Wanderling (Spirit Seeker Book 1) (7 page)

Ollie
forgot to feed Adala that night until she snapped at him about accommodating
guests. He offered her a jug of foul smelling drink and an unidentified hunk of
green vegetation of sorts. She accepted the drink the first time he offered,
but the noxious liquid burned her throat. He broke off a chunk of the slimy
green vegetable and shoved it in the side of her cheek, since her hands were
still bound behind her back. The plant tasted bitter, but cool and refreshing.
Adala wanted more, but after that, Ollie was too far gone to remember that she
hadn’t eaten a full meal or used the privy since midday.

Adala
sat on the hard earth until her limbs grew numb as she waited for Ollie to
sleep.

His
shadowed figure on the cot across from her began snoring after what felt like
an eternity. She wasted no time in making sure his slumber was genuine—from
less than six hours in his company, Adala had a sense that he wasn’t the
cunning type. Not enough to fake a drunken coma anyway.

She
slipped her hands from the leather knot with little caution and ducked under
the cloth tent opening. People lingered in the street, mere silhouettes against
the few tents that still glowed with lamplight. She shrank into the shadow of
the neighboring shelter and watched for a few moments. The street was too open,
too wide. She backed into the gap between tents and found a smaller, darker
alleyway between rows of dwellings. Darting from shadow to shadow, she made her
way towards the center of the village. More and more of the homes she passed
had walls of stone and mortar. Their roofs were straw, cloth, or leather. She’d
never seen anything like it. At last, she found herself behind what was
obviously the largest structure in the village, the one where she had seen Shem
captive.

A
cricket screeched in the distance and a log fell from a fire nearby. Adala
flinched, but there was no one to be seen. She surveyed the building in front
of her. It was perhaps the size of the stable in Gerstadt, presumably with a
dozen different rooms. Two doorways stood covered by tattered cloth on the
nearest side of the building, a glow of light shining from within each one.
Across from the openings stood a long latrine just paces away. She judged that
there must be many men in the building to warrant such facilities.

Her
feet moved silently over packed dirt. The dull hum of various male voices in
conversation reached her, and Adala flattened herself against the stone. One
man from inside the first doorway was asking someone about his family, another
group seemed to be arguing the results of a dice game, while a few other voices
bellowed curses at someone called Tosser. She heard nothing of Shem.

She
crept next to the other opening and listened again. There was nothing for a
second, but then a shrill cry: “In here! Adala, I’m locked in this room!”

The
noise spurred a scolding from a male voice, barking, “Be quiet, kid.”

Adala
stood paralyzed at the sound of her brother’s voice. She resisted the urge to
burst in right then and there. Barefoot, without a weapon, and dehydrated, she
did not have much to work with in a fight.

Another
male voice sounded from within: “Why do you think Burano has us guarding an
infant?”

“At
least we aren’t on the desert brigade,” came a replying voice. “This isn’t a
bad job for this dung hole anyway.”

“Speaking
of which, I’m going to the privy,” said the first voice with a laugh.

Adala
backed against the wall right next to the archway. A broad-shouldered figure
strode out of the opening and made a line for the latrine.
This is my
chance,
Adala thought, quelling her nerves. The man didn’t notice Adala’s
faded figure against the stone, nor did he hear her move as she shadowed him to
the door and slipped her fingers around the hilt of his scimitar. She began to
slide it out of its sheath, but her opponent’s oblivious streak ended right
there. He reeled on Adala, and her grip was wrenched painfully from the hilt.

“What’s
this?” he said, stepping back. “You think you can take a soldier’s blade,
girl?”

He
seized her left arm, and Adala acted on instinct. She feigned an attempt to
escape, rushing out until his grip tugged her back violently. Using the
momentum of his pull, she came back at him fist-first. The force of her blow
struck his throat hard, and his hold slackened immediately. As he gripped his
throat and bent over for breath, she seized his shoulders and brought her knee
into his gut. He groaned and plowed head-first into her stomach.

Adala
hit the ground, her opponent’s weight knocking the breath out of her. She
scrambled out from under his wheezing, writhing form. Her body trembled as she
stood over her defeated foe, but she hesitated only a second. At last she
seized his scimitar. He weakly tried to bat her away with a spare hand, but his
breaths were hoarse and short.

