Wildling (12 page)

But then as he was watching the soldiers he saw a sight he had never expected to see again. A nightmare from his past given form. A black robed priest wandering the street, heading for the soldiers. A Dican.

The blood drained from Dorn's face and a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the black robed priest walking down the street, and he had to suppress the immediate urge he had to run. It was panic pure and simple, worse now than it had been six years before when he'd been hiding from them in Lampton Heights. But then when he'd hidden from them he'd known the rules. His parents had drilled them into him night and day. And they suddenly came back to him again as if it had only been the day before that he'd learned them.

Never run. Never draw attention to yourself. Do exactly what you always did, and the same as everyone else. There was safety in numbers. Never show fear. Wildlings were frightened of the Dicans and the priests knew to look for that fear. Fear was their god after all, and they knew his face.

And above all else never let anyone know your secret. No one was to be trusted with that knowledge. Ever. Dorn liked Little Rock. He liked the people here. But he knew he couldn't trust anyone. Not even here. So he'd never told them. He liked them but they weren't wildlings. They could never find out that he was one.

For nearly twenty years he'd lived by those rules faithfully, and they had never failed him. They all had until his little sister had forgotten them in her wonder at playing with her new found gift. She had been only eleven at the time so he forgave her her lapse. But he would never forgive those who had forced them to live by such terrible rules. To hide their gifts. And when he saw the Dican there was anger as well as dread lurking in his heart. Terrible fury. But for the moment there were soldiers in town and a Dican who commanded them. Now he knew it was time to live by those rules again.

So he continued to chat about nothing with the shop boy. And when it was finally time for him to be served he did exactly what he always did. He ordered a sack of the wholemeal flour, a sack of oats and a small bag each of salt and sugar. The same things he normally bought. The same things most trappers and hunters and others who lived alone would buy. He made a few remarks about the burnt buildings and the drunken soldiers, because that was exactly what anyone else would do. And he paid for his purchases with half a dozen coppers as he always did. When this was over and he was gone he wanted no one to think of him as being anything other than the somewhat taciturn trapper he was known as. If it was possible he wanted them to forget they'd even seen him.

Then when he was done he stuffed his purchases into his pack as he always did, wished Veria and the others a good morning, and left the store heading back up the street. He would have preferred to slip around the side and then follow the river bank north, but someone might have noticed him avoiding the soldiers. He didn't want to be noticed.

Dorn walked as easily as he could, not too fast, not too slow, and tried hard not to stare directly at the priest as he passed him by. Instead he focussed on the drunken soldier lying in the dirt like everyone else. He carefully controlled his hands too, unclenching them when they seemed to want to do nothing more than to ball up into fists. No more could he be too rigid in looking away. That was not normal and the priest might have noticed. He had to do exactly what everyone else was doing, and for the most part they were staring at the sleeping soldier and his drunken comrades and laughing quietly at the sight. He did his best to do the same.

In the end it probably wouldn't have mattered if he had stared straight at the Dican. The priest was too busy dressing down the drunken soldiers, accusing them of being a disgrace to their uniforms. The soldiers for their part were simply trying to keep from bursting out into more laughter as they picked up their fallen comrade and mocked the unhappy priest. Soldiers often had little respect for anyone who wasn't a soldier, even the priests who supposedly directed them in their crusade of violence and oppression. The priests didn't like that and this one was becoming angry as he berated them. He was threatening them with extra duties and occasionally berating the onlookers as well. But Dorn cared about none of that. None of them had eyes for him and that was all that mattered.

So Dorn passed them by without incident and breathed a small sigh of relief when he didn't hear anyone calling him. But he was careful not to show it. Careful also not to forget his act. It was after the pressure was gone and the danger seemed past that many got themselves caught. They relaxed too much, walked a little faster to get away, and sometimes even stood a little straighter than before. It was then of course that they gave themselves away. The priests were good at spotting such things. Relief or fear they knew to look for. And fear was always their friend. It was their god.

A few minutes later he was heading across the fields out of town and towards the safety of his forest. He suddenly felt an overwhelming love for his forest. But when he made it into the trees, and after checking back to see that no one was following, he found himself confused as well as frightened. First the elves and now the Dicans. Just what was happening? Why were they in Little Rock? Why were they in the southern wastes at all? And what was he to do about it?

Things were obviously happening in the world. Larger events of which he had no knowledge. And for some reasons the soldiers and their priestly masters from either Lampton Heights or the Kingdom of Yed had risked the journey north. Chasing the elves maybe? He had no way of knowing.

