Wildling (11 page)

Soon after Tallis had left, Dorn returned to the trail home, happy for the first time in what seemed like ages. His life might have taken a downwards turn but it still felt good to be able to do something good. To help another of his people. And even if that accursed glowing woman Sylfene condemned him once again for fighting and causing harm, he didn't care.

Not that he would tell her that. And neither would he tell her that he would probably do it again. Now that he knew he could, and since there was nothing left to lose, it was time to fight.

And that was a strange thought for one accustomed to hiding. Maybe it was just the excitement running through his blood, and the euphoria of victory. Maybe it was just anger finally being released. But it was true. Dusky elves were an enemy of his and his people. They had to be fought. And he would fight them.

Chapter Fifteen.

The little town of Riverbend was no longer. The buildings themselves still stood, untouched by the death of the town save for a few broken windows. The fields were still bursting with crops. Healthy crops that would feed the townsfolk for many months. It was even clean and well maintained. There was nothing in the town of the litter that often blew through many of them. In fact it was probably one of the cleanest little towns she had ever seen.

Except for the bodies.

They littered the streets like leaves that would not blow away. And their blood, now dark with age, stained them. The bare dirt was now a nasty black colour in places. Too many places. It was shocking to see just how much blood a man could spill, how far it could run in the streets when he died.

“Praise be, Petran was right. These elves have truly become monsters.”

Sena was appalled as she walked through the town, seeing the bloated bodies of men, women and children everywhere. All of them filled with arrow holes. The dusky elves had come to the town for whatever reason and then killed everyone. Even little children. It made no sense. They were bad people. Everyone knew that. They treated women appallingly and killed their enemies without mercy. And they had no end of enemies. They took slaves wherever they went, and were a wildling’s worst fear. But this went beyond that. It took a special kind of malice to put an arrow through the body of a little child.

“They always were. This is just them when they're desperate.”

Her brother stood beside her looking no less appalled by the massacre. But maybe he was right. Desperation made good people do bad things. The gods alone knew what it would make a bad person do. Maybe the drought in their land was truly so terrible that they had to flee. They had to take a new land and make it theirs no matter how many they killed. So they were simply doing what they had to. Emptying the towns and villages so that their people could take them over in time.

But then again maybe that was just a charitable view. Sena truly had no idea what things were like in their realm. None of their people had ever ridden through Tellur el Ve. The normal considerations that were given to wayfarers as they travelled would not be given to them by the dusky elves. They would be killed on sight and their wagons and everything they had would have been looted from their corpses. Actually, because of their well known peaceful ways they would have been hunted more than others. Dusky elves hated the peaceful. They seemed to regard them as weak. An offence to Talos. There were some places even wayfarers didn't dare travel.

Luckily the dusky elves didn't know that wayfarers were more than just humans travelling the land in their brightly coloured wagons. That they traced their lineage back thousands of years to the sun elves. That all of them had both gifts and knowledge. And that that knowledge they had made them far more able with their gifts than other wildlings. If they had the dusky elves would have hunted them as no others.

Sena was a wildcast of light. Most of those with her gift found the magic only somewhat useful. They could blind an enemy if they needed to or bring light to dark places. Often they found employment in mines because of it, though naturally not in the southern lands. Sena though could make her light so concentrated that it could burn holes in people and things, and she could create a flash that would blind them. It was a true weapon if she needed it. She could also use it to create an illusion, something that required years of training to achieve. Some among her people could even use it to wrap themselves in invisibility, bending the light around them perfectly. But that sort of skill required a lifetime of study. The Dusky elves though would never know what she could do.

“
So what do we do? Do we go on?” Eris asked.

Unfortunately the answer was obvious. There was no point in continuing as they'd only find more of the same. Already as they'd ridden through the southern wastes they'd found a similar pattern emerging. One that shocked them. The southern lands were all advancing north into the wastes. All three of them.

