Wildling

by Curtis, Greg

  But then there was also the obvious question; where were they going? The valley led to the Eteris mountains themselves and presumably a pass through them into the centre of the wastes. But the mountains were extremely dangerous, the centre of the wastes more so and there was nothing there. The heart of the wastes was a desolate place, filled with the most deadly of creatures and far too dangerous for anyone to call them home. There was nothing in the centre. No towns, no temples, no people. Nothing except death. So who were they planning on attacking?

  Surely they couldn't be planning on marching right through the heart of the wastes, heading north to the other side and then travelling on to Terris Lee! Could they? It seemed insane. Anyone with even a pinch of Warreth the White's wisdom would know to go around them. But he couldn't think of any other reason to travel through them save that it was the most direct route to the other side. Unless there was actually something in the heart of the wastes that they wanted to destroy. But if so, what? Could there be some sort of town there? It seemed unlikely. And if there was it would have to be incredibly well defended just to ward off the creatures that called the heart of the wastes home. Some said there were snap dragons in there. Surely any town that could survive there would be too well defended for this army to attack. It made no sense.

  Three hundred men at arms marching north towards the very centre of the wastes heading for nowhere. Clearly it meant something. He didn't know what. He didn't know why they were there. But he knew they had a reason and it would involve death. A lot of death.

  In the end though where they were going or why didn't matter. The question was what should he do about it? They were nowhere near Little Rock so his home wasn't under threat. He also had no more of the white wrath on him. He hadn't thought to bring any with him since he had had no plans to fight anyone. There was no one they could attack, at least not nearby. And there were three hundred of them, more than he'd ever faced before at once. To attack them would be suicide. And he had a long way to go and a family to find and bring to safety. He couldn't afford to die now. The safe choice was to simply remain in the trees and let them go past. The chances were that they were going to run into something deadly in the heart of the wastes and die anyway. That was, assuming they even made it through the mountains filled with goblins and trolls.

  And yet there were Dicans among them.

  The sight of the Dicans angered him. It always did and he knew it always would. But to have so many of them there in one place at one time seemed like a blessing too great to pass up. Staring down at them he knew an intense desire to punish them again. To hurt them. And they needed to be hurt.

  Fairly quickly it became a question of not if he should attack them, but how he could do it without getting himself killed. It always did.

  He had a little time to plan. Sena had given him the name of the village his mother was living in, and he had covered half of that journey already. The best part of a hundred leagues in only a few days. Not many could do that on foot. Of course not many had four feet or could run for hours on end. But even so he was tired. He could use a little rest.

  Besides, night would be the best time to attack. When they weren't ready for it. When darkness concealed him.

  As he sat there in the trees watching them slowly crawl their way up through the valley, Dorn knew his decision had been made.

  Chapter Thirty One.

  The scouts were the first to meet him in battle, though they never saw him. He simply grabbed them as they went about their rounds, heading a little too close to the trees for their own safety. And one by one they went down without a sound as he simply grabbed them and smashed them hard into the nearest trees. And then, while they lay there on the ground, somewhat broken, he stalked his first true target; the wagons filled with oil.

  The Dicans would regret bringing their war machines into the wastes.

  It was the work of minutes to creep under the two oil wagons, sever the ties holding the barrels in place on the wagons and then use his claws to tear some holes in the wooden staves so that the oil leaked out. Little holes. He didn't need it to pour out in great rivers, a few steady trickles were enough for what he wanted. In any case he didn't want to get any on himself.

  Then, after enough oil had covered the floor of the wagons, he used a small flint to set the first one alight. Naturally the oil caught fire. That was what it was meant to do after all, and in seconds there were flames leaping for the sky. Dorn took that as his cue to push the wagon into the camp, something that was made all the easier because they had foolishly parked the wagons at the head of the column, on a small flat at the top of the gentle rise leading in to the mountains. Slightly above the camp. He simply released the brake and gave the first one a push as only a shifter could. After that it was time to sit back and watch the chaos unfold.

  The flaming wagon rolled into the camp, gaining a little speed over the fifty or so yards to the nearest soldiers, and the noise of its rumbling as it covered the ground woke some of the soldiers. But not enough and not in time. Although some called out warnings, by then it was too late as the flaming wagon was already in their midst, trailing fire behind it.

  Soldiers yelled and scrambled to their feet as they ran in all directions, doing their best to get out of the way of the flaming wagon. Many however, weren't quick enough. The wagon smashed into them, knocking them in all directions, and each impact and every bump in the uneven ground sent more oil and more fire spraying everywhere. Soon the barrels themselves were tumbling off the wagons, rolling down the slope scattering burning oil over anyone too slow to get out of the way. Complete confusion reigned as men ran screaming while fire filled the land.

  For a while none of the soldiers realised that they were under attack. They were too busy trying to get out of the way of the burning barrels of oil. And that gave him all the time he needed to release the hand break on the second wagon and give it a push. For this one though he needed to use more of his strength to get it up to speed. He needed it to run smoothly and quickly down the hill. To hit hard and without warning. The soldiers didn’t see it coming. In their panic they couldn't hear it over their yelling, and in the darkness they couldn't see it. Not when the first wagon was on fire, and their eyes could see nothing else but the bright yellow flames in front of them.

