blur pass between his companions. He had turned white with terror. Dica it seemed wasn't the only one who could rule his priests through fear.
Naturally the others came running, some drawing swords, some calling out in confusion; none knowing what had happened. That was their mistake. As they ran from the machine to the fallen priests, he circled around them heading for the machine instead, and in particular the wagon loaded up with oil soaked missiles. It was the work of a heartbeat to grab the burning torch from its stand and toss it into the back of the wagon, even without hands.
Another heartbeat later Dorn was back in the safety of the forest and none were any the wiser as to what had happened. Not until the flames sudden
ly burst from the wagon and the sound of the fire crackling drew their attention. After that it was chaos as the soldiers milled about, not knowing what to do. Some ran for the wagon, perhaps hoping to somehow put out the fire, though that was never going to happen. Some started screaming for the other soldiers to come back. Some tried to tend to the two badly wounded priests who were clutching at their faces and crying out in pain. And some just stood there frozen like statues. But none of them realised that he was once more behind them. In their confusion it was simple to ambush them one by one. To grab them from behind and end their soldiering days.
He tore the tendons from the backs of the soldiers’ arms and legs. He ripped huge gashes in their sides. Sliced open the backs of heads. And finally, as the screaming continued he tore the face of the last priest wide open. He didn't kill them, though some might die of their wounds. He wanted to but he didn't want the glowing woman upset with him any more. Especially now that she'd offered clemency and he'd thrown that offer back in her face. She might get angry. But he also didn't kill them simply because he didn't need to. These people were no threat to him. Besides, he wanted the three injured priests with their mutilated faces to carry a message back to their foul church for him. A message that the wastes were not safe for their kind. A message written in the terrible scars they would bear for the rest of their lives.
Then, when the other soldiers finally came running back to the trail and saw what he had left for them, he sent them a message as well. That they would be walking.
A single roar was all it took. The horses were already nervous; between the fire, the roaring and the scent of blood and a big cat, they were snorting wildly and constantly sniffing the air. They were looking to bolt. Even the normally placid oxen looked worried as they stood there. So all he had to do was pad silently up behind them and let them hear him. That was all it took. They bolted, one and all, even the oxen still tethered to the burning carts, and he knew they would not stop soon. The soldiers were never going to get them back.
After that there was little to do. He stayed in the forests and watched them as they tried to tend to the wounds of the fallen and ran out of bandages. As they formed up a defensive line with shields and swords at the ready and then tried to carry the wounded away. And as they began the long slow march back to wherever they had come from. Then he followed them. He didn't want them to think they could just leave after attacking. He wanted them to truly know fear.
So every so often as they marched, he let out a small roar just to tell them he was still there, waiting. Of course he made sure never to roar twice from the same place. Sometimes he was behind them, sometimes on one side or the other. And once in a while when they thought they were safe, when they weren't looking or had lowered their shields, he took one. A lightning fast strike on an unwary soldier. Another set of deep scratches in an arm or a leg to let them all know one thing. They were not safe. Not near the fort. Not in the forests. Not in the wastes.
With luck he knew that when the tales were told – and they would be told – it would not be just one beast that had attacked them it would have been dozens. If nothing else it would help to explain their complete failure to destroy one abandoned fort. And soldiers always had to have an excuse when things went wrong. Especially when they were reporting back to their Dican masters.
As for the black priests, they spent the entire trip moaning. The bandages hadn't stopped the bleeding and their robes were soaked in blood. Their own for once. And every so often one or another of them would put his hand to his ruined face and start crying, just a little. And that was the most powerful message of all. A message that every soldier there heard.
The priests were scared. They were helpless. Nothing would crush their confidence as greatly as that. And that he hoped was the message they would bring back with them. The soldiers to their barracks. The priests to their temples.
They were not safe.
Chapter Twenty Two.
“Lady Sylfene the shifter is adamant that he does not want to return to Balen Rale and his people. He says that he was wrongly judged but that despite that he accepts the punishment and in turn says that he shuns us. He shuns you.”
Sena was nervous as she spoke to the high priestess, and Eris standing beside her was no less so. In all their lives they had never had to report such rudeness to someone of standing before.
“He threw us out,” Eris added.
The lady's response though was not anger or upset as they might have expected. It wasn't even disbelief. It was laughter, and they both stood there wondering what was happening as she let the unexpectedly happy sound ring out across the valley.