It had been well over a month since the elves had been blasted out of the town by Rodan and the soldiers had arrived shortly after that. Or so he had been told in the bakehouse. And from what he had overheard it seemed that while the towns’ folk had been happy to see them at first in the wake of the dusky elves, as the weeks had passed and they had not gone out riding after any of them that happiness had faded. They were just hanging around the town drinking and making a nuisance of themselves. And the Dicans had arrived a week later once the town was safe and started asking about setting up a temple according to the shop boy. This was too small a town for a temple though. He guessed it was a ruse. They were really just enquiring after anyone who had the gift or followed a different god. Looking for shrines. Preparing for the executions.

Naturally the townsfolk could have told them little about the wildlings at least. This was the southern wastes, still not far enough away from the southern realms for him to feel safe. And neither he guessed, would it be for any other wildlings. He was sure there were other wildlings around. Many would have fled this way and some like him might have stopped here, thinking they were far enough away. But lifetimes spent hiding their gifts would have trained them to always be suspicious. Any wildlings in or around Little Rock would have kept their secrets to themselves. Certainly he didn't know who might be one.

Dorn had no answers for what was happening in the world. Just the certain knowledge that it was bad. Bad for the people. Worse for him. But he did know one thing as he headed home, making sure that he left no tracks. It was time to hide. And time to prepare for the Dicans. Because if there was one thing he was sure of it was that if they were planning on staying in town they would be hunting his kind. And from what he had heard they were already building their shrine to their poxy god in the inn. Soon he knew, they would start looking for informants. People who could tell them who had the gift and where the shrines were. Offering gold for information and promising a painful death for those who resisted. Turning Little Rock into a village of spies and frightened people. And in time if they weren't stopped, they would begin their purge.

His first full day back! Elves and Dicans! And it had started out as such a pleasant morning. Dorn cursed his rotten luck. But he didn't let that cursing slow his feet any as he headed back home through the forest.

Then again he suddenly thought, maybe it didn't have to be just his rotten luck? Maybe it could be the Dicans' rotten luck as well. It was a strange thing to consider when all his life he'd lived in dread of the black priests. And yet he did consider it. He didn't have to just hide. He could fight. And after all if he could fight elves he could surely fight a few priests. And as he walked home there was something within him that wanted to. There was a darkness that had been lurking in his soul for all of his life. A hatred that would not die away.

This wasn't Lampton Heights. He didn't have to worry about a city full of soldiers reporting to the Dicans. He didn’t have to worry about having nowhere to hide. About having a family he could place in danger if he was seen. This was the wastes. It was his home and he knew them as no strangers did.

He could make them suffer. Suffer as terribly as they had made others suffer. As he walked along the ancient trail that dark thought kept whispering to him. And behind it were other thoughts. Plans. Weapons and tactics a man could use to battle armies. To break their minds, shatter their courage and completely destroy them.

He couldn't help but let a small grin turn up the corners of his mouth as he thought on just how they could be punished. And they would be. And damned be Lady Sylfene's self righteous judgement.

They would pay for their crimes!

Chapter Seventeen.

Three weeks later the Dicans came to the ruined fort.

Dorn was ready for them. He'd heard them coming from the battlements long before they'd emerged from the trees, a full patrol of soldiers on horses and wearing armour that clattered as it moved, making a lot of noise. He'd expected the visit long before then of course. He'd been waiting for it. He'd been preparing.

For weeks he'd been carefully scouting the surrounding forests, watching the soldiers as they went about their work, trying to find out what they were doing in the wastes. And while he still didn't know why they were there he knew most of what they were doing. The same things they did everywhere else.

They were annoying his neighbours. Now that the elves had left the region the soldiers felt confident enough to roam the lands freely. Actually they were becoming bold, something that was a mistake out in the wastes. This was not a place where you wandered boldly. This was a place where you walked cautiously and always steered clear of trouble. Some of the soldiers had already paid the price for their boldness not that far from his home and the furies had fed well.

Even so, for some reason the soldiers were still leaving the safety of the town and the roads and trails and heading into the forests. Searching out everyone who lived there. And there were quite a few. Until then even he hadn’t realised just how many.

Naturally there were a lot of hunters and trappers like him. They couldn't carry out their trade in the towns and villages, so many of them had cabins strewn throughout the forests. There were fishermen as well. A number of rivers ran through the nearby forests and again many had set up cottages alongside them so that they could catch the plentiful trout that swam in them. There was good coin in fresh fish.

To the west of his home there was a small mine where three families spent their days digging out the plentiful silver in the hills. A couple of herbalists had made their homes not far from him as well. And then there were a few who had simply left the towns, seeking the peace and quiet of their own company.

