The Dawn King (The Moon People, Book Five)

by Claudia King

  —13—

  Wild Folk

  “I've seen what that was,” he said, his dialect so thick that Caspian struggled to understand him. “Show me.”

  “My blade?”

  “Your blade, is it?” Dark-Eyes shot a look back at his companions. “I've only seen one blade like that in my time. Carried by a warrior of the Dawn King, it was. You're no temple warrior.”

  Caspian's thoughts raced. The blade was conspicuous. He'd assumed that metal treasures would be common in the Sun People's lands, but now that he thought about it the metal Beron's people used for their tools had been ruddy and warped, flawed in ways that Liliac's blade was not. Would forest folk even be able to get their hands on metal like this? He cursed himself internally, remembering that Netya's people had not even known of metal before the traders from this land brought it to them.

  Trying to piece together scraps of truth with a believable lie, he said, “It was a gift from the pilgrims. The ones who travel down the river. They gave it to our village chieftain.”

  “You're no chieftain,” Dark-Eyes replied.

  “It was too great a gift.” Caspian smiled, trying to disarm the man's hostility with humour. “What do you think we need a blade like this for in the forest? We'd rather send it back to the Dawn King as a show of humility. Our chieftain values good favour over shiny bits of metal.”

  Dark-Eyes frowned at him. He seemed slow on the uptake, and the confidence in Caspian's words had left him unsure. “If you gave that to a trader,” he said slowly, “you could get enough food to feed your village for a season.”

  “We have all the food we need. Why trade this away for more?”

  “And you don't talk like other forest folk do.”

  “Have you met everyone who lives in the forest?”

  That seemed to stump Dark-Eyes. He blinked a few times, then muttered something and turned away. Caspian released a tense breath, keeping his lips fixed in a smile as the man rejoined his companions. The four of them immediately began to converse under their breath, casting surly looks in Caspian's direction as he made his way back to Fern.

  “What did he say to you?” she whispered when he rejoined her.

  “He asked where the blade came from,” Caspian murmured, keeping his eyes on the group. “I don't think a pair of travellers like us should be carrying something like this.”

  “I told you not to get into trouble!”

  “I didn't.” He sighed. “At least not yet. Beron may start asking us questions once word gets around.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “You saw how they were at the evening meal. I doubt anything gets said in this place without everyone hearing it by the day's end.”

  Fern bit her lip anxiously, eyes flitting about the shadowed house. “We'll have to leave before dawn.”

  “Or sooner.” Caspian tried to pretend he wasn't looking as he nudged his chin in the direction of the men at the table. All four of them had risen from their seats and were filing toward the far end of the house.

  “They must be going to tell Beron,” Fern whispered.

  “We shouldn't be here when they return. The one I spoke to didn't seem quick-witted, but Beron was no fool. He'll think to ask questions we cannot answer.”

  Fern gave a weary shake of her head. Caspian could feel her dismay. They'd needed a hearty meal and a proper night's rest, but if the men returned with Beron in tow they might have no choice but to flee. Caspian rubbed his eyes hard, trying to muster his strength for a midnight run he'd not been prepared for. They waited, expecting to see the men emerge from the shadows at the back of the house at any moment. Time passed, and still there was nothing. Caspian thought he heard a stir of voices coming from the upper floor, but perhaps it was just the rhythmic breathing of the sleepers. Eventually he realised that waiting was pointless. Whether the men told Beron or not, he wouldn't be able to sleep knowing the risk the blade now posed to them. What if another curious child got their hands on it? What if that same boy was already whispering the story to his siblings? Caspian had half a mind to go outside and throw the troublesome weapon into the river, but it was already too late for that. Gripping Fern by the shoulder, he got up quietly.

  “I don't think we can stay here. At least if we go now no one will notice.”

  “Alright,” she whispered. “Let's go outside and I'll tie the bundle on your back.”

  He shook his head quickly. “No wolves. Not till we're away from here.”

  The pair crept along the front wall of the house and ducked out through the drapes, holding the leather carefully to prevent it from flapping as it rasped over their shoulders. Caspian was thankful they'd sat so near the entrance. No one seemed to have been disturbed by their departure.