It wasn't just the dusky elves.

Soldiers from the Kingdom of Yed and Lampton Heights were also making themselves at home in the wastes, setting up outposts and bastions, patrolling the roads and gradually making themselves secure in their new lands. Their actions contrasted with those of the dusky elves who were simply riding through and killing everyone they could.

They'd ridden through dozens of towns and the story was always the same. Those north of the Kingdom of Yed were resisting the invasion but slowly, one by one, they were finding themselves surrounded. It might take six months or a year, but they would fall to the soldiers in time, and then when the towns were secure those black robed and black hearted priests would come.

North of Lampton Heights it was similar save that many of the towns had never offered any resistance at all and soldiers now called them home. They had just marched in.

And north of Tellur el Ve the smaller towns had been overrun by small armies of elves and everyone there had been killed, while the larger towns were still holding but were hiring guards and putting up defences as fast as they could.

The people of the wastes were defenceless against an army. Luckily all three armies had another foe to face as they marched; the land itself. That was costing them far more lives than the people they fought. The wastes were considered dangerous for a reason; they were. And unready groups of soldiers travelling through them had paid the price for not understanding the dangers they faced. The wastes' most fearsome creatures had attacked many of them.

They'd come across one patrol of thirty soldiers from the Kingdom of Yed which had been killed to the last man because they'd approached too close to a griffin nest. None of the people who called the wastes home would ever have been so stupid. Griffins were dangerous creatures on their own, though they usually left people alone. But come upon them by their nests where the young ones were raised and they would kill any threat.

The elves too had suffered losses. Some to the towns they'd attacked, and of course many to other dusky elves as they set about slaughtering each other as they normally did. But they'd also found themselves plenty of other enemies to face. One small army had been wiped out trying to take on an ogre. They should have known better and though they'd defeated the beast, a hundred or more of their riders had been torn apart in the battle. Again the locals would never have gone anywhere near his swamp.

And as for the soldiers from Lampton Heights, one of their armies had for some inexplicable reason tried to cross one of the witch swamps instead of going around it. Again, no one who called the wastes home would do something so stupid. The soldiers they'd spoken to hadn't been able to tell them how many had fallen to the quicksands and drowned or been bitten by swamp vipers, turned black and rotted to death on their horses before they'd had the sense to turn back. But it was in the hundreds.

This drought in the far south had to be truly terrible if all three southern realms were being forced northwards. Pushing their way into such dangerous lands when they didn't even know what could kill them.

“I think we've seen enough dead bodies. We should return and tell Lady Sylfene what we've found.”

Which was much the same as what many of the wildlings who were still arriving had been telling them all anyway. Petran was far from the only one to have reported the atrocities. Three and a half thousand wildlings were now calling Balen Rale home, and thousands more had travelled on north past the ancient temple into Terris Lee and were beginning the long slow task of restoring the ancient realm to its glory.

“And then what? Does she relight the path early?”

Sena shrugged. She didn't know. But what she did know was that the path had always been intended to be relit. Lighting it early would make for more difficulties. It would slow down the rebuilding of Terris Lee, which had barely begun. It would likely enrage the Dicans – not that that was anything to be upset about – and they might declare a holy war. But it might also help. If nothing else the ancient monuments would protect some of those who had faith in them.

She hoped.

In any case she knew that when they returned they would be sent out again. Her brother's gift
as a traveller meant that the Lady Sylfene was finding them useful as scouts. She just hoped that whatever their next task was it wouldn't involve scouting more dead villages.

Chapter Sixteen.

The fort was quiet, something for which Dorn was grateful. After so much excitement he'd really wanted to return to a place where he could reclaim a sense of peace. And the previous night, the first since he'd returned to it, had been the first time in a month and a half that he'd even half enjoyed a full night's sleep.