The soldiers were seeking them out one by one. Heading off the tracks wherever they saw a likely break in the brush and then using dogs to hunt the people down. For the most part they weren't doing any more than harassing them, and of course stealing. It was expected of the soldiers from Lampton Heights. Soldiers earned only a pittance and they had to pay for their ale somehow. So they helped themselves to anything that looked valuable and was just lying around. But they left the people alone after beating them about a bit, and he did nothing as he lay in hiding, watching them. It was shameful not to help, but a few cuts and bruises were no terrible tragedy. They would heal. And he was only one man.

But wherever they went they brought the accursed priests with them. Always at least two, and he knew that they were really just hunting out wildlings and the priests
of other faiths. Those who had fled Lampton Heights for the relative safety of the wastes. He was far from the only one to have made the desperate journey.

Already he had felt the need to act. He didn't want to but he had had to protect one of his own. When he saw the priests interrogating her and then heard them calling for torches, he hadn't had a choice. He hadn't realised that old Gwyneth was a beast tongue. Not until the priests had started threatening her and her wolf had attacked. That was a mistake they wouldn't make again and the priests had fled in a hurry. Still, the soldiers had driven the wolf off. One beast against a patrol was no fair fight. And then they had grabbed her and called for the priests to return. They would have killed her had he not immediately put half a dozen arrows into the soldiers, crippling them and sending them fleeing as well.

They'd naturally thought that a party of dusky elves was coming for them. And being few in number they'd fled, carrying their wounded away with them while he'd celebrated. Especially when he'd made sure to add to the Dicans' misery by putting a couple more arrows in their softer parts. They wouldn't die. He wanted to kill them – his hatred for them was overwhelming – but he wasn't willing to incur any more of the glowing woman's wrath if she found out. But the priests would likely never walk without a limp again.

But even victory had really been defeat. After they'd fled he'd still had to help Gwyneth pack and told her to head north. Her home was gone. Now that the Dicans knew about her they would return. And they would bring a lot more soldiers with them. Then they would burn her alive. They both knew that. But he'd also told her about the temple of Balen Rale. He wasn't sure that it was a wise thing to do. It was a dangerous journey for an old woman travelling alone, even with a wolf by her side, and he had no idea whether she would be welcome among them. But he thought there was a chance. And if they did accept her then that was the one place he knew she would be safe.

After that he'd decided to harass the Dicans a little. Maybe it was wrong. Certainly it was foolish. But encouraged by his victory as small as it was, and powered by a lifetime of rage, he'd felt the need to walk the path of the warrior again. And he knew where they were going. So every so often as they travelled the trails he would stand in the trees and put an arrow in the side of any Dicans travelling with them. It was easy to get an arrow or two away and then simply slip away into the depths of the forest while they wheeled about in confusion. And it felt so good. It was pure hatred, nothing more noble than that, but he didn't care. After a lifetime spent living in dread it was paradise.

Since the attacks the Dicans had been more cautious. Much more cautious. No longer did they travel with just small dozen man patrols. There were always thirty men at least. And they wore armour too. Dark leather breastplates that they wore under their robes, no doubt thinking they would keep them safe. They didn't. He'd seen the awkward movement of their black robes over the leather and known they were wearing armour even before he'd seen one priest remove his robes to tend to his injuries and seen the breastplate itself. And he was a better shot than they realised. Better than even he had realised. All it meant was that he put his arrows in their thighs and upper arms instead of their sides and shoulders. Nasty wounds that would never heal completely.

He was taking great pleasure in that. Of course he would have been happier killing them, but he couldn’t quite forget the anger of the glowing people. Still, he was happy to take down a priest or two wherever he could, and he hoped that they were learning fear. He also hoped he was defending his people with every strike.

Naturally they had no thought that it was a wildling hunting them. They thought it was a dusky elf. After all they had been in the region until only a month or so ago, the battle bow was their weapon of choice and he'd learned to fletch his arrows as they did. It was a ruse that Andar the Brave had used a thousand years before, and he figured if it had worked for him well enough that his battles had become a book of epic verse on his shelf, he could use it too.

And the Dicans were learning what it felt like to be hunted and that was a good thing. Even if it meant that it was a good thirty soldiers and three priests in armour that thundered through the forest toward his home that morning. They were taking no chances.

Naturally when Dorn heard them he hurried for his rooftop, and was safely on top of it by the time he saw the first of the soldiers break through the trees and gallop the last fifty paces or so to the gate. There were a lot of soldiers. Far more than he could face in battle. But he knew they weren't there for him. They didn't know he lived there. They didn't know that anyone lived there. The reason they'd come was because the Dicans had two enemies. Wildlings and those of other faiths. And they knew there was an ancient shrine to Xeria in the courtyard. A shrine that they intended to destroy. It was a trip he'd expected them to make sooner or later. They'd been riding throughout the region destroying other shrines for weeks after all.

