Wildling (2 page)

None of them ever saw him of course. He was very careful about that. But sometimes when they were looking a little too inquisitive, he’d let them hear him. Not the man, but the beast. There was a place inside the ruin where he’d discovered that if he let out a good roar, it would echo through the entire fortress like thunder and let the visitors know that there was a wild beast lurking somewhere in the inky blackness of the fort. It tended to dissuade people from exploring the inside of the fortress, and usually persuaded them to leave quite quickly as well. Over the years as he'd grown in his gift he'd learned to roar a little even as a man. It was a useful trick.

Of course there was one other reason that people visited the ancient fortress. To pray. The wastes were a land filled with shrines to the ancient gods and goddesses just as they were filled with dangers.

He remembered that anew when he heard a distant crack as a twig snapped and peeked out through the crenelations to see a woman emerging from the trees. A woman he knew. It was Veria from Little Rock, the miller’s wife.

He’d spoken to her many times as he’d bought her flour and other dry goods from the bakehouse. She was a nice woman. She was always fair in her dealings with him as they traded and she had a knack with her baking. Her bread was always light and fresh, unlike the heavy lumps of blackened dough he tended to cook when he tried to make his own. They often exchanged a few friendly words in the town, and she was in the habit of calling him “Blue Eyes” for obvious reasons. But she didn’t come out into the forests. Few did unless they had to. She’d stay close to the village always. And if by some strange circumstance she did have the need to come out into the forest she wouldn’t do it alone. Not unless something was very wrong.

And something was very wrong. That was why she was there. She'd come to pray. The shrine in the centre of the courtyard was one of the last in the region to Xeria of the Dawn, the ancient Goddess of the Home and Hearth. And though he doubted she was a follower of the ancient gods, many did still know their names in these parts. The church of Dica had not yet arrived here and murdered the followers of their rival faiths and burnt their holy shrines.

There was a shrine not a league from his home to Eldas The Fortunate. The ancient God of Luck. And many did go regularly there to pray. Mostly those who sought good fortune in gambling. Whether the Fortunate God granted any of their prayers he didn't know.

Two leagues west was the broken table, an ancient altar to Oliviane the Goddess of Love. That place too was regularly visited by those seeking to bless a marriage – and more often by those seeking to make another love them.

But Veria hadn't come seeking either luck or love. He could see the tears glistening on her cheeks in the sunshine as she neared. He could see the fear and the grief painting her face. And he knew that something bad had happened. Something so terrible that she had risked the dangerous journey through the forests just to say a prayer to the ancient goddess. That spoke of desperation. The same desperation that had caused him to say a few prayers and make a few offerings to her shrine over the years as well.

But whatever her pain was, it was none of his. So he carefully slunk his way around the battlements, making sure to keep low so that he couldn’t be seen, and then when he reached the end where they met the cliff, he leapt into the darkness of the first floor window. Of course to his eyes the inside of the ancient ruin wasn’t dark – dappled panthers hunted by day and night. So as he padded through the passages and up the stairs cut into the heart of the small mountain, he could see perfectly. In very short order he’d reached the east room of the top floor where he shifted to his human form and climbed through the roof hatch. Well before Veria had even reached the fortress. After that it was simply a matter of dressing, grabbing his longbow and waiting.

He had to wait a while. Veria was slow to reach the wall, and even slower to crawl her way through the remains of the gate. She wasn't strong enough to force it open even a little. And then when she finally did make it, it seemed to be an agony for her to walk the last few steps to the statue of the ancient goddess and kneel before it. But she wasn’t injured as far as he could see. She wasn’t limping, and the pain in her eyes didn’t seem to be physical. It was something of the heart. Considering that the statue was part of a shrine to the Goddess Xeria, he guessed it had to be something to do with her family – possibly illness?

Xeria of the Dawn was, or had been before the Church of Dica had taken control of the southern lands – the two human lands at least – the Goddess of the Home and Hearth. Home and family were her bailiwick, including the care of the infirm. Here in the wastes she still was for some. The fact that someone had built both a hardwood offering table and an altar to her in the last ten or twenty years was surely proof of that. The statue was thousands of years old, but the wooden tables could never have endured so long. Clearly she had some followers remaining. Maybe Veria was one of them.

