Into the Desert Wilds

by Jim Galford

  “Mom’s not very accepting of city people,” Oria admitted, seeing in the distance that the tunnels were getting close. “I don’t think she’ll be happy at first. Hopefully, she gets over it. Atall’s really happy about this, so I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

  Oria waited for some further questions from Phaesys, but he was silent as they walked. Finally, she looked up at him, seeing that he was staring far ahead toward the tunnel entrance. When she followed his gaze, she saw that there was a large group there, consisting mostly of soldiers, as well as Phaesys’ father Desphon. None of them looked remotely happy.

  “Hide what we did,” Oria whispered, as they got closer to the others. “If you care about Atall or me at all, please do that.”

  Phaesys said nothing, but his hand brushed hers in a sort of silent acknowledgement.

  “Father, what happened?” Phaesys asked, hurrying up to the group.

  “Arrest him immediately,” ordered Desphon, turning away from Phaesys. “He deserted his post. I want him in chains until he has learned his duties.”

  Elven soldiers rushed in from all sides and Oria dropped into a defensive stance, ready to do everything in her power to stop them. All were lightly-armored, so she had no doubts that she could get her claws or knife through easily.

  “Oria, stop,” warned Phaesys, unbuckling his sword belt. He let it clatter loudly onto the ground. “I’ll surrender. He’s right.”

  Stunned, Oria numbly stared at Phaesys as the soldiers grabbed his arms and clamped manacles around his wrists. In seconds, he was gone into the tunnels, practically dragged by the very men he normally trained.

  As the last of Phaesys’ captors disappeared, Oria finally was able to look toward Desphon, who was glaring directly at her.

  “Why would you do that?” she demanded, walking toward Desphon and the four soldiers guarding him. The elves shifted as she got near, clearly ready to attack her if needed, though Oria did not care. “Why would you arrest your own son?”

  “A distinct lack of judgment cost me greatly, as well as endangered this whole camp,” replied Desphon, trying to sound pleasant, despite his angry demeanor. Ignoring his even tone and relaxed posture, Oria could see frustration aimed at Phaesys in his eyes. “It would seem while he was off playing with children, his post was overrun with former slaves and members of the gypsy camp.”

  Oria’s skin felt cold, even in the hot air.

  “What happened?” she managed.

  “Corraith sent some kind of force into the gypsy camp. Scattered everyone who was not captured. Had it been the actual force from Corraith and not a group of escapees that found us, it would have been his error that caused every death in this place. I cannot and will not tolerate that kind of risk, even from my own son.”

  “It’s my fault,” Oria offered, barely hearing herself speak. “Blame me, not him.”

  Desphon smiled as though the conversation were far more friendly than it was as he replied, “Oh, I do. Have no fear of that.”

  Turning to go into the tunnels, Desphon stopped and looked back at Oria. A little farther down in the tunnels, Phaesys waited with his head hung.

  “Where is your brother, child? You might want to look after him.”

  Oria forgot everything else in that moment and took off running. Phaesys would be fine until she could get back. Of that she was sure. Atall was another matter. If the gypsy camp had been overrun, he could be walking into a trap.

  The gypsy camp was about an hour away, but she knew that Atall had left her and Phaesys a little more than half that time ago. Hoping to intercept him, she veered slightly south of where the camp’s location had been relayed to her.

  Long after her lungs burned and her feet felt as though she had worn off most of their fur, Oria kept running, trying to get ahead of Atall. When at last she did see something beyond sand, shadows had grown long and stars filled the sky--illuminating smoke on the horizon and the faint outlines of the gypsy wagons. Atall had managed to get ahead of her.

  Oria pushed herself harder, clearing the remaining distance, eventually sliding to a stop as she saw Atall, with the remains of the gypsy camp in view beyond him.

  Kneeling just south of what had once been a line of wagons, Atall had his head down and was not moving. At first, Oria thought maybe he was hurt or unconscious, but as she got closer, she saw that his eyes were open, staring blankly at the burning remains of the camp.