And knowing that sooner or later they'd come he'd readied a trap for them. Something that would hopefully convince them that they wanted no part of this place. Not the fort, not Little Rock and not even the wastes.

Naturally he couldn't attack them. Not here. Not in these numbers. Even if he could have fought them off he could never allow them to make the connection between him and the ancient fort. And if some escaped or others came to see bodies riddled with arrows they would know. So this would not be a place where the dusky elf struck. This would be something far more cunning and far more terrible. It would be a place where the Dicans truly learned fear. Maybe even enough fear to decide they didn't want to stay here.

The plan itself wasn't his. Like all his knowledge of strategy, it was stolen from some of the tomes of epic verse he had in his little collection. But he doubted the authors would mind if he borrowed their strategy from centuries before. And it was such an apt strategy for this particular enemy. For the Dicans. Dorn smiled a little when he thought of what was going to happen. Even when he watched the nearest soldiers dismount and start forcing the gate aside.

Then he watched as they entered the courtyard on foot, hunting out any danger that might be present. Naturally they didn't enter the fort. They couldn't since they hadn't brought ladders with them. But they were very careful to check the entire courtyard thoroughly, hunting desperately for any sign of a dusky elf. It was a good twenty minutes before the priests were finally willing to step inside the ancient structure, and even then to Dorn's mind they looked nervous as they checked the battlements and the fort windows for any sign of an elf with a battle bow.

They had taken to heart the lesson about fear. He liked that. Soon they would learn terror.

They were nervous for another reason too. At least he hoped they were. He was sure the locals had told them the stories about the ancient fort. The people who'd gone missing without a trace when they'd visited. The terrible beasts that were rumoured to call it home, eating anyone foolish enough to come too close. And soldiers were always superstitious. It was the nature of their work. They saw threats around every corner and those they could see they could deal with. But what scared them were those threats they didn't see and couldn't protect themselves from. That fear was going to become his weapon.

The priests of course would laugh at such a thing. They could deal with the darkness of the night. They feared the things they could actually see, like elves with battle bows. But surely he thought, in the very deepest recesses of their souls even they doubted? That doubt would become his most devastating weapon.

Of course he had to wait for the time to arrive. The wait seemed far too long to him. But there was a ritual to go through. The priests were always concerned with their rituals. Even when they were really only going to cleanse the area with their one true weapon, fire. It began with the prayers of course. The Dicans praying to their foul god for protection and strength as they sought to remove the presence of the ancient goddess from the land. And as they did it the soldiers were busy piling up kindling around the shrine, never realising that that was exactly what he was waiting for. The priests didn't realise it either as they continued their prayers.

Twenty long minutes later they were ready. The shrine was completely surrounded with kindling, and the priests looked determined. It was time for the soldiers to set the wooden altar and the offerings table alight and burn them to ash. Then, once that was done they would smash the huge statue of Xeria apart with hammers. And then when there was nothing left of the shrine they would say their poxy prayers and leave.

But not this time Dorn vowed to himself. This time things would go badly for them. So badly that they would run from this land as they had never run before. They would soil themselves in their fear, and hopefully they would spread that fear to others.

The priests gave the nod and immediately one of the soldiers threw his burning torch into the pile. It caught fire of course, but not as they'd expected.

What they didn't know was that Dorn had laid down trails of lamp oil and saltpetre soaked wax coated rags from the shrine leading to the walls. And that the walls were covered in it. Barely had the torch touched the kindling than rivers of fire and leaping sparks ran from it as fast as a man could sprint, to form a wall of fire that completely surrounded them.

The soldiers immediately panicked. Men shouted like children having a nightmare and tried desperately to stamp out the fires nearest them, realising that they were trapped, and frightened that they were going to burn to death. The priests screamed loudest of all and demanded that the soldiers put the fires out. But the fires wouldn't go out. Not when the flames were leaping six and eight feet into the air. Instead some of the men caught fire themselves and began desperately trying to stamp the fire out on their burning legs as they'd managed to get oil on them. It was like a scene from the underworld as the men shouted and screamed in fear and pain. Even the horses outside the gate whinnied in fear as the men tending to them shouted to those inside, wondering what was happening.

But that was only the beginning of his trap.

Unknown to them he'd laid down trails of white wrath all around the statue of Xeria. He had gathered all of the little round mushrooms he could find over the previous days. The powder from the mushrooms was often used as a torturer's aid in interrogations. One sip of an extract of them and a man would be screaming in terror and suffering waking nightmares for hours and even days. A taste and they would die screaming. It was a potent poison. But what few realised was that the spores they released into the air were even more potent. And as the flames came close to the little round puffballs they warmed and swelled. And then one by one they released their powder into the air.