But that morning after he woke up he did wonder if it was maybe too quiet? Or had he simply spent so long running and hiding and occasionally fighting that he actually needed some of that excitement just to feel normal. Still, even if he was a little bored he told himself it was something he could work on. That he
would
work on. After all if there was one thing he'd learned from the last few months, it was that nothing good came of getting involved.

And yet there was another lesson he had also learned; that he could fight. It had of course taken some time for it to sink in. The very concept was alien to him. He was a wildling. A hunted man. He hid and he ran. That was the way it had always been. That was the way it was supposed to be. And yet he had undertaken a month and a half long journey through the most dangerous parts of the wastes in safety. He had fought and killed a wildcast dusky elf. And he had defeated a patrol of dusky elves. He could fight, and fight very well.

But that was wrong. Everything he had been taught all his life told him it was a mistake to fight. And yet -?

The thought of fighting was troubling. Especially after the Lady Sylfene had judged him so harshly. And yet he knew battle against the elves was also righteous. They needed to be fought. To be killed as they had killed so many others – before they killed more. He needed to protect his people. And to hide away was to fail to do his duty. For the entire night those two impulses had been at war within him. They had kept him up late the previous night as he tried to make plans. And they had led him into a restless sleep.

But there was at least time to think on it. Time to decide his path. And what he needed to do for the moment was to settle down, get some supplies in, and maybe let another few days pass in peace. And in the end even if he did nothing more than that, in a year or two whatever path he chose would not matter. He could fight or he could hide and let time pass while he stayed safe on his rooftop. And he knew that no matter what he did, in time the elves would leave – this wasn't the sort of land that they would be at home in.

The wastes were no friend to those who didn't know how to live in them. How to walk softly, listen carefully, and stay away from things they didn't understand. The elves were bold and rash. They would get themselves killed. And then in time this drought in Tellur el Ve would pass and they would go home. Then things would return to how they had been.

For the moment he just had to restart his old life.

That had to start this very day. He needed to make a trip into Little Rock and get some more supplies. And while he was there he might take a look around and see how badly the town had been hurt by the recent attack. Lorian had said some of the people had been killed and some of the buildings burnt down. But she hadn't said if it was any worse than that. She hadn't known the details. And maybe he'd check on Veria and her family as well.

So it was that an hour later when the sun had fully risen and he'd enjoyed a modest breakfast and made another offering to Xeria, he set off through the woods for the village. It wasn't a long trip, only an hour on foot, and it was one he knew well. It was safe too, for him. The wolves knew his smell and they wouldn't go near him. He smelled like a panther after all and there was easier prey around.

There weren't any elves nearby, but that didn't surprise him. Even if there had been any survivors after Rodan had cleared the village of his enemies, they wouldn't have been in the forest. Soldiers and especially riders stayed on the roads and in the towns unless there was a reason for them to wander off. Especially in the wastes. And as far as he knew there was no reason.

There probably weren't even any elves left in the town. He hoped. Little Rock was only a small town, barely a village, and it had no guards let alone an army. After securing it the elves would leave it alone knowing it held no strategic importance and that they might one day need the food and resources it could provide. Assuming there were any elves left after Rodan had apparently killed scores of them with his lightning.

Besides, the clan that had initially attacked the town had probably learned a lesson in fear after that. Lorian had said that it was the Fire Bow Clan that had attacked, and that Rodan had been of the Silver Bow Clan. Any others of the Fire Bow Clan would likely have assumed that their comrades had been killed by the townsfolk and stayed well clear since. They wouldn't have known about Rodan. And thinking that there was a wildcast in the town they wouldn't come back without an army – if they had one left. They might not have.

Marian had told them that Silver Bow Clan had beaten the Fire Bow Clan back elsewhere. That they'd killed the clan's warriors and stolen their wildling slaves for themselves. That was how they'd ended up with Rodan. So the Fire Bow Clan had lost a lot of soldiers in those two battles. But then the Fire Bow Clan had lost their only wildcast and Marian had also said that they'd taken many losses in that battle. Both tribes were losing warriors. That was normal enough for the dusky elves. The battles between the clans were fierce. But it did make him wonder how many were left. And the less there were the fewer towns they could claim.