  As she approached, Oria called out to her brother, but he did not react. Fearing an ambush, she looked around, finally examining what was left of the large camp.

  Where once there had been wagons shielded by high stone rises, now lay burned-out husks of blackened wood, sitting lopsided after their wheels had burned. Beyond the wagons, a vast circular area filled with collapsed tables and boxes was spattered as though someone had filled hundreds of buckets with blood and thrown them haphazardly around.

  “Atall,” she said softly, sitting down next to him, “maybe she made it back to the tunnels. Desphon said that a lot of people did…”

  Atall got up, grabbing Oria’s arm roughly. Practically dragging her, he led the way around the side of the smoking remains of the village, taking them to the north end, into a mostly-enclosed area between the stone walls of the valley.

  The smoke blew sideways across their path, blinding Oria, but Atall seemed to know where he was going, leading them onward. When at last Oria could see again, she wished that she were still blinded by the smoke.

  Long rows of chains lay across the desert floor, attached to heavy blocks of stone. Much like the village itself, blood had pooled and dried into the sand in places, as though people had been cut down, though no bodies remained and most of the blood was farther from the chains. Oria could only assume that the gypsies had released whatever had been chained there before the undead arrived.

  On the near side of the slave area, dozens of long sharpened poles—Oria guessed them to have once been part of the wagons—stood upright in the sand. Impaled on each was a single person, already long-dead, though blood still trickled from the mouths of a few.

  Most of those hanging on the spikes were slaves of one type or another, of every race. Oria knew their status at a glance, seeing the deep scarring on their wrists and necks from the chains they had worn in life.

  At the fore hung the bodies of Cora and Arlin, the only people Oria could see in the long lines of poles that bore no indication of chains or whips. Atop Cora’s head, a vulture perched, cawing angrily at their approach.

  “Atall, I’m so sorry,” she said, staring at Arlin’s face.

  In the desert winds, the female’s fur blew erratically, but Oria could see fresh wounds on her face. A wide bloodstain down the front of Arlin’s formerly-white clothing told Oria that her throat had been slit. Both of her arms appeared to be broken. She had not died gently.

  Saying nothing, Atall went to the base of the pole, where a piece of parchment Oria had overlooked flapped on a single nail driven into it. Yanking the paper free, Atall shoved it into Oria’s hands and kept walking past her.

  Oria stared down at the crumpled parchment, torn on whether to look at the contents. She eventually began smoothing it out, making out words that she had seen once before. It was a copy of the reward posters she had seen from time to time in Corraith.

  “All members of House Herrouln are hereby declared traitors and to be captured or executed on sight. Rewards for either,” read the note, with its simple sketch of a fox wildling with oversized ears.

  The two girls had died just because someone believed them to be relatives of Desphon and Phaesys, she realized. A senseless death and one that she had indirectly caused.

  Oria felt nauseous, collapsing to the ground as she stared at the note and back up at the battered remains of the girls. She looked long and hard at them, taking in every wound, every gruesome detail. Oria wanted to remember all of it, no matter how sick she felt. Deep down, she knew the guilt for those injuries would haunt her
for the rest of her life.

  No matter what Oria thought of their lives as slaves, it was better than how things had ended. She would have wished them back into slavery a thousand times over if it could have prevented this ending for them.

  When Oria finally did turn away, it was dark out, with the air cooling rapidly. Nearby she saw Atall, standing with his back to the bodies, staring off into the desert. He just stood there, the winds whistling around him, flapping the loose desert clothes he wore.

  “We’ll find the ones who did this and kill them all,” she told Atall, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but Atall moved to keep her hand away from him.

  “Killing the dead solves nothing,” answered Atall grimly, staring at nothing in particular. “We could kill every zombie and every Turessian between here and Turessi and it doesn’t bring anyone back.”