  It was strange stepping out into the farmstead at night. The freshly cut plants around them took on an ethereal quality in the moonlight, casting broken twig-like patterns over the path before being swallowed up by the immense shadow of Beron's house. Caspian longed for his wolf's night eyes, but he didn't know whether there would be sentries watching them. Beron had spoken of defending his home in the past, and despite his exaggerations he'd seemed to genuinely believe that the plains could be dangerous at night. It would not have surprised Caspian if the old farmer had a handful of lookouts keeping watch over the fields, the same way Netya's people had sometimes posted sentries to protect their livestock.

  “Perhaps we shouldn't leave by the main path,” he said softly.

  “There should be a way out by the river.” Fern tucked their carrying bundle under one arm and pointed to the northeast, where the dark outline of the wall halted at the edge of the water.

  With a nod Caspian began heading in that direction, striking a quick pace through the rows of threshed crops. He did not want to run, for running would attract attention. If there were sentries out that night then hopefully they would see nothing more than a man and woman slipping away from the house to share some privacy in the fields. He took Fern's hand to add further credence to the illusion.

  The fields were eerily still at night. Plains always lacked the natural stir of a forest, but there was something different about this place beyond even that. Something Caspian had seldom experienced before. This was an ordered settlement, full of neat lines and hand-crafted angles. It lacked the gentle chaos of nature, and absent of the noise and bustle of Beron's clan there was a stark, dead feeling to it, almost as if the spirits of the land had been driven out and were reluctant to return. Caspian's skin prickled with discomfort. As fascinating as the Sun People were, the wolf in him now felt a faint aversion to their way of living. Perhaps it was just simple unfamiliarity, but it hastened his desire to leave nonetheless.

  Before long they were following the shadow of the wall toward the river. Dead plant husks cracked beneath their feet against the dry soil, and stray brambles reached out to scratch at their legs. The house remained still and silent behind them, and they caught neither sight nor sound of any sentries. The tension that had been dogging Caspian's footsteps began to ease as they approached the river. Black water threw up mirrored ripples in the moonlight, trickling gently past a line of rocks Beron's people had left in the shallows. Small fish cages of woven twigs were wedged between them, looking just as stark and angular as the rest of the ordered farmstead.

  The wall ended sharply at an eroded section of bank that had toppled in to make a narrow dry walkway at the edge of the shallows. Caspian took the lead, making his way over the fallen clumps of earth before turning around to help Fern. As he stepped backwards into the darkness something hard shot out between his legs, catching him off guard and tripping him.

  He toppled over, a flash of movement crossing his vision as a shadow leaped out from behind the wall and swung at Fern's legs. She gasped in pain, dropping their carrying bundle into the shallows as her feet buckled and she hit the earth alongside Caspian.

  “They dropped it, get it quick!” a voice hissed.

  “Told
you they'd try to sneak out this way.”

  With a mounting sense of urgency Caspian realised the danger they were in. Two—no, three figures surrounded them. He tried to get back to his feet, but a fourth man stepped out from behind the wall and swung a farming pole into his spine. Pain burst from the space below Caspian's shoulders as hard wood cracked against bone, driving him back to the ground with a groan of agony.

  Something sharp pressed against his neck—the bladed side of the farming pole—and the voice of Dark-Eyes, low and threatening, murmured, “You stay there.”

  Fingers tense against the grass, Caspian looked sideways at Fern. She was in a similar position, down on her back with a man holding a bladed pole over her throat. A third figure wearing a farming shade with a broken front stood between them holding a wooden club. A fourth man splashed around in the shallows, trying to retrieve the fallen carrying bundle.

  “Where were you going all alone in the night?” Dark-Eyes said, his tone thick with satisfaction.

  “I told you they talk strange, like folk who've been away from the villages a long time,” Broken-Shade said. “Wild folk.”

  “Who did you steal your blade from, wild man? You steal something from Beron too, hm?”

  “We stole from no one,” Caspian gritted out. “The blade was a gift.”

