Wildling (6 page)

Chapter Seven.

When he awoke Dorn knew that a lot of time had passed. His body was speaking of days not hours, and his stomach was growling at him, telling him he had to eat. But at least he was alive. When he thought back to what had happened he knew that that had been a matter of fortune as much as anything else. Eldas had smiled on him.

Still, it was time to find out what had happened. Who that man Rodan was and why he'd attacked him, and he couldn't do that wedged into the side of a tree. So after checking that he couldn't hear anyone nearby he carefully crawled down the trunk. It was always harder for a cat to climb down than up, as they had to do it backwards. Otherwise the claws which were curved backwards didn't grip right and they tended to lose their footing and fall. But as slow and awkward as it was, he soon managed to crawl down and then started carefully working his way back to the trail.

There he quickly found where the battle had been; not that it had really been much of a battle. Rodan had struck him while he'd just stood there like a fool. Still, the signs of the attack were all around. There was a huge scorch mark on the ground where he had been standing when the lightning had struck. And there was his pack and his clothes strewn all around. Apparently the man had gone through them and found little of value.

He had taken some things though. When he checked Dorn found that his arrows were gone along with his belt knife, coin purse and the food he'd been carrying. That was annoying but not surprising. Save for the arrows. He had taken them yet left his longbow behind? It seemed odd, until he had a sudden memory of the man's horse. Not only was the horse dressed as a dusky elf's steed, it had had a battle bow strapped to its fur covered saddle. If the man could wield a battle bow he would have no use for his longbow. Yet at the same time he had to ask himself why he could use a battle bow. Not only was it a dusky elf’s weapon, but it also required a lot of skill to wield.

Heavier than a longbow thanks to the angled knives attached at both ends, they were awkward to use for anyone who hadn't trained in them. Dusky elves did train in them though, every day. Practising the moves that allowed them to use the weapons as double bladed swords for close in fighting, and the draw so they could use them as ranged weapons. To a dusky elf his battle bow was his sacred weapon. He had been raised from birth to use it. He had crafted it himself. And he would never allow his battle bow to be used by another. So even if the man was or had once been a slave of the dusky elves, he wouldn't have been trained in the battle bow. He wouldn't have been taught how to craft one. They only considered other members of their clan worthy of the honour of carrying the weapon. So he must have taken it from the body of a fallen elf.

The other oddity he discovered as he set about gathering his possessions were the hoof prints. There were far too many of them. There had only been three horses when he'd come across the man. The one Lorian was riding, the spare horse she'd brought for him, and the one Rodan had been riding. But looking at the ground and the piles of dung the horses had left behind he had to guess that there had been at least half a dozen animals there. What was more some of them were shod. None of their three horses should have been. Dusky elves didn't shoe their horses. They let their hooves grow broad and trimmed them as they needed to. It was a cruel practice as their horses often ended up lame and died sooner than they should. But dusky elves were a cruel people.

So whose horses had been shod?

Still, that was a matter to think on later. For the moment he just wanted to dress and feel a little more like a man again.

Five minutes later he'd done that and was feeling a little like his old self. The wounds had healed as of course he'd known they would. Shifters healed, each form able to act as a sort of lifeboat in a storm while the other recovered. To kill a shifter, unless you could strike him instantly dead you usually had to kill him twice in quick succession. But he'd lost weight. That too he'd expected. Healing took strength and that strength had to come from somewhere. So his body had eaten into his reserves as the damaged flesh was replaced with healthy new flesh.

But at least he was in one piece, alive and standing when any other would be dead. He was even ready to set off after them, except that he wasn't sure he wanted to. But he had little choice as they were all surely heading to the same place, or at least their tracks lead north as did his path. And he would be faster on foot than they would be riding. The compulsion to travel to Balen Rale was still strong. But he had no appetite for a battle. Least of all when he was unarmed. He would have to fletch some arrows. Then he would have to find some food.