  “Maybe if we find father…”

  Atall bared his teeth in a silent snarl. “Even if we find him, you know he can’t do anything about it now. Before the mists, yes. Now, I think he told me he can only help people if they’re within minutes of having died. All father could do is help kill out of revenge…if he’s even alive.”

  “Atall…”

  Her brother started walking and Oria followed, letting him have a good lead. She knew he needed some space, but she wanted to be sure that he was all right—at least as much as he could be.

  The hike back was long and Oria felt as though she had been through a war by the time they could see the tunnels again. Her feet were burned and bleeding from running so much during the day and her stomach hurt, as she had not eaten anything since dawn. With the memories of the murdered females so fresh in her mind, however, she had no desire to eat regardless.

  At their approach, two soldiers drew their weapons and stepped out from the tunnel entrance, blocking their way. Behind them, a third soldier ran off into the tunnels.

  “Move,” growled Atall, staring at the lead soldier’s stomach.

  “All wildlings are to be cleared by Council Master Desphon,” explained the soldier, lowering his sword, but not sheathing it. He held his ground in front of Atall. “I’m sorry, not my rules.”

  Oria pulled her brother back away from the soldiers, just in case, but he appeared to be so dazed that he hardly looked up. He seemed to have no idea what was going on.

  Minutes later, five more soldiers arrived—including the one that had run off—bringing with them Desphon, who stopped behind the group, still in the tunnel entrance.

  “You were not who I expected,” Desphon remarked, shoulders sagging slightly. Then, looking directly at Atall, he added, “I set the guard to ensure that if those two whores returned, I would know immediately to ensure they got the beating they deserve. You two are of no matter and may pass.”

  Oria heard Atall’s growl before the guards did, even as Desphon turned to leave.

  Gesturing to either side, Atall swept the two entryway guards away as though they were ragdolls. Invisible forces slammed the men against the walls roughly, holding them there.

  Oria had seen her mother use that same magic many times before. Atall could hold the two men, but it left him entirely vulnerable until he released them. Atall was advancing, clearly intending to go after Desphon, but Oria knew the moment he charged, the two soldiers would be on him, followed quickly by the other five that were currently on the far side of Desphon, unaware the attack had begun.

  Choosing in that moment to help her brother at any cost, Oria leapt past the held soldiers, going straight for Desphon. Her plan was simple—knock the man senseless and then throw him back to Atall while she dealt with the soldiers. It seemed reasonable in her head and gave her brother the revenge he deserved for the callous remarks.

  Oria crashed hard into Desphon’s back, knocking the older wildling forward. She pounded her fist into the back of his head twice to be sure he was unable to fight back and began to stand up when she realized that the soldiers had fully surrounded her.

  The soldiers did not draw their swords—a small blessing—but Oria fell to kicks from all directions, forcing her to curl up to keep her stomach and face mostly safe. They kept hitting her, even as she lay atop Desphon, trying not to lose track of the man.

  Pain flared through Oria’s whole body as boots impacted the back of her head and along her spine. She was only dimly aware that Desphon was no longer under her, as her head was spinning. Somewhere along the way, he had been pulled free.

  Nearby, Oria heard Atall’s cry of anger, just before ice exploded above her, followed by a long line of flame. Seconds later, she heard a dull thump as someone fell and the hall was quiet again, even as she was dragged off the ground and held by hands stronger than her own.

  Just like Oria, Atall was held by the soldiers, though his head sagged and blood ran down the side of his face, dripping off his nose and muzzle.

  Oria struggled as best she could, but she was too dizzy and could only go where the two soldiers holding her took her. The movement was all a blur, fading in and out, though she did know that they had gone farther into the tunnels.

  A short time later, the soldiers threw Oria to the floor of the tunnel, where she collapsed, unable to react in time to catch herself. Dirt filled her mouth as she hit the floor, though her attention was mostly for her injuries.