  Dark-Eyes lifted the pole and kicked him over, then slammed the blunt side into his stomach. Caspian doubled over in pain, the breath knocked out of him. His wolf clawed urgently beneath his skin, demanding freedom. Fight, fight! it said, but before he could so much as catch his breath the bladed side of the pole was at his neck again. Without their wolves they were weaponless, fighting two against four. They stood no chance without their teeth and claws, but that would mean revealing themselves to the Sun People. One of them would cry out, and then the whole of Beron's farmstead would know. Would they hunt them down? Take canoes and catch up with them? Or would they hide away, hoping the monsters fled and never bothered them again? All of that was assuming these four did not kill them regardless. They were still outnumbered, and bladed weapons were just as dangerous as claws.

  All of these thoughts raced through Caspian's mind in an instant, futile though they were. They could do nothing with blades at their throats. Yet Dark-Eyes and his companions had not killed them despite having had the chance. It seemed like they wanted the blade. Perhaps that was all they wanted.

  “Take it then,” Caspian coughed. “It's no great treasure to us.”

  “I think we will, wild man,” Broken-Shade said, spitting on the ground next to him. “What else they got?”

  The man who had jumped into the shallows clambered back out, shaking droplets of water from the carrying bundle as he worked to untie it. He turned the contents out on the ground, lifting the items one by one to squint at them in the moonlight.

  “Waterskins. Some old bit of leather. Nothing good.”

  “They wouldn't, would they?” Dark-Eyes said. “Wild folk have nothing but what they steal.”

  “You steal a lot of treasures like this?” the man holding the blade said, giving Fern a hard kick in the side. She tensed up in pain, but refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.

  “Just take it and go,” Caspian said. “You'll not see us again.”

  Broken-Shade chuckled. “Not yet, you little pair of pigs. Don't want you stealing from good folk like us again. What do you say, boys? Smash one of his hands, cut off her ear? They'll remember that the next time they think about taking what isn't theirs.”

  Caspian grit his teeth in anger. These men hid their sadistic glee behind a mask of virtue, but he saw it for what it truly was. The breathless joy in Broken-Shade's voice betrayed his excitement. He was not happy because he had caught a pair of thieves, he was happy because he had a chance to torment a pair of helpless victims. Had other unfortunate “wild men” fallen prey to this group in the past?

  The sharp metal rasped against Caspian's throat, denying him so much as an inch of movement. He should have been more careful. He should have suspected Dark-Eyes and the others had gone outside when they did not return from the back of the house.

  The man holding the blade drew it out from its sheathe and admired the metal, turning it over in his hand to watch it reflect the moonlight.

  “Sharp as flint,” he mused, testing the edge with his fingers. “This'll cut anything off. Very clean.”

  “Wait,” Broken-Shade said, stepping over Fern. “This one isn't bad looking, for a wild woman. Hold her down for a bit.” He threw aside his club and began to untie his waist wrap.

  The wolf bristled beneath Caspian's skin, all but roaring with indignation. Were these men or beasts? Tormenting a helpless foe was dishonourable and despicable, but taking a woman against her will was a blasphemy against the spirits themselves. He glanced up at Dark-Eyes. The farming pole was close to Caspian's neck, but Dark-Eyes had looked away to stare at Fern. This might be his only chance.

  Regardless of the danger, he let the last thread of his restraint snap. The wolf surged through his body like a wave, crashing against his flesh and swelling it outwards into its bestial shape. He twisted and kicked against the ground, pushing himself back, forcing the bladed pole to rasp against his chest fur instead of biting into his neck.

  Dark-Eyes shrieked in terror as the man before him transformed, clothing peeling away into a coat of thick fur, teeth lengthening into enormous fangs. He tried to press the blade down, but a wolf's pelt was tougher than bare skin, and now Caspian had his jaws around the crosspiece of the pole.

  Fern seemed to have been on the brink of freeing her wolf too, no less outraged by her predicament than Caspian, and as the men standing over her recoiled in shock she leaped up with a growl, fur sprouting and claws extending.