Was it her children? He wondered about that as he watched Veria kneeling before the statue, unable to hear her whispered prayers. Veria and Parni had three little mop topped tearaways that ran around the village causing mayhem as children were supposed to. To bring her out all this way through the dangerous forest on her own, it had to be something serious, and he couldn't think of anything else that would compel her to make the journey. Could they be sick? Children too often came down with fevers and other maladies. Sometimes they didn't recover. Might they have run into the forest and been taken by wolves? It happened sometimes. Usually in winter when prey was scarce and the wolves were hungry and lurking around the edges of town. Or was it something else?

Dorn didn't know. But he did know that they were good kids. Innocents. If there was any hope that her prayers would be answered by the ancient goddess, then he would add his own to them.

As she knelt before the statue after placing her offering of wild flowers on the table in front of the goddess, he became aware once more of just how motherly the goddess was. Standing there on a stone plinth five feet high, she stood tall, easily eight feet or so, with a baby nestled in her left arm suckling at her breast while she held a sword proudly above her in her right hand.

The masons who had carved the statue however long ago had put a lot of effort into their work, polishing the stone smooth, making the textures of the skin and the robe she wore seem almost real.

They had paid particular attention to her face, gifting her with nobility and compassion as well as the righteous fury of a mother defending her family.

He wasn't really a believer in her, or in any of the gods, new or old, but he'd always considered that in Xeria they'd found someone who at least seemed worthy of the title of goddess. Maybe that was in part because he had lost his own mother. And perhaps that was why he did make offerings to her every week. Just in case. And maybe too it was because in Lampton Heights making an offering to any god other than Dica would have got you killed. Praying to her was an act of defiance, even if the black priests never found out about it.

Movement caught his eye and he looked away from the woman to the forest behind her. Or rather to the skies above them. Then his blood ran cold.

“Shite!”

It was a harpy. There was no way he could be mistaken. The ungainly way the creature soared through the air was distinctive. As were the huge triangular wings that were more like flaps of leather that stretched between her arms and legs and which were covered with patches of diseased looking feathers. And of course she had the head of a woman; an incredibly ugly woman.  Once you had seen a harpy you would never mistake them for anything else.

But worse than that was why she was here. She was hunting. He realised that in the same instant that he realised she was heading straight for Veria. At a guess she’d followed the woman almost from Little Rock, but had been unable to attack her while she was in the forest. Trees would get in the way. But out in the open of the fortress she had her chance.

Automatically he notched the arrow, rolled on to his side so that he could use the bow without standing, and pulled back on the string as the harpy flew closer. While it would be a mistake to get involved and to expose himself, he couldn’t allow a woman to be killed in front of him and do nothing. Not someone he knew. And harpies only killed. They might look vaguely human, but they weren’t. They were predators.

The moment came as he'd known it would. The harpy banked in mid-air, extending her wings out wide to stop her forwards motion and let her feet hang down so she could simply drop on Veria who still hadn’t spotted her. And when she showed him her chest his decision was made.

Dorn loosed the arrow and knew it was good even before it hit. It took her straight through the heart, if such unclean creatures could be said to have hearts, and she let out a screech even as she died.

The harpy fell, still screeching. Tumbling end over end in the air she covered the fifty feet to the ground in a tangle of confused limbs. Veria looked up in shock and managed to scramble out of the way just before the harpy smashed into the ground where she’d been. It was lucky. Even if the harpy was dead and her poisoned talons didn’t scratch her, she could have been badly hurt just from the impact.

Then, when she’d made it to her feet and stopped staring in horror she spun round, searching for more harpies or for the person who’d shot this one. Of course she couldn’t find him. Lying on his side with the roof’s small wall hiding him, he was invisible. But she would know that the arrow could only have come from the fortress. There was nowhere else.

Meanwhile he was more worried about the presence of other harpies. Where there was one there was generally a pack. It was one of the things that made them so dangerous. They were the jackals of the sky. But try as he might he couldn’t see any others. Maybe she had come alone? Maybe she’d left the pack to chase Veria. And maybe, though he didn’t want to imagine it, the rest of the pack was back in Little Rock. That would be a reason for Veria to pray.

“
Thank you!” Veria called up to him realising though she couldn’t see him that there was someone in the ruin with a bow. And then she turned and ran, heading for the gate as fast as she was able, and the overgrown track beyond.