She
faced the door from which her opponent had come and swung his weapon for
familiarity. A lightweight sword with a curve at the tip.
Keep it together,
she thought to herself.
Shem’s in there, and it’s on you to get him out.
She
wielded her new weapon with her right hand as she charged through the doorway.

A
lamp illuminated a small room inside. A slim man in a gray tunic jumped to his
feet from a table in the center of the room, behind which stood four wooden
doors. “What are you doing? Drop the sword,” he said, but she was already upon
him. He swiftly brought up a forearm-length blade to meet her sword.

“I’m
here for my brother,” she said frantically as he blocked her blow.

“Don’t
be a fool,” the man said.

Adala
jabbed for his chest, but he evaded the blow. “Let the boy out!” she cried.

Her
opponent lunged for her stomach, but she knocked the blade away with her sword
just in time for an overhead swing for his neck. Time seemed to slow as she
watched his knife come upward to block the force of her swing. The blades met
with a resounding
clank
, but her momentum still drove downward. He
pushed the force of her blow slightly to the right, and her sword struck his
upper arm.

He
clamped a hand over the gashed shoulder, and his knife dropped to the ground.
Adala hastily picked it up from the dirt and heard a high-pitch voice from the
first door. “Adala!” Shem’s voice screamed. She could hear his fists banging
against the wood.

“I’m
coming,” she called, pointing both the scimitar and the knife at her opponent.
He backed against the wall, eyes darting between the tip of her scimitar to the
rapid flow of blood seeping down his arm.

“Bandage
yourself up,” she said, trying to sound authoritative. “Call for help, and I’ll
kill you with your own knife.”

The
man sank to his knees in a growing puddle of blood. Adala raced to her
brother’s door and realized that there was only a simple plank wedged to keep
the door shut. She tucked her newly acquired knife into her belt and used her
free hand to hoist the blockade out of its perch, swinging the door outward.

No
sooner was the door open than Shem’s arms were around her waist. His body shook
with sobs. “Adala, I knew you were coming,” he said shakily. “I was so afraid
they would catch you.”

She
kissed the top of his head. His golden hair was matted to his scalp. She
smelled salty grime from sweat and tears, and her throat grew dry. “There’s no
time,” she whispered, unwrapping herself from his embrace. “Take this knife,
Shem,” she said. “I want you to follow close behind me and be a quiet lookout,
okay?”

“There
are two men coming around the corner,” Shem said. “They’re behind the wall
right there.” He pointed to the right.

Adala
froze. Beyond the frantic panting of her defeated opponent, now tying his belt
around his arm and blinking to stay conscious, the ruckus voices of men outside
drifted through the door. She pulled Shem to the wall by the doorway and
whispered, “Stay quiet when they come in. Once I attack them, I want you to run
out the door. Stay in the shadows between tents and don’t stop until you are
north of the town. I’ll find you.”

Shem’s
body quaked with a muffled sob. “I don’t want to lose you, too,” he whispered.

The
men’s voices outside changed in tone. One cursed vehemently. “What the hell is
going on?” another voice demanded. The
shink
of a sword drawing from its
scabbard split through the still air.

They’ve
found their comrade outside,
Adala thought with a curse.

“I
don’t want to leave you,” Shem whispered.

Adala
kissed his matted hair and winced at the moan of pain from her defeated
opponent. Her fingers stiffly clung to the hilt of her scimitar, and her knees
nearly buckled with fatigue.

“Wait,”
she said, mind racing. She rushed to the side of the panting man on the floor,
laid down her blade, and put his head in her lap. Sticky blood oozed from his
arm still, drenching her breeches. His glazed eyes focused for a brief moment
on her face, and his brows arched in confusion. But his eyelids drooped
downward and his body slumped in a faint from loss of blood.

This
is either going to work perfectly, or fail terribly,
she thought, shooing
Shem back into the dark corner, unseen from the doorway.

Two
men, swords drawn, burst through the flap of the door across from her.

Adala
looked up and felt her pulse pounding in her ears. She blurted, “Go get
help—they’ve stabbed him!” Somewhere in her gut, she summoned the instinct to
cry, and she began to sob.

“Where
did they go?” said one of the men.

“They
went left out the door, four of them,” she said frantically between sobs, them
screamed, “What are you waiting for? Get after them!”