  Dark-Eyes's weapon might have been deadly when he had it against Caspian's neck, but the tool was meant for cutting crops, not fighting foes. As soon as Caspian had his teeth around the crosspiece he turned the bladed crook away from himself, feeling the soft metal bend beneath the pressure of his fangs. He got his legs beneath him and sprang upright, twisting until Dark-Eyes lost his grip and let go.

  Run, you fool, Caspian thought. Perhaps these men deserved death, but unlike them he took no pleasure in ending lives. He felt a twinge of fury as Dark-Eyes drew a knife and dropped into a fighting stance. Regardless of what he thought, his wolf hungered for a more primitive form of justice.

  The man who had been holding his pole over Fern dropped it and ran, screaming at the top of his lungs as he raced toward Beron's house.

  “Demons! Demons!”

  Broken-Shade snatched up the pole and swung it at Fern, but by then the huntress was on her feet and ready for him. She slid past the blades with ease, jaws snapping shut around the shaft and clenching tight. With the sound of splintering wood she tore the weapon from his hands and snapped it in half like a twig.

  “Back with you! Back with you!” Dark-Eyes yelled, stabbing his knife at Caspian's face in a fervent panic.

  Caspian should have been able to dodge the wild thrusts, but the weariness of days-old exertion had taken the edge off his reflexes. The sharp flint nicked his muzzle before he could dodge away, filling his nostrils with a sudden shock of blood-scent. Dark-Eyes refused to let up, lunging forward with swings and stabs that clipped Caspian's fur and sent wind rushing past his ears. There was no time for him to glance in Fern's direction. All he could focus on was the knife coming at his head again and again, struggling not to trip in the thick grass as his paws scrabbled backwards. He needed to secure his footing and leap away, but Dark-Eyes kept coming at him like a frenzied beast, knowing that this might be his only chance at slaying the wolf.

  “Back to your hells!” the man cried, whipping his arm around in a forceful arc that unbalanced him for a moment. Before he could ready himself for a backswing Caspian leaped forward and snapped his teeth, aiming for the upper arm. Dark-Eyes screamed, the knife falling from his grip as blood poured from his bi
cep, flesh parting and bone creaking beneath the vice of Caspian's fangs. Maintaining the pressure, Caspian forced his opponent to one knee, twisting with the weight of his body until the man fell—yet just as he thought the fight was over Dark-Eyes grabbed for the fallen knife with his free hand, jabbing the point toward Caspian's side in a desperate swing.

  Caspian sucked in his stomach, felt his skin part, felt a hot slash of pain across his belly, but he had moved just enough to take a shallow cut instead of a mortal wound. Fangs dripping with blood, he let go and swiped with his right foreleg, knocking the knife out of his opponent's hand as the clawed slash opened up his wrist.

  Dark-Eyes collapsed to the ground, struggling to support himself upon arms that twitched with the sluggish movement of a man on the verge of unconsciousness. He was no threat any more. Without pausing to catch his breath, Caspian leaped toward the other two men who were fighting Fern. Broken-Shade had his back pressed up against the wall, trying desperately to fend her off with jabs of his shattered pole, but it was the third man who posed the greatest danger. He had the blade in his hand, flashing and sparking in the moonlight, and it was all Fern could do to evade his swings while trying to get at Broken-Shade.

  With a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, Caspian realised he would have to kill these men too. Dark-Eyes was already as good as dead. If the bleeding did not kill him the curse of the Moon People would. For the briefest instant Caspian considered picking up the broken end of the farming pole and trying to finish the fight with that, but he was not about to put Fern's life at risk just to show mercy to these fiends.

  While the blade wielder's attention was divided Caspian darted behind him and went for his legs. Broken-Shade shouted out in warning at the last moment, but it was too late. The man's calf crunched beneath Caspian's jaws and he went down with a wail of agony, flailing and swiping at thin air. Fern dashed forward, sliding around Broken-Shade's stick with practised grace. She had always been good at fighting against spears. Unlike Caspian the huntress showed no mercy, silencing Broken-Shade's cries with a wet gurgle as she tore out his throat.