As she fled Dorn found himself conflicted. He wondered if he'd done the sensible thing. He knew he had done the right thing. He had saved her as he had to. But was that sensible when he had also risked exposing himself? Who would she tell? Would others now realise that the ancient fort was home to someone? And if they did what would they do about it?

Only time would tell.

Chapter Two.

After Veria had left Dorn remained behind filled with questions. But more than questions, worries. Harpies? Desperate prayers to an ancient goddess? Whatever was going on in Little Rock it couldn't be good. And the sight of the tears in Veria's eyes – the fear on her face – brought back unhappy memories. Painful times.

He had seen a woman cry before – just like her. He had seen a mother with fear like Veria's on her face. In her eyes. And that woman had been his own mother. Frightened because she knew they were all in terrible danger.

That awful day six years ago was burnt into his memories. The day the Clearwater family secret had been revealed to the world and to the Dicans. That they were wildlings. The day that they'd had to flee Lampton Heights.

It had been a day that they'd dreaded for a long time. A day they'd tried to prevent from coming all their lives. Hiding their gifts. Making sure no one ever found out, because there were informers everywhere. Pretending to be just like everyone else. And never standing out. Never being noticed. That was the key to survival in Lampton Heights for wildlings. For those who followed different gods as well. And they'd been so very careful.

But from the instant they'd been exposed it was too late. His mother had cried as she'd thrown a few clothes into a bag. His sister had cried too, not fully understanding what had happened but knowing it was bad. His father had watched the street desperately as he urged them to hurry. And Dorn had shifted. It was the only way.

They’d fled Lampton Heights that day. Both the city and the province. They'd had no choice. All their secrets had been exposed to the Dicans in one terrible accident. It might have been his baby sister whose gift had been exposed, but everyone knew that the gift ran in families. From the moment Terra had been seen bending light they had all become targets for the black priests. They would all have been burnt alive. So they'd all had to run. And unfortunately they'd run in different directions. He had no idea where the others had fled to. That had been the day his life had fallen apart.

It had been a frightening time. The worst day of his life. The man who'd seen Terra had run screaming from the room and they could never have stopped him. The guards would have been called within minutes. They knew that. It wasn't that he'd been a bad man or an informant. It was just that he'd been scared. To not tell the guards immediately would be seen as helping them. And when the priests found out he would have been interrogated and likely beaten and killed. To shelter a wildling was a death sentence.

There had been no time to pack, no time to plan. They could only run, leaving everything of their lives behind. And even as they'd taken to their heels he’d still had to buy time for his family to escape. He was the only one that could. So he'd shifted and let himself be seen and heard while his family escaped in the confusion. They’d gone one way, he’d gone the other.

That had been the first time he'd ever used his gift in public and despite the fear he'd enjoyed it. Until then he'd been cautious with his gift, never wanting to be seen. Still his alternate shape was a dappled panther. On four feet he was powerful, fast and deadly. To finally release his gift and wander the city openly had been a thrill.

It had worked too. Running around the city and every so often shifting into his cat form and letting out a roar to bring the soldiers running had created all the chaos they needed. And with his father also summoning other small beasts and letting them roam free, the entire city had been left in a panic as they saw wild animals on the loose. People had screamed and run, soldiers had been everywhere, and the serf who had seen his sister bending light had for the moment been ignored. Wild beasts in the streets took priority over everything else.

Dorn had watched his family escape along the west road maybe an hour after he had started the panic, and had celebrated. Eldas the Fortunate had been with him – with them all. But still there had been no time to waste. With his father gone he had been the only wild animal stalking the streets. And while his family had been outside the city walls they were still a long way from safety. So he'd spent the rest of that day leading the soldiers a merry dance across the rooftops. There were so many places within a city that a panther could hide and then emerge from to strike fear into people. And they were scared. Every time he emerged people screamed and guards came running. The black priests with their ropes and torches not far behind them.

Later that night he had escaped the city; a dark shape in the darkness sprinting as no other could, and making sure to knock a few guards over in his rush. Some had thought to send crossbow bolts after him, but only a few of them had even scratched him and he'd laughed at them. Though in his panther form the laugh sounded more like a blood chilling roar.

