Wildling (15 page)

He'd gone too far. He knew that as he stared at his guests' stunned faces and watched them almost step backward in shock. And yet he didn't care. Not while the anger was still burning away in his chest, eating a hole in his stomach.

“But -.”

“
No!” Dorn would have no more of them. “You've spoken, said what you were bid to say. Now you can leave.”

The two wayfarers stood there staring at him. And then they turned to one another in disbelief and confusion. Doubtless they had never expected his answer. He also doubted that they would ever be able to report what he'd said to their mistress. Not word for word anyway. And just then none of that mattered to him. He had said what he had to.

“But -.” The man tried again.

“
No! Leave!”

If he had been yelling before this time it was worse. Unbidden the roar of the panther echoed around the fort in his words. And it seemed to explain his anger to them as nothing else could. At least it caused them to turn and face one another in question. But they weren't finished.

“Dorn Clearwater, this is childish!” The woman called up to him, and her hands were once more on her hips. She was speaking as if she truly thought him a little boy throwing a tantrum. “Do you have no connection to Warreth the White at all?”

“
Do you?!” She raised her voice as she levelled the question at him once more, and he was certain she was angry.

Dorn was staggered by her charge. “Me? You walked into my home, the home of a man you think to be a killer of wildlings, and insult me with this pathetic offer of clemency! How unwise is that?!”

His words seemed to stop her for a moment, and she stood there staring up at him, clearly taking the time to think of an answer. It took a fair few heartbeats.

“
You're a wildling. You belong with others of your own kind. This you know as all our people do. And yet you would let your anger blind you to what matters? Shame on you!”

She chided him and for a moment he wondered if he was losing his wits. No one chided him. Not even his parents. And yet she was. In fact he thought she was one step away from wagging her finger at him like his old writing master had whenever he'd told him off.

For a while Dorn didn't know what to say. How to answer her. And he wasn't alone as the silence dragged between them. The wayfarer though, couldn't allow the silence to continue forever.

“
Still, the words have been spoken and the offer made. You know that it's within your power to join us. If you put aside your anger and forget your foolish pride. When you are ready to ask for forgiveness and atone for your mistakes.”

She was very certain on that point he noticed. Convinced that he had made mistakes. Even though she hadn't been there to know what mistakes he had or had not made.

“I pray that you'll spend some time thinking about that, especially here in the shrine of the Mother. The one place where home and family should be everything.”

They turned and left, apparently realising that there was nothing more that could be said. Not just then at least. And Dorn watched them leave, his eyes on them for every step as they walked to the gate, wriggled their way around it and then marched off into the forest beyond. He kept watching the forest long after, just in case they returned.

For some reason the woman didn't seem that pretty to him any longer.

Chapter Twenty One.

There is an old adage in war; never leave an enemy standing. Dorn had heard the saying before, usually from old soldiers in their cups in the various alehouses he had occasionally frequented. But it had never meant anything to him. Not until he was woken by the first explosion. Then when he looked over the side of the roof and saw the flames leaping into the air from a mound of burning stone in the grass to the side of the fort he understood.

The Dicans had returned. Anger flashed through him for them, and for his failure. He should never have let them go. He should have killed them all.

But it was too late. As he watched another flaming fire ball arc through the sky, reaching its apex before beginning its long graceful plummet to the ground, he knew it was far too late. The Dicans had struck back at the enemy of their accursed church. The shrine to Xeria. The fort was under attack. And they had brought their giant war machines with them to make sure that this time it was completely destroyed.

For a week or two there had been rumours. He had made sure to visit the Griffin's Nest and listen to what was being said now that the Dicans had fled and only a few soldiers remained. Soldiers talked and drunken soldiers as these ones mostly were, talked more than most. And they had said that there were plans afoot. Plans that would once and for all end the cursed elves. It seemed that the minor conflicts he had helped create between the dusky elves and the Dicans had escalated, and the allies were no longer quite so united. Or maybe that was just the local soldiers. They believed they had been repeatedly attacked by them after all.

Regardless, the soldiers claimed that their commanders were making plans. Moving their troops around and bringing in reinforcements. They planned on bringing much of the region under their control one way or another, and driving the elves out. But he had discounted their tales guessing that they were embellishing them. Telling the locals what they wanted to believe and not what they had actually been told. The people of Little Rock believed the same thing.  They laughed at them behind their backs. They said they were in the thrall of Heiros the Jester to say such things. And they had good reason to think so.