But before he had to worry about that he had to do a couple of things. Like stripping the bark off the side of a nearby tree abutting the trail and writing the word “Manticore” on it. He noticed the man hadn't done that either.

Clearly Rodan wasn't a good citizen of the wastes. But that didn't surprise him. It was the least of his failings.

Chapter Eight.

Two nights later Dorn caught up to the others, though he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

He'd been following them, not because he wanted to particularly but because they were all travelling the same way just as he'd expected. Wildlings one and all were heading to the ruined temple the glowing woman had told them to go to. It wasn't a choice and they all understood that.

Apparently they’d had the same thoughts about travelling safely too. Both he and Rodan had decided to avoid the town of Broken Falls at the north end of the fisherman’s trail. Dorn had steered clear because he didn't know it and he didn't like going to places he didn't know. Especially ones that were rumoured to have been settled by brigands. Rodan and Lorian had avoided it for their own reasons. But they'd all then decided to head north north east by cutting through the rolling scrub and bush covered hills instead of taking the road from the town that cut north east. It would have been easier travelling but they both preferred the certainty of a direct route instead of taking a chance – even when the horses had to weave their way between brambles, over rough ground and around trees and it took twice as long.

Others though had wandered through these same lands in the previous months. He knew that because he'd come across an altar to Andrias in a small clearing and seen the offerings there. It was likely only hunters that had been praying to the goddess for a good hunt, but the offering table had been piled high with ribbons – the traditional offering for her. This land as wild as it seemed was far from deserted.

The party was camped in a small clearing by a stream, a fire lit for the night and some sort of meat roasting on a spit above it. Rabbit at a guess. Several of them at least. That was good. As he stood in the forest surrounded by trees and bathed in their shadow, Dorn knew the fire would make it harder for the wildcast to see him. As long as he didn't step into the circle of light it cast. But he wasn't about to do something so stupid. Staying in the darkness was always a cat's way.

As he stood there watching, he noticed two things that surprised him. The first was that there were now four of them. Another man and a woman had joined them and were sitting by the camp fire waiting for tea along with Lorian and Rodan. It explained the extra horses though. The second was that they were bound. The newcomers and Lorian. Their hands were tied together with leather strips and then to a pole that connected all three. Two of them even had collars. They were prisoners, and Rodan – as evidenced by the simple fact that he was unbound – had to be their warder.

A wildcast warder. That seemed wrong. Wildlings were usually the ones running from those in authority, not taking prisoners. Especially when he knew that one of the captives was a wildling. Lorian's hawk he noticed was perched in the branch of a tree not too far away.

None of it made any sense to him. The man was a wildling. He had killed a large number of dusky elves when they had invaded Little Rock, one of the worst enemies a wildling had. Yet he had tried to kill him for no reason. And now he was taking more wildlings prisoner. Even when they all had to travel to the same destination. Didn't they? No matter how he tried to reason it through there seemed to be no sanity in his path. And maybe that was the truth. Maybe the man was crazed.

What was he to do?

The question troubled Dorn for a bit. The sensible thing would be to simply go around them and carry on ahead. He was faster than they were and there was never any point in getting into fights if you didn't need to. And as far as he was concerned he owed the woman nothing. She had been trouble from the moment he'd met her. As for the other two he didn't even know them. Though from what he gathered from Rodan's bragging and the collars around their necks they must also be wildlings and that almost made them kin.

It felt wrong leaving them. He knew nothing about two of the prisoners and the third he didn't like. But Rodan he knew well enough to know he was a bad man. He did not have good intentions for those he had captured and bound. Not when all the prisoners had obviously been beaten. There was dried blood on their faces. The strange woman with wayfarer's hair had a badly blackened eye and her face was swollen, Lorian sported a puffy, cut lip, and the man had a heavily bruised face. Seeing that made Dorn angry. After what he'd done and the pain he'd caused him, he was very angry.

Then there was his knife. Rodan had Dorn's bone handled knife in his hands, a knife that he was particularly fond of. It had cost him several silver pieces because of the good steel blade, and he sharpened it regularly. The sight of Rodan sitting there with it, occasionally testing the meat with it and laughing at the others' misfortune set his blood boiling.

