Wildling (21 page)

After that Dorn returned to his first victims, curious as to how they were getting on. It wasn't a good night for them. They were all alive, and all crying out. Begging for mercy. But he had no mercy in him. Not for them. So as they lay there begging he walked among them and started work. He tore at their faces, and their eyes. His hope was that they would bear the scars of their crimes for the rest of their lives. Scars that others would see and know to fear. The woman in the dreams was right. These people lived on fear. It was the air they breathed. And they thought they were safe from it. It was time that they understood that they weren't. That there was no safe place for them.

So he tore huge gashes in their faces, clawed their eyes out so they would spend the rest of their lives in darkness, and crippled them so that they would never hold a weapon again. And there was nothing they could do to stop him. Not then. Not ever. When he left them he knew that they would never again harm anyone. That would be beyond them.

Maybe what he did was cruel, and he was certain that Lady Sylfene would be unhappy about it. But these were monsters not men. The crimes they had committed were beyond understanding and if they weren't stopped they would commit more. They were the enemy of all family and they had to be stopped. Lady Sylfene would just have to keep her complaints to herself.

What worried him was that they'd expected him. That they'd been prepared for him. Maybe their preparations hadn't been enough and he'd won through, but still it meant that they knew about him and they might try again. They might be better prepared next time. That was bad. But it was confusing too. How had they known to expect him when he was a hundred leagues west of his home? Could their faith have granted them some knowledge? Or were they sending out assassins with every patrol and army just in case? Or – and the thought brought him cheer – was it a case of mistaken identity? Were there others nearby doing the same as him?

As he retrieved his pack from the dark patch of forest where he'd stowed it, Dorn let that thought run just a little bit wild. It was a good thing to have on his mind as he resumed his journey west. And it brought a smile to his lips. Unfortunately anyone who'd seen him would have thought he was snarling. But that too could be a good thing.

Chapter Thirty Two.

River Vale! Dorn was all but exhausted when he found the little village. After eight days of hard running and a battle to get there he had reason to be tired. But at last he had made it, and he had made it faster than anyone else could have. He was pleased with that. And with the fact that he had crippled a small army along the way, the largest foe he had yet faced. And he had done it without the white wrath.

Others had been doing the same. Other wildlings. He hadn't guessed that until the assassin had struck and foolishly opened his mouth. But since then he had been paying closer attention to all the dead patrols he had come across as he travelled, looking for proof. And he had found it.

He was sure that there was a summoner out there somewhere, something that made him very happy when he knew that his father was such a wildling. Some of the bodies showed the handiwork of more than just one type of creature. Different sized claws and tooth marks. Sometimes different numbers. And though some of them could have been done later by scavengers he still suspected it meant that an army of different beasts had descended on them, wolves, big cats, bears and others. Beasts that did not hunt together. Beasts that wouldn't normally be found in the same areas either.

Another patrol had had all their eyes burnt out. He hadn't noticed at first, not until he'd inspected the bodies closely. But when he'd seen that the irises in their white eyes had been burnt black he'd understood. A wildcast of light had struck them, and that was his sister's gift.

It seemed unlikely it was them. The patrols had been a long way away from Alador and there were other summoners and wildcasts of light. And while he had no idea how powerful his sister's gift might have become, his fathers gift wasn't strong enough to call so many powerful creatures to his aid. But still it brought him hope. As did the sheer number of dead soldiers he came across. The Dicans and the elves had come into the wastes in numbers, but they hadn't left them the same way. And the sight of River Vale in the distance brought him more. So, with his heart beating a little faster than it should he muttered a quiet prayer to Xeria for his family's survival, and walked slowly toward it.

River Vale wasn't much of a town. Really it was no more than a village; certainly no bigger than Little Rock. And the houses looked surprisingly similar; a mix of wood and stone, most of them with thatched roofs and none of them very grand. But the land was very different. Once he'd left the wastes and the endless forests, jungles, mountains and wilds for the farming land of Alador, the change had been obvious. No more hills, no more trees. Instead just league after league of rich flat farmlands. Lands of grass and crops. Lands of sheep and cattle. Lands with roads criss-crossing them, cobbled roads that could take wagons without the wheels getting stuck in mud.