Little Rock when he finally reached it wasn't as badly damaged as he'd feared. Half a dozen buildings had burnt down but people were already working on rebuilding them. And while there were fresh graves in the little graveyard behind the village he was relieved to see that it wasn’t too many. The elves Rodan had killed wouldn't have been buried there. They weren't villagers and they weren't welcome in life or death. Their bodies had probably been carted away and disposed of somewhere else.

Children were running and playing in the streets as they should, and the villagers were busy with their normal work, farming, smithing and tanning. There was no sign of an elf anywhere. He checked that very carefully before leaving the safety of the forest. But everything seemed normal when he pushed his way through the overgrown foliage that concealed the overgrown dirt track leading to his home and walked across the fields as he normally did.

It was a pleasant little village. Home to maybe eight hundred people - no one had ever counted them as far as he knew – it was a one street town of wooden and stone buildings and thatched roofs, the same as many others. More houses were dotted around on both sides behind the shops, but there were no streets leading to them. Just fields of grass and here and there a few flat rocks to walk on.

As simple as it was Little Rock had been settled for a long time and the people took pride in their homes. So many of those houses that had been built using weather boards instead of logs had been painted, usually with bright pretty colours. The shops had good quality glass in their windows. And the grass street was never allowed to become too muddy. Years ago they'd dug some small channels running alongside it to carry the rain away to the nearby river.

Approaching it as he always did from across the northern wheat fields Dorn found himself thinking of the town as a sort of home. He often did. He had been raised all his life in the city of Lampton Heights, a stone and brick sprawl of huge buildings and castles. There was nothing green in the city. Nothing soft.

But nor would he expect there to be. It was the home to the court and the heart of the province. A hundred thousand immaculately dressed nobles and their servants lived there. Not farmers. Not the little people as they were often called.

But Little Rock was different. Here there were only little people. There were farmers, hunters and tanners. There were millers and fishermen. Here there was also a lot of greenery, and not just in the fields surrounding the town. There were other colours too. Many chose to keep flower gardens in front of their homes, little boxes of living colour. And here no one had ever suggested cobbling the street. Here the air was fresh and clean and a man could breathe. And here he didn't have to bow and scrape to every noble that passed him in the street, or hide from every black robed priest.

After everything he had been through it was good to know that the town still stood. That the accursed elves had not destroyed it. That life carried on as it was supposed to. It was better than good.

When he entered the town however, he discovered that all was not quite as it once had been. It was when he walked down the main street – he didn't know why people called it that when it was actually the only street in the village – and came across a soldier in armour that he realised it. With a good steel breast plate and back plate, chain and leather underneath and a serviceable looking sword hanging from his belt the man was no village guard or lost brigand.

It was odd. More than odd, it was wrong. This was a village and there were no soldiers in Little Rock. That was why the elves had overrun the town so easily. There were only a couple of guards and they did little more than stop the fights at the alehouse. They didn’t fight wars. But still he walked on past the soldier as he leaned against the rail of the blacksmith's front porch, thinking that maybe he was just there to get his armour repaired.

Then two more soldiers all but fell out of the Griffin's Nest and Dorn knew it wasn't just one man. It was a patrol. And by the looks of things they'd been in town for a while. If soldiers were already drunk before midday it was a sure sign they were quartered somewhere in town. So why was there a patrol in town?

Still, Dorn did his best to ignore them and the other soldiers he could see still carousing in the alehouse as he passed them by, and headed for the bakehouse. It was there that he'd find Veria, and he hoped, her family. Of course it was a long, stressful walk to the bakehouse when there were soldiers all around. The bakehouse was attached to the mill and the mill was on the far side of town. And the soldiers were drunk and filling the street in front of him.

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.