After that he had begun the difficult job of leading the hunters away. As a panther he'd known he had the best chance of doing that. But once the dogs had been set on his trail he'd been hunted day and night for weeks. There had been no time to double back and check that his family were all right. But even if he had had that chance he wouldn't have done it. With the dogs tracking him he would have just brought the hunters back to them. So he'd just had to hope.

Once he’d finally given his pursuers the slip and it had come time to meet up again at the Foxtail Inn in Aldershot, it was to find his family weren't there. There had been no way of finding them or knowing what had happened to them. He'd seen them leave the city but that didn't mean they hadn't still been caught and burnt. He'd hoped not, and he'd prayed to all the gods he knew that it hadn't happened. But he hadn't known. He still didn't.  And he couldn't go back to check. Too many people knew his face.

Dorn had hoped for a long time that his mother would come to him in his sleep. She was a dream walker and that was what they did. But her gift wasn't strong. To use it she had to be physically near the dreamer, and that hadn't been the case.

After that he'd spent a year travelling from town to town, searching for them. Criss-crossing the realm of Lampton Heights, visiting all the towns. Asking in the alehouses and markets and anywhere else he could think to. It had been all for nought. He had never managed to find a sign of them. And every night after that he had lived with the nightmare that they had been caught and burnt alive by the black robed priests. He had heard their screaming in his dreams.

Eventually he'd finally given up and realising that there was no hope of finding them, and he'd crossed into the wastes. In doing so he knew he was heading into the lands so dangerous that no soldiers would ever follow him. The Dicans might still want to hunt him down, but the nobles weren't about to sacrifice too many of their own soldiers to do it. Loyalty – even that bought through fear – only went so far.

In time he'd found the ancient fort and built himself a home. A home and a name. Dorn Clearwater had become simply Dorn the trapper. Most people in the wastes used only a single name, and if they needed a second they took that of their home town. He supposed he could have called himself Dorn of Little Rock. But he never did. He was just Dorn.

Ever since then he'd stayed here, hoping against hope that his family would find him. But they never had. And he was sure now that they never would. They had either fled too far or were dead.

He didn't even know if they'd recognise him if they met. He'd been only a young man of twenty when they'd fled and in the six years since he'd grown a lot. He was taller and stronger than he had been and now had long ropey muscles showing everywhere. His skin was heavily tanned from spending his days in the sun. His dark hair was long and unkempt, and some said uncivilised. He tied it back with a cord when it got in the way and ignored it the rest of the time. His facial hair had come in too, and though he shaved, the bristles added a dark cast to his features. The bitterness of his past had also lent his face a dour tone. In fact people often said he was too serious by a league and a half, though the village girls liked his face well enough. They often complained that he needed a bath though that didn't seem to put them off.

Now all he had left of his family were memories and hopes. Hopes that they were alive and well somewhere. But almost no hope that they would one day find him. The idea that they might one day ride up to the fort was less than a hope. It was a dream. An idle fancy. But it was the only dream he had.

The truth was that his last memory of his family would be that of his little sister, frightened and crying, as she understood only a fraction of what was happening. His father's face turned ashen and lined with worry as he stood at the window searching for the approaching guards. And his mother's frightened tears running down her cheeks. The same tears he had seen in Veria's eyes.

But there was nothing he could do for Veria. To get involved would be to risk exposing himself. And that when he didn't know what was wrong. Besides, if it was an illness it was beyond his ability to help anyway. He was no healer. But he did know the rules of survival for a wildling. Never take chances. Never expose your nature. Never get involved. Not even here in the wastes.

In fact he had already done too much. He had already broken those rules. He had saved her life. Hopefully she would credit that to Xeria. It would be best if she did and she would have reason to. It had occurred in the shrine of Xeria. The Goddess of Home and Hearth would surely require her servants to protect her worshippers in her own shrine. But that had to be the end of his efforts. If he turned up in town and asked what was wrong she would know it was he who had killed the harpy.

Whatever was wrong, she would have to deal with it herself. He could not help her. But maybe the ancient goddess would answer her prayers as well.

And yet, as he sat by his fire that evening cooking his dinner and looking out over the dark forest, he couldn't help but feel he had failed her. He had failed his mother when he had been unable to find her, and now he had failed someone else's mother.

It was a long night and sleep did not come easily to him.