Since the Dicans had left the soldiers had only received two messengers according to the villagers. And the people of Little Rock had watched the soldiers closely. Both messengers had left within the hour and nothing had come of them. The soldiers had not mounted up and ridden anywhere. They had not drilled in the fields. They had not even assembled. When the messengers had left they had done nothing more than continue drinking themselves into a stupor in the Griffin's Nest before repairing to their beds and collapsing – assuming they were fit enough to make it that far. Those did not sound like the actions of soldiers preparing to march into battle.

Yet as he watched the second fireball descending Dorn knew that they had spoken more truthfully than he'd guessed. This was no jest. The Dicans had returned to destroy their enemies. And the Dicans had decided long ago that the ancient fort was one of them. Since the failed attack though they'd obviously decided that it was a dangerous enemy. So this time they weren't going to do something as silly as actually enter it. They had learned their lesson. They were going to stand a long way back and let their trebuchets destroy it. They would turn his home to rubble.

As the second burning ball of rock and oil hit and exploded Dorn suddenly knew it was time to act. Past time.

The fireball missed thankfully, crashing down on the clearing to the side of the fort, almost exactly where the first one had, and he knew that would continue for a while. Their war machine was on the trail three hundred or more yards away, and they were firing blind, unable to see their target through the forest. Doubtless they were using spotters and runners to send back to them how close they were, a slow and awkward system as the men had to run through the forest with word. But they would get more accurate and sooner or later they would hit.

He couldn't allow that.

Grabbing his bow and tying it to his back Dorn raced for the trapdoor, climbed down, shifted and then dashed down through the fort as fast as he could. He didn't even worry that his clothes were torn off and left strewn through the fort as he ran. His life and his home's continuing survival both might depend on speed and he didn't have time to undress.

Outside he ran the battlements as only a panther could and then leapt off them, landing gently in the grass fifteen feet below and then raced for the safety of the forest beyond. But it wasn't just safety he was searching for in the trees. It was the spotters. Stop them and he would blunt the attack and gain himself some time.

Instantly he saw the spotter. The man was just standing there at the edge of the clearing, staring at him, his mouth hanging open and his face pale, and Dorn knew he'd watched him escape the fort. He was being remarkably quiet too, trying desperately not to make a sound, probably terrified that the big spotted cat would hear him and pounce. He hadn't apparently noticed that Dorn had a longbow strapped to his back or realised that he was a wildling. Fear had robbed him of his wits.

Dorn charged him immediately, roaring as only a panther could as he ran, and the man shrieked like a frightened child. Then he turned and ran screaming, dropping things with every step. His helmet, his shield, the range finding instrument in his hands. Anything that could slow him down. But it wasn't enough and he should have known that. He should have drawn his sword and stood shield in hand. Not that that would have helped him either.

With another roar that echoed through the forest, Dorn sailed straight over the head of the still shrieking soldier and reached out a paw. A heartbeat later and the man was flying through the air, his shoulder torn wide open, and still screaming. But the noise stopped abruptly when he smashed into a tree. After that he just lay there, badly injured, moaning and not moving a lot.

His screams and Dorn's roars had alerted the other soldiers that there was trouble, and instantly he could hear them running through the forest. Unlike the first man they had a little courage. It wouldn't do them a lot of good though. He silently promised them that.

As they ran, yelling their heads off and thinking to perhaps scare off the beast, he doubled back and went around them. They were not his most dangerous enemy just then. The war machine was. That was what would destroy his home, not the soldiers.

Naturally it was easy enough to find. Trebuchets were huge devices standing the best part of thirty feet tall. And though they were on wheels and could be moved, they could never have left the trail. He spotted it quickly. The huge machine had a team of oxen pull it together with a crew of eight men. They weren't alone. Three Dicans, some more soldiers and another wagon and at least forty horses were also standing there. Unfortunately for them they were all staring foolishly into the trees after the soldiers, hoping to see them return and hear that the beast was dead. They never saw him as he ran through the trees. Not until it was too late.

He struck the priests first. It probably wasn't the cleverest target but his hatred for them immediately overcome any thought of strategy. And they were easy targets. As they stood and stared nervously at the forest they never knew he was there. They never heard him pad silently up behind them. The first they knew was when he struck, and by then it was far too late.