  “What have you done?” cried a nearby voice, sounding very familiar, but the echo in her own head made it hard for Oria to place it.

  “The boy used magic on the entrance guards,” explained a man’s voice. “The girl attacked Master Desphon and may have committed other crimes.”

  Someone knelt near Oria’s head, pulling her up into a seated position. Oria quickly closer her eyes, trying to keep from vomiting as everything lurched in her vision.

  “Can you hear me?” asked the voice, as Oria strained to open and focus her eyes. The blur in front of her gradually formed into Feanne’s worried face. “Oria, are you all right?”

  “I think I lost the fight, mom,” Oria blurted out, putting a hand to her head. Swollen lumps across most of the back of her skull told her just how badly hurt she was. Blood filled her mouth.

  Feanne moved away then and Oria managed to make out that she had gone across the narrow room to Atall, who was flat on his back. Their mother was checking his injuries, feeling for a pulse.

  “He is alive, but barely,” Feanne told Oria, after noticing her stare. “I can speed the recovery of one of you…”

  “Him,” Oria said firmly.

  Nodding her agreement, Feanne whispered something that Oria could not identify and touched Atall’s face. Seconds later, her brother blinked and sat up, though his bruises and cuts still looked awful.

  “Oria,” he said, looking around until he locked onto his sister.

  “Both of you stop talking and leave matters to me now,” warned their mother. “This is very serious. Any words you say may cause more trouble.”

  Oria looked around slowly, trying to figure out where they were.

  The dimly-lit room was small, even by the standards of the refugee community. With Atall, Feanne, and Oria in the room, there was no space left. At the single door, Oria could see the three kits standing wide-eyed, looking between Oria and Atall. Beyond them, she could see at least two soldiers, both of whom had been among those defending Desphon.

  “Mom, they arrested Phaesys,” Oria said and then tried to stand. Her head throbbed sharply and she fell back down.

  “I know,” replied Feanne, coming over to Oria. “He warned me that you might both be in danger. I found out about him first, but he insisted I come to you.”

  Oria looked up sadly at her mother. “Is he all right?”

  “He is chained in a cell and will be for some time, but he has not been harmed. His father wants him to learn a lesson about responsibility, not to die a prisoner.”

  “What about Atall?”

  They both looked over at Atall, who said nothing. He just pulled himself up into the corner and stared at th
e floor.

  “I do not know what charges Desphon will bring,” Feanne told her.

  “That, I can answer,” announced Desphon, stepping past the guards and into the room. The fox held a cloth to a cut along the back of his head, near one of his ears. “He will face no charges, as I would hope that he has learned from his mistakes. The child is free to go.”

  Without a word, Atall got up and left the room, stepping around the kits and pushing past the soldiers at the doorway.

  “Thank you,” Feanne told him, still kneeling by Oria. “Once my daughter is feeling a little better, I will take her back to our rooms and ask more about what has happened.”

  “That won’t be possible,” warned Desphon, leaning against the doorframe to fill the small doorway. “She is to be sentenced for her actions.”

  Oria could feel her mother stiffen, though Feanne was a master of keeping her emotions visually in-check if and when she chose to. She must have been very surprised to have shown her feelings. “Explain.”

  “Aside from assaulting a noble, which your son was not guilty of, having only attacked my guards, she has committed other crimes. The girl was seen near my chambers before two of my slaves escaped. I am having her arrested for theft of property.”

  Feanne closed her eyes and took a steadying breath as she put one hand over Oria’s.

  “Children,” Feanne said, looking over to the kits. “Go find your brother and make sure he is not hurt.”

  Eager to get away from the cell and angry adults, the three kits ran off the way Atall had gone.

  “We will find a way to pay off the debt, per the laws of Corraith,” Feanne told Desphon firmly, once the kits were gone. “The law entitles us the opportunity to repay any debts caused, rather than face imprisonment.”

  Desphon laughed and checked the cloth at his ear and then winced when he found fresh blood on it.