Dorn was even more angry when he heard the man telling them that his friends would be coming soon to take them away. Mainly because the friends he was speaking of were dusky elves. They were no friends of anyone let alone a wildling. Yet he claimed that the smoke he had created from the fire would bring them even at night, and that when they came his prisoners would be taken far away to serve the clan as slaves. He laughed about that as if it was funny. What sort of a man could take pleasure in such a thing? Yet Rodan did. So much so that he was apparently planning on doing the same to others. Many others.

Rodan apparently still intended to travel toward the ruined temple. Not because he had to – apparently he hadn't seen the glowing people and so there was no hex placed upon him – but because he knew there would be other wildlings doing the same. His prey. All of them he claimed would become his victims. He would capture as many as he could and send them back with his friends so that they could become the slaves they had always been meant to be. He laughed as he told them that it was a great time for his people. Dorn meanwhile raged at the idea.

It was an abominable plan. An outrage. And it was madness. The man was a wildling himself. He was no elf. Yet he was working with their ancestral enemies? Rodan had to be crazed. But whether he was or not Dorn knew that he could never let the madman hand his prisoners over to the elves. He would not have let him hand over a dog to those miserable creatures.

Maybe that was why his longbow was suddenly in his hands and one of the arrows he'd fletched the previous night already drawn. The understanding that he could never let such an abominable act happen. Even if it meant he had to kill Rodan.

And it did mean that. There was no other choice. If Rodan lived he would have killed him and Dorn was in no condition for a fight. He was still very weak.

It wasn't a long shot, forty maybe fifty paces, and the man was sitting, making himself a perfect target.

Unfortunately his arrows weren't the best. When Rodan had stolen his quiver full of arrows he'd stolen his fletching kit as well. It was in the bottom of the quiver. So the arrows Dorn had fletched over the previous nights had had to be smoothed with sharpened river stones instead of his knife. The points were uneven pieces of stone he'd had to tie to the arrows with thread he'd pulled from his clothes. And the only feathers he had were those he'd found along the way. They would work, but they wouldn't fly as straight and true as normal.

There was another problem: Dorn didn't want to kill the man. Even given what he'd done and what he was going to do. Not in cold blood. But there was no other way. He could not incapacitate him. He could not somehow scare him away. If Rodan lived he would kill him. If there was a battle Rodan would probably kill him. His only chance was to kill him quickly. Or else he would just have to let him hand over three people, probably three wildlings, to become slaves.

What to do? To risk a battle and death or to let these people be abducted by the elves to live out the rest of their short lives as slaves? Three innocent lives destroyed? Or one guilty one ended? In the end it was that simple.

But even as he wondered, Rodan laughed mockingly at his prisoners and Dorn's body decided. A heartbeat later he drew the arrow all the way back and released it. After that there was nothing to do save listen to the screams coming from the camp and draw another arrow.

It hadn't been a perfect shot. He'd been aiming for the man's heart and the arrow instead had torn through Rodan's right shoulder. But that was still a good start. The wildcast was down. Lying on his back, he had been knocked backward by the force of the arrow smashing into him, and he was screaming in pain and fury. At a guess the arrow had penetrated nearly all the way through and if he didn't receive treatment soon fever and disease would set in, killing him. The bad news though was that he was still alive. Dead men didn't scream and curse, and they didn't writhe on the ground in pain or try to get back up. They didn't call storms either, and already he was summoning a lightning blast. That was not good. Even though the wildcast couldn't see him to strike at him Dorn knew that was very bad. He could already feel the nearness of the lightning on his skin. He had to stop it.

Though he had no real target to aim at Dorn fired and immediately put a second arrow into him, this one narrowly missing his knee and sliding into the meat of his thigh. Rodan screamed some more and the thunder in the sky abruptly faded away. The pain and shock was robbing him of his concentration, leaving him vulnerable. But it wasn't stopping him from screaming and cursing. Or from trying to get back up.