The
men rushed out the door and turned left. Adala laid her unconscious opponent
back on the floor and calmed her breath shakily.
Keep going, Adala,
she
said to herself.
Focus on getting out of here.
“Follow closely,” she
instructed to Shem, and gathered the sword from the dirt.

“Not
yet, there’s still men talking along the street,” Shem said urgently. “They’ll
see us.”

Adala
paused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-- I can’t hear any footsteps.”

Shem
shook his head. “You don’t understand, Adala. I can
feel
people. I will
know when they’re coming for us, where the soldiers are.”

“You
don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, shaking her head in
bewilderment. Now was no time for Shem’s stories. She crept closer to the door
and peered out discreetly, noticing a group of men in discussion on the next
corner.

“I
know things about people, Adala,” Shem insisted. “Mother always says that I’m
gifted.”

“Mother
is dead,” Adala blurted, turning to face him.

Shem
searched her face in the dim lamp light, his eyes round and moist with tears.

“They
killed her,” she said, eyes stinging. She hadn’t said it out loud, and the
words made a lump rise in her throat.

“Mother
isn’t dead,” Shem said. His voice was steady, in contrast with Adala’s hoarse
words, thick with emotion and fatigue.

“She
was dead in her bed when I left home,” Adala said. “Bled to death from a wound
to the chest.”

Shem
shook his head with certainty. “She was weakened, but not dead. I felt her grow
a little stronger today.”

Adala
backed away from him, shaking her head quickly. “This is nonsense. Shem, you’re
ill. It must be the shock of what’s happened to you. You’re just—”

“You’re
the one who is in shock,” Shem said, his voice eerily quiet. “Father is dead,
not Mum. I don’t know how I know, but I do. That is why that evil man Burano
wants me. I’ve always been able to
feel
people.”

Adala
turned her back to Shem, wringing her shaking hands and swallowing hard. She
took a deep, quivering breath, trying to shake away the confused cloud building
in her mind. She peered out again, seeing that the group of conversing men had
moved on.

“We’ll
talk later, Shem,” she said hastily, “It’s now or never. The men on the corner
have gone.” She grabbed her brother’s hand and rushed into the street.

Shem
dragged his feet, crying, “Not now, Adala-- wait!”

From
behind the corner of the building emerged the men that Adala had sent away
moments before.

“There
she is-- with the boy!” one shouted, and started running towards them.

Adala’s
heart pounded in her ears, and she pulled to a stop, turning to flee the other
direction.

“As
fast as you can,” she called to her brother, leading him forward.

They
made it ten steps before a stranger with a bandaged hand emerged from a doorway
in front of them, causing a collision.

Adala
reeled backwards and tried to back away, but the hulking man before her seized
her wrist forcefully. Fear struck her heart as the moonlight cast light on his
cruel face, the harsh brand of the letter R engraved on his forehead.

“Run,
Shem!” Adala blurted, lurching forward. She barreled all her weight into the
man’s gut, causing him to stagger backwards. From behind her she heard the
footsteps of others. Several sets of arms jerked her back, and she screamed
with rage.

“Stop
it!” cried Shem’s small voice in the commotion, and Adala went limp to see him
still standing there, his face creased with worry.

Shem
stepped forward until he stood right in front of the man with a bandaged hand
and his group of soldiers, a lamb surrounded by wolves. “I’m ready to help your
people, Jarod,” he said softly but firmly. “Just don’t hurt my sister.”

When
Jarod brought the boy in after the attempted escape, Burano could not bring
himself to wait until morning to test the limits of his abilities. In fact, he
pulled the boy into his quarters immediately after the girl was confined to a
cell in the main building.

“Let’s
have a talk,” he said, gesturing for Shem to sit on a stool next to the main
table at the center of his room.

“I
will answer any of your questions,” the child said in a steady, quiet voice.
“But only as long as Adala is safe.”

Brave
kid,
thought Burano as he leaned against the table next to Shem. “She is
safe, only a couple of rooms away from us now. But you already knew that,
didn’t you?”

Shem
nodded. “A lot of women I passed in town,” he said hesitantly. “They were weak
and unhappy. It’s hard to explain….”