But then Alador was a rich land. The farmers brought in vast wealth for their lords, and the peasants had plenty to eat. Too much by the look of the girths he could see of so many. That was so different to anywhere else he had been. In the wastes there were few who could grow enough food to get fat and there was always a lot of work to be done. People didn't have time to simply sit around eating. And in Lampton Heights whatever wealth the people brought in went to the nobles and the accursed Dicans. The rest were left to survive on the scraps. Even in the good times people went hungry.

River Vale was a cropping community, and as he walked up the road toward it, he was surrounded on all sides by leagues and leagues of wheat, sugar cane and corn. There were workers too, lots of them with big knives that they were swinging enthusiastically as they chopped the cane. He guessed that after the last couple of days of rain they had a lot of work to do in the fields. And though he knew little of cropping he was sure that in a few more weeks they'd be burning the fields. It was necessary for the new growth.

He was also sure that they had regular need of a seamstress. The workers' clothes were torn and ripped from the hard work, which explained why his mother had taken up her old trade here. There were probably quite a few seamstresses in the town.

The one thing there weren't were wanderers like him. He saw wagons all along the sides of the roads being loaded up with the cane, and drivers waiting to take them away to market. He saw workers wandering to and from the various fields. He even saw a couple of land owners riding by on their horses. But there was no one else there in leathers carrying a longbow.

It made him a little nervous as he walked along the road. More than usual. As a wildling he had spent years in hiding, always blending in with the crowds. Never drawing attention to himself. And in the wastes a man wandering around in tattered leathers and carrying a longbow would have been perfectly normal. Here though, there were no forests. There were no wild animals to hunt. He stood out.

People noticed him. The workers looked up as he passed them, curiosity in their eyes. None of them did any more than nod to him and he nodded back politely. But it still wasn't right. It wasn't safe.

In the town itself there were many more people in the streets, mainly women and children – the men were out in the fields after all – and all of them stared at him as well. They didn't nod though. They hurried on by as if he might be trouble. One of the women did tell him where to find the seamstress called Matilde, for which he thanked her. But even as he thanked her he knew he'd just made himself more of a stranger in her eyes. Her accent was quite different to his – she shortened a lot of her vowels in a way that simply didn't sound right to his ear – and he knew his own marked him as being from a distant land. So he hurried on before she could grow curious.

Or before she could grow nervous. And the people here were nervous. More than that – worried. He could see it in the way they watched him. The same way that people had watched one another in Lampton Heights before they had fled. Because they knew that anybody could be a wildling or follow another god. And they knew that the Dicans would be upset if they were.

Alador he guessed was falling under the sway of the black priests faster than he'd expected.

But when Dorn found the small cottage, though that was probably too grand a word for the small stone walled shack it truly was, everything else faded into insignificance. Especially when he walked across the road to the front door, took a nervous breath, and knocked.

“Yes?”

It was her! He knew it was his mother even before she came to the door. He knew her voice. And something deep within him wanted to fall down and cry then and there. It had been so long. There had been so little hope.

“It's Dorn.”

The door opened and he saw his mother's face for the first time in so many years, and after that it was sweet confusion. She was in his arms, kissing him, laughing and crying hysterically and he was no better. In fact their was moisture on his cheeks. But he didn't care. He didn't care about anything save that she was there. That she was alive when for years he had lived with the fear that they were dead. He had finally found them.

Her face was older, maybe a little more lined than before. There was a touch of grey in her long curly brown locks. And she looked tired. But that didn't matter as he held her. Only that after all this time he had a mother again, and he hoped, a family as well.

Inside her home though he soon discovered something that caught him completely by surprise. A little boy, five years old who he was told was his brother Adain. A little boy he would never have thought possible, since he'd thought his parents were past that time in their lives. But as the boy stared at him curiously through his big brown eyes, no doubt wondering who he was, Dorn's thoughts turned to the rest of the family.

“Father? Terra?” He was sure they were alive – they simply had to be.

“
They're well.” They were the two most precious words he had ever heard, and Dorn almost wept at hearing them.

“
Your father is working in Becksdale as the book keeper for Moran the trader. He gets a day off every ten and comes home. Terra recently wed Thymis, a crofter down the road. Nice young man. He's a waterwright.”