Dorn notched a third arrow and waited patiently, listening carefully for the sound of thunder.

In time he realised that Rodan wasn't cursing him in Common. He wasn't using a tongue he knew. But it was one he recognised. It was Elfaen, the tongue of the dusky elves. He'd heard it spoken only a few nights before as a group of them had camped out in in his courtyard. That set him wondering.

The man carried a battle bow. He rode a horse saddled in the manner of the dusky elves with fur strips on the saddle and bridle. He was going to hand his prisoners over to the dusky elves. Those he called his friends. And now when he was hurt he spoke in their tongue. It was almost as if the man thought he was a dusky elf. And as he recalled the man had called him a hell cat. It wasn't a common term for a shifter. Not even for those who had a cat as their alternate form. But it was the sort of term an elf would use for him, if it had been translated into Common. And a dusky elf would have killed him on sight too. After all they had no use for wildlings such as he. Others they would capture and enslave, but not him.

“
Show yourself!” Finally the man started yelling in Common, and Dorn paid a little attention to him. He was standing as well, precariously balanced on one leg and with one arm hanging limp. But most important of all there was no thunder in the air. Either he wasn't ready to call it, or he couldn't because of the pain.

Dorn didn't answer him though. He knew that his voice would give away his location, and he wasn't certain just how fast the man could summon his lightning storm if he had to. But he listened.

“I am Rodan Lightfoot of the Silver Bow Clan, and I demand that you show yourself. That you meet me in fair combat instead of striking like a thief in the night.”

Lightfoot? That sounded like a Common translation of an elf name. And the Silver Bow Clan? That sounded like one of their tribes. Dusky elves were forever calling themselves after revered weapons and ancient battles their tribes had won. Dorn still wasn't about to answer him though.

“Thief and cut throat is it? A man of no name and no courage?” Rodan seemed incensed by that. If anything he was even angrier than before, and he started cursing him again in Elfaen. And then he spun around on his good leg, trying to spot him. Of course as he turned he was actually turning away from him which Dorn was quite happy with that. He was also pleased with the amount of blood he could see staining the front of the man's vest. He guessed there was plenty more running down his leg. That sort of blood loss had to be costing him strength. He might not be dying of his wounds, but he would soon be unconscious and that was good enough for him. But then Rodan changed the game.

“
You! Slut! Heal me!” He turned to the woman sitting beside Lorian and in that moment Dorn knew that she too had to be a wilding as he'd guessed. A healer of some sort. Two of the three prisoner's wildlings? That couldn't be a coincidence. So he guessed they were all wildlings. And who else would he be giving to the elves as slaves? There could only be one explanation for his behaviour. The man truly thought he was a dusky elf out capturing wildlings. He was addled.

The woman held up her hands to point out the obvious, that she was bound and Rodan angrily snapped something unintelligible at her. As if it was her fault that she was bound. But still if he wanted her to heal him he had to cut her free. Anyone could see that.

Rodan drew the belt knife and hobbled toward her while Dorn wondered what to do. He didn't want the man healed obviously, but he was moving awkwardly, making himself a difficult target. He could well miss. Still, he decided even as he loosed the arrow, he had no choice.

The arrow barley grazed him, slicing along his back like a knife, but it was enough to make Rodan stop hurriedly, straighten up and scream with fury once more.

“Bastard!” That was one of the few words Dorn could make out in his bitter diatribe of Elfaen and Common as Rodan screamed his rage. But he guessed the other words weren't particularly flattering as he stood there in the shadows of the forest with his next arrow drawn.

It was time to end this he knew. The man was dangerous and angry, and Dorn knew Rodan would not let him live if he survived. But the man was moving around as he screamed incoherently at him, hobbling awkwardly and making himself a difficult target, and Dorn really wanted to end it quickly. One shot through the heart. A quick death as he'd planned. Unfortunately he'd have to wait until he stopped moving.