He leapt, reaching out with both paws and as he passed between two of them used his claws to rip huge gashes in the cheeks of the priests. Their hoods were no protection. They screamed and fell in complete terror not even knowing what had happened. And Dorn was fast. So fast that by the time they hit the ground he was already in the trees on the other side of the trail.

Once down the priests didn't get up again. They just lay there, shrieking and bleeding, barely able to understand the terrible damage he had done to them. That only left the third priest who'd barely even seen a blur pass between his companions. He had turned white with terror. Dica it seemed wasn't the only one who could rule his priests through fear.

Naturally the others came running, some drawing swords, some calling out in confusion;  none knowing what had happened. That was their mistake. As they ran from the machine to the fallen priests, he circled around them heading for the machine instead, and in particular the wagon loaded up with oil soaked missiles. It was the work of a heartbeat to grab the burning torch from its stand and toss it into the back of the wagon, even without hands.

Another heartbeat later Dorn was back in the safety of the forest and none were any the wiser as to what had happened. Not until the flames suddenly burst from the wagon and the sound of the fire crackling drew their attention. After that it was chaos as the soldiers milled about, not knowing what to do. Some ran for the wagon, perhaps hoping to somehow put out the fire, though that was never going to happen. Some started screaming for the other soldiers to come back. Some tried to tend to the two badly wounded priests who were clutching at their faces and crying out in pain. And some just stood there frozen like statues. But none of them realised that he was once more behind them. In their confusion it was simple to ambush them one by one. To grab them from behind and end their soldiering days.

He tore the tendons from the backs of the soldiers’ arms and legs. He ripped huge gashes in their sides. Sliced open the backs of heads. And finally, as the screaming continued he tore the face of the last priest wide open. He didn't kill them, though some might die of their wounds. He wanted to but he didn't want the glowing woman upset with him any more. Especially now that she'd offered clemency and he'd thrown that offer back in her face. She might get angry. But he also didn't kill them simply because he didn't need to. These people were no threat to him. Besides, he wanted the three injured priests with their mutilated faces to carry a message back to their foul church for him. A message that the wastes were not safe for their kind. A message written in the terrible scars they would bear for the rest of their lives.

Then, when the other soldiers finally came running back to the trail and saw what he had left for them, he sent them a message as well. That they would be walking.

A single roar was all it took. The horses were already nervous; between the fire, the roaring and the scent of blood and a big cat, they were snorting wildly and constantly sniffing the air. They were looking to bolt. Even the normally placid oxen looked worried as they stood there. So all he had to do was pad silently up behind them and let them hear him. That was all it took. They bolted, one and all, even the oxen still tethered to the burning carts, and he knew they would not stop soon. The soldiers were never going to get them back.

After that there was little to do. He stayed in the forests and watched them as they tried to tend to the wounds of the fallen and ran out of bandages. As they formed up a defensive line with shields and swords at the ready and then tried to carry the wounded away. And as they began the long slow march back to wherever they had come from. Then he followed them. He didn't want them to think they could just leave after attacking. He wanted them to truly know fear.

So every so often as they marched, he let out a small roar just to tell them he was still there, waiting. Of course he made sure never to roar twice from the same place. Sometimes he was behind them, sometimes on one side or the other. And once in a while when they thought they were safe, when they weren't looking or had lowered their shields, he took one. A lightning fast strike on an unwary soldier. Another set of deep scratches in an arm or a leg to let them all know one thing. They were not safe. Not near the fort. Not in the forests. Not in the wastes.

With luck he knew that when the tales were told – and they would be told – it would not be just one beast that had attacked them it would have been dozens. If nothing else it would help to explain their complete failure to destroy one abandoned fort. And soldiers always had to have an excuse when things went wrong. Especially when they were reporting back to their Dican masters.

As for the black priests, they spent the entire trip moaning. The bandages hadn't stopped the bleeding and their robes were soaked in blood. Their own for once. And every so often one or another of them would put his hand to his ruined face and start crying, just a little. And that was the most powerful message of all. A message that every soldier there heard.

The priests were scared. They were helpless. Nothing would crush their confidence as greatly as that. And that he hoped was the message they would bring back with them. The soldiers to their barracks. The priests to their temples.

They were not safe.