Burano
nodded his head. “I will keep her in her cell, and her occupation in the
village will be as a scribe for me, nothing more strenuous. My men will not
touch her so long as she cooperates.”

The
boy seemed satisfied at that.

“Now,
we must turn to matters of business,” Burano said, his pulse quickening at the
potential he saw before him. “Describe how you can tell where someone is
without seeing them.”

“I
just know,” the boy began. At first, Burano thought that was to be the extent
of his explanation. But, hesitantly, the boy continued. “You don’t ever feel
that someone you know is close, like you can smell them? It’s not so much a
smell, really. I just feel their spirit is all. When the baker on my street
died, when I was little, I felt him disappear. It made me wake up crying in the
night, and that’s when my mum told me that not everyone can sense other people
the same way I do.”

“Can
you find anyone, using your sense?” Burano asked quickly, mind racing. If the
boy could track the movements of the desert clans, if he could determine the
number of enemy soldiers on the move and determine their speed…. The
possibilities were endless. The boy seemed confused, so Burano clarified. “Can
you tell me where my soldier Reggie is?”

“I
don’t know which one he is,” Shem explained, shrugging. “Can you find my mother
in a crowd? Of course not. You don’t know her.”

Burano
strummed his knuckles on the table impatiently. “What about Havard? Do you know
where he is? Or Tosser or Jarod? You traveled with them through the mountains.”

Shem
nodded. “I feel them. Do you want me to take you to them?”

“After
you.” Burano gestured to the doorway, following Shem who strode outside and
 quickly announced, “Havard is this way.”

The
boy wound deftly between shelters, and Burano almost lost him for a minute.
They raced between tents and shanties in the dark, with only the stars and some
ambient light from the tents to guide them.

“This
is Havard’s house,” The boy said at last, halting abruptly before a shanty made
from scrap wood and leather.

Burano
knew the shanty by sight, and recognized it as Havard’s. “Good work,” he said.
“What about Jarod?”

“Back
where we came from,” said Shem. “In a room of that big building, where all the
men are drunk.”

Burano
raised his eyebrows.
It’s likely true,
he thought.
It’s no wonder we
almost had an escape
. “But you’ve never been in that room,” he commented.

“I
know what drunk men are like, and they were all over that corner of the town
center building.”

“Take
me to Tosser then,” he said.

Shem
turned back and was off again, just like that, weaving between tents.

This
is the wrong direction—Tosser lives back that way,
Burano realized with
confusion.
He seems so genuine… could this be the work of merely a
perceptive child?

Shem
emerged on the main street of town and took them to the opposite side of the
settlement, where he stopped by a small tent on the edge of town.

“This
isn’t Tosser’s tent,” Burano said harshly, frustrated by the boy’s
inconsistency. If he was going to use him as a resource to gaining an alliance
with the desert clans, his instincts needed to be one hundred percent reliable.

“He’s
in there,” Shem insisted boldly. “He’s in there with a girl.”

Burano
reached forward and flung aside the front flap of the tent.

“Commander,”
mumbled Tosser, sitting up from a bedroll on the ground. He hastily pulled a
blanket to cover the woman lying next to him.

“Is
that Hugo’s wife?” Burano asked his soldier.

Tosser
stammered awkwardly, “Hugo is on night watch duty…”

“You
disgust me,” Burano said, letting the flap fall closed.

“Do
you need something from me?” came Tosser’s embarrassed voice from the tent.

“No,
you’re useless,” Burano barked back. His voice was reprimanding, but in his
chest burned excitement at the realization that Shem had led him directly to
his officer. Against all odds, and after years of searching, he had discovered
genuine talent.

He
and Shem meandered through the village back toward the town center, where
Burano’s quarters were. As they walked, Burano pointed to tents along the way,
asking Shem to identify how many people were within.

“A
man, a woman, and two children,” Shem would say, or, “a man and a girl.”
“Someone is sick in that tent, I think. They’re weak.”

Burano
stuck his head into a tent periodically to verify the boy’s estimates, and they
were all accurate. He felt childlike giddiness as he realized the potential
behind Shem’s gift.

“How
many people are in the whole Wanderling village?” Burano asked.

“A
lot,” the boy said, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

“But
you said you can feel everyone.”

“I
can’t count them just like that,” the boy protested.