“He shuns me?” The Lady laughed even harder and tears of amusement actually started slipping down her cheeks. “Oh that is joy beyond measure!” And to prove it she laughed some more while they stood there staring. They had to stand there for quite a while, and all the time people were staring at them.
“You know I remember the child from when I and the others sent him and the girl here. And I remember thinking then that he was quiet. But also that he lived in the presence of Xeria of the Dawn. That he had in his heart become her follower even though he knew naught of her. The Mother's shrine welcomed him as he welcomed her. After all the darkness and sorrow we had seen in this new world I thought that was a blessing.”
“Perhaps because of that I judged him more harshly than I would others. In these dark times it seems that killing has become an accepted way of dealing with conflict, and most would judge his actions as acceptable. Certainly the hound Petran believed it so.”
“And then he condemned himself through his own words and the guilt in his heart. Why would he know guilt if his actions were righteous?”
“I was also deeply troubled to hear that the wildling that was killed was a dusky elf. Kin to the wildlings but also not. It speaks to their desperation to regain their gifts. And the ruthlessness with which they will pursue that goal. Just as others have said. We are new to this world, and things are very strange. But still that is not the way of a warrior. It is not even the way of an animal.”
“But a follower of the Mother must always be held to a higher standard. To take the life of another is a terrible decision. It must only be done under the most dire of circumstances and when no other choice is available. Yet to hold him to that when he has not been taught of the Mother's commands may be unfair.”
Sena didn't think so. She considered Xeria's teachings most wise. Everyone should obey them. But she would never go against the Lady's words. She was Xeria's High Priestess after all.
“There is more.” Eris took over knowing that they had to tell her the rest, and Sena was grateful for that. She did not want to tell Lady Sylfene what had happened at the ancient shrine.
“Xeria's shrine has been attacked. Burnt. And according to all we can learn, the attackers were somehow driven off by Dorn. Driven off and perhaps killed.”
“When we stopped at the nearby town the alehouse and the streets were filled with the stories of what happened. How the Dicans and the soldiers who came to destroy the shrine were in fact destroyed by it. How the fire that they used to burn the shrine was used against them. How they were trapped in the courtyard, the fire surrounding them. That great beasts and terrible demons arose from out of that fire to kill them. And how even when they ran into the forests they were pursued by them for days.”
“Though the stories are confused and surely exaggerations, it seems that barely half of those who left returned. That all were terrified beyond measure by what had happened. Many were crazed for days as if some demon had taken their souls. And it is almost certain that the rest are lying dead somewhere in the forest. And it seems that somehow the shifter is responsible for it.”
“And yet he did not kill them. At least not at the shrine. Not in the presence of the Mother. I would know if he had.”
But the Lady did not look happy as she spoke, Sena thought. The smile had gone from her face and the laughter h
ad died away.
“But that these priests of Dica now move directly against the Mother's shrines – that is something that must be fought.”
Was she saying that as the high priestess of Xeria, Sena wondered? Or as an ancient elf come to restore the world to right?
“And if they move against the Mother do they also move against the others of the eleven? Their priests and shrines? That must also be known and if found so, fought.”
The Lady sounded certain of her words Sena thought, but as she heard them the wayfarer wasn't so sure. “Lady,” Sena felt she had to say something. “The Dicans have destroyed the shrines and the temples of others and killed their priests for fifty years at least.”
“But not in Deri ti Millen. They have only recently arrived in the wastes as you call them. And even if this is merely more of their normal foulness it must be fought. However I mistrust the thought that it is just that. There have been reports that their soldiers and the priests of Dica have been harmed elsewhere, and they may suspect the hands of the servants of the eleven. They may suspect that we are back in the world and that the other gods waken. If so this may be an early strike back. An attempt to prevent the shrines from being awakened. They may strike elsewhere, quick and hard.”
“Children.” Lady Sylfene looked both of them directly in the eyes in turn. “You have come a long way and you are tired. You have brought word of what is happening in the world for which I am grateful. But now I must ask more of you.”
“The way must be lit, early though it is. The shrines and temples must be restored to the service of their gods. The path must be walked.”
“I ask you to ride with all haste back to the temples and shrines of the Mother Xeria in the south, find those that still stand and speak the prayer that you have been taught at the altar. If some are occupied as is the one near Little Rock speak with those who live there and tell them that the temple is to be reclaimed. I will have my friends send other riders to the temples and shrines of their gods.”