It was so much to take in for Dorn that it took him a moment to understand it all. His whole family was alive and well! But there was still one thing that struck him when he could concentrate on more than just the simple fact that they were alive.

“Terra's wedded?”

He couldn't believe it. His little sister was now married!  The last time he'd seen her she'd had her hair done up in cute little braids like any other child. But then she wasn't eleven any more he slowly realised. She was seventeen. Young, but not so young as she had been. And she had always secretly been a follower of Oliviane, keeping a sprig of heather under her clothes, near to her heart. It was a common enough thing in young girls, even in the towns run by the Dicans. The Goddess of Love was important to them. And even the fear of death couldn't stop the practice.

“Yes. Three months back. Too young really but she was determined. And now she's Terra Edan.”

“
She blames herself you know. For giving our secret away. And she thought she'd got you killed. She cried for years, even when your father told her you were surely safe. That you were faster than the hunters.”

“
Much faster.” Though that was something even he hadn't known for certain until the day had come when he'd had to run.

“
We waited in Aldershot for you. As long as we could. But the church had sent hunters after us and we had to run.”

“
I guessed.”

Dorn had always known that the Dicans would hunt them. It was their way. They would allow no wildling to live. “But they chased me for weeks, dogs and hunters without end, and I couldn't get there. Not for ages. And when I did make it there you were gone. I just didn't know if they'd caught you.”

“Nor we you.” And Dorn didn't need to see the tears rolling down his mother's cheeks to know that. Tears of pain and relief. Regrets and joy all mixed up. The same tears that were threatening his own cheeks. “Your father swore you were fast. That they'd never catch you. But we didn't know. And we had to run.”

She was repeating herself a little bit he realised. But he couldn't blame her for that. He was probably not making complete sense himself. It was only to be expected. Six long years of worry were finally being released. It was an emotional time.

Soon Dorn began telling her a little of his life apart from them. Of the fort and the wastes while his mother told him something of theirs. Their stories were the same in so many ways. A tale of running and hiding for weeks and months, searching without success for one another and then eventually having to make new lives in strange lands while fearing for those they'd lost. But it hadn't been exactly the same for them as it had been for him. Not quite. His family had at least had each other. He had been left with only his fear and his anger.

As his mother boiled him a cup of ginger tea and told him of all that had passed, he slowly understood that. His family had changed, grown, moved on without him, while he had been essentially stuck where he had been for six years. For some reason he had imagined them being stuck the same way. But it was good that they hadn't been, even if it shocked him. And in the end there was only one thing that mattered. That they were alive.

But for how much longer? Eventually he had to ask. And he knew he should have asked earlier. In fact it should almost have been the first question out of his mouth.

“
Are you safe?” It was a question that every wildling surely asked. The more so in these difficult days.

“
For the moment. The Dicans tried to build a temple nearby but it fell down in the middle of the night when cattle stampeded. And the main temple in Badenscroft burnt. They said that over a hundred Dicans burnt with it.”

Over a hundred? No matter who had done it, it was a good count Dorn thought. The black priests were being punished for their crimes. But he knew the Dicans would not let that go. They would strike back – hard. They would hunt down whoever had done that to them, and they would be brutal about it. Anyone and everyone who might know something or was suspicious in any way would be interrogated and killed. Guilt and innocence did not matter to the Dicans. And eventually as the church continued its campaign they would find someone to blame. But that wasn't what mattered. While they worked, the Dicans would also be making a list. Hunting out anyone who might either be a wildling or a follower of another god. And then they would start burning. Every wildling understood that. His mother did too.

“They will be back?”

“
They will be back,” she confirmed his dark thoughts just as he'd expected her to. That was why she'd said they were safe only for the moment. The Dicans would strike back. It was only a question of when and how. And of course who they found to strike back at.

“
And you have plans to travel? North perhaps?”

“
You mean to the temple?”

“
You know of Balen Rale?” Dorn was surprised and yet probably he shouldn't have been. Sena had said that others were being called, and when he had been at the temple he had been far from alone. There had been thousands there and since then he had watched hundreds if not thousands more making their way north through the wastes. It was just that for some reason he had thought of the wildlings coming up from the southern lands. Not Alador where he'd thought all was well.