“Can
you tell how many leagues we are from Gerstadt? How about the desert dwellers?
Do you sense any of them roaming in the east? How many leagues?” Burano entreated
the boy fervently.

“I
don’t know how long a league is,” he replied, lower lip quivering. “I’m sorry…
I know Gerstadt is that way, and I can feel lots of people there… I just don’t
know how far away we are. I don’t really feel anyone to the east…. But I’m
distracted by all the people around me. I can’t concentrate.” The boy’s voice
broke, and he bit his lip to keep from crying.

Burano
realized that he had spoken harshly. “There now,” he said, kneeling to be at
level with the child. “You have a beautiful gift, Shem. We will work on your
estimates. Maybe with a little practice, you can concentrate your senses
better.”

The
boy’s eyes pooled with tears in the moonlight, and he sniffed. “You promise we
will go home eventually, right?”

Burano
nodded. “You will,” he said. “I know it’s hard to be away from home, but you
must be brave.”

“I
just want to be there for my mother,” Shem whispered longingly.

“I
know what it’s like to be taken away from your home,” Burano said. “I was torn
away from Gerstadt too, nearly thirty years ago. Not a day goes by that I don’t
think about the life I lost.”

“Did
you leave your family behind?” Shem asked curiously, blinking his tears away.

Burano
decided to be honest. The boy’s perception may pick up on a lie, and he didn’t
want to risk losing his precarious cooperation. “I took my son, just a baby,
into the hills with me,” he admitted. “But he’s gone now.” Burano recalled the
sting of being parted with his son. He always promised himself they would be
reunited one day, but he had responsibilities to attend to first, for the good
of his people in the Wanderling settlement.

“I’m
sorry,” Shem said, lowering his head.

“It’s
history now,” Burano assured him. “But you are the future for our people. With
your help, we have an amazing opportunity to build an alliance with the desert
dwellers east of us. With their friendship, we could have more food and water
for our people. We wouldn’t be as tired or starving, and our people wouldn’t
have to slave in the fields.”

Shem
nodded. “I will help you. I’m too tired tonight though.” He rubbed his eyes.

“Of
course,” Burano said. He took Shem’s hand and led him to Willie on guard duty.
“Willie, would you clear out a shanty and post two men on duty to see that the
boy isn’t disturbed while he sleeps?” He asked. Quickly, he added. “Make sure
it’s a shanty a few streets over from this building. His sister is being held
here, and I don’t want them to be able to collude with one another during the
night.”

Willie
nodded, then raised his eyebrow in confusion. “Which shanty?” He asked.

“I
don’t care who you evict,” Burano said. “Just make sure they have somewhere to
hole up for a few weeks while we use their home as a holding cell for the
child.”

Willie
seemed reluctant for a moment, but shook his head in bewilderment. “Yes,
Commander,” he said.

Burano
turned on his heel and strode into his quarters, closing the heavy door behind
him.  He rustled through his trunk of weathered old books, holding them
like old friends. It had been years since he had been able to make out the
small script on the pages, and he could not remember the titles of most of the
volumes. Many of them he had never read, in fact, having received them from
Gerstadt shipments. His son was no longer around to read the books to him, and
he hadn’t found the time to teach one of his imbecile officers to read. None of
them had interest, if truth be told.

But
now everything was about to change for Burano. He finally had the three pieces
of the puzzle. First, he had taken Tobin under his wing. When the boy’s mother
died, Tobin had taken his sister away and lived in the desert for perhaps a
year. He could be of value in coming months, if he were ever able to catch the
attention of the desert clans and unite them under his banner.

Second,
he had Adala. With her help, he could read through his histories and make note
of any mentions of the desert tribes and their religion and superstitions. In
particular he was interested in finding details about their prophecies and the
desert spirits to which they prayed. The histories would fill in the gaps of
what Tobin couldn’t remember about his people’s culture and history.

Third,
and most key, Burano had Shem. With the boy’s potential gifts only in their
budding stage, Burano had a rare gem indeed. Through his contact in Gerstadt,
he had heard of Gifted children to the east. It was a rumored phenomenon
stemming from Iviannah, the eastern empire of the Sabrian continent. But here
he stood, in possession of a child with a most extraordinary and useful gift.
If Shem’s abilities couldn’t invoke religious fervor and unite the desert
clans, Burano didn’t know what would.