  The second wagon smashed into their midst at speed, crashing into soldiers, sending them and their equipment flying. Its barrels tumbled in all directions as it bounced over the bumps in the ground. Oil from the broken barrels poured all over the ground and then promptly exploded. More huge fireballs abruptly leapt for the stars while flames spread out in all directions, swiftly turning the entire camp site into a forest of flames.

  By then he guessed some of the men probably did realise they were under attack but they could do nothing about it as they had to escape the inferno that was slowly covering the entire trail. Especially not when a lot of them were on fire themselves and running around screaming. And that gave Dorn all the time he needed to slip back into the forest, unseen.

  Once in the safety of the trees and covered in shadows and night he shifted fully back into his human form, drew his longbow and started using it to teach them a lesson they'd not soon forget. It was easy. They couldn't see him, most of them didn't even know they were under attack and because of the general chaos ensuing, when one soldier went down with an arrow in him no one noticed it. Many others were going down simply because they were too slow to get out of the way. The rest were screaming and running away from the flames. The hardest part was accuracy. He could see perfectly in the dark, he had become an expert archer of late, his bow was good and his arrows straight. But the soldiers were running around so much that they made difficult targets. Difficult but not impossible.

  Dorn did his best to cripple the soldiers, taking out arms and legs of any that were within range. But any Dicans he could see he hurt badly, burying arrows deep in their bellies. They'd apparently forgotten to wear their armour, no doubt thinking t
he presence of so many soldiers would keep them safe instead. It was a mistake they would learn to regret. Some would survive the wounds, some wouldn't, but none would forget the arrows that had come from out of the darkness. None of them would forget that even surrounded by hundreds of soldiers they were not safe. And all of them would blame the dusky elves.

  And Lady Sylfene might hate it but she couldn't say it was murder. It was war and he hadn't set out to kill them.

  Five minutes later he stopped firing because he had to. He was out of arrows. And he knew that at least seventy of them were buried deep in the flesh of the soldiers and the black priests. It was every arrow he had. Arrows were coming back at him by then, but the soldiers couldn't see him in the darkness while their eyes were blinded with fire. They couldn't even see where his arrows were coming from. Their arrows flew in all directions.

  It was a victory and Dorn felt the urge to cheer. But he contained it. He didn't want to give them a target to aim at. Still, while he might not have defeated the army he had at least blooded its nose and crippled its war machines. It was time to carry out the last part of his plan. To get rid of the horses so that the army was reduced to foot traffic. And that was simplicity itself.

  The horses had all been tied up at one end of the camp, and in the confusion they had been forgotten. But he hadn't forgotten them. And he knew that getting rid of them was crucial. Without them the army would be completely crippled. Wagons filled with provisions could not move without horses to pull them so the soldiers would have to carry them. The war machines and the wagons loaded down with boulders couldn't be transported to wherever they'd been planning on using them. And whatever temples they'd been planning on destroying would survive a little longer.

  Dorn shifted back into his panther form and crept into their midst. Naturally the horses saw him and panicked a little, snorting wildly. But they'd already been panicking before that, frightened by the commotion and the fire and none of the soldiers noticed any change.

  Not until he roared.

  Then everybody noticed. The horses instantly bolted, whinnying in terror, ripping themselves free of their tethers and stampeding into the darkness. The soldiers started yelling and drew their weapons as they prepared to charge. A few even sent arrows in his general direction finally knowing which direction to aim in. Of course they missed by a wide margin in the darkness, but at least it showed that they had finally worked out roughly where he was.

  Dorn headed back into the safety of the trees after that, just in case one of them did get lucky with an arrow. And then he congratulated himself on another successful raid. Even without the white wrath he'd managed to blunt an attack.

  But he congratulated himself too early.

  The first he realised it was when he saw the shadow in the trees move, streaking for him from out of the darkness. A figure. A man in a black robe with black bladed knives in his hands. Poisoned daggers at a guess. Dorn dodged, barely avoiding the assassin's blades, and then slipped behind a tree while the man fairly flew past him. Then he watched as the man stopped, spun on his toes like a dancer and came for him again.

  “You think you can escape me little cat.” The man – the assassin – tried to taunt him, perhaps guessing what he was, or maybe just trying to bolster his own confidence. He hadn't expected to miss. “You can't.”

  The assassin advanced on his position and Dorn knew he could see in the darkness where the others couldn't. Perhaps not as well as a cat could, but well enough. Enough that he would see him if he moved. But maybe not if he stood very still. So he did just that, standing there motionless as the assassin tried to find him. Watching him as the assassin crept in his general direction. The man turned lightly on the balls of his feet as his head whipped left and right, searching for him. But it was in vein. Dorn’s spotted coat bended perfectly with the dappled moonlight breaking through the trees.

  “The high priest, he knows you're out here. He sent me to hunt you down. You and yours.”

  The assassin couldn't seem to stop talking and Dorn wasn't completely sure why. There came a point where taunting simply wasn't any more use, and surely it had come when he hadn't reacted to his first attempt. Still, as long as the man kept walking by him as he seemed to be doing, that was fine by him. Hopefully the assassin was just distracting himself.

  “There is no escape. Not for your kind.” The man took a couple of steps too many and moved past him, never noticing him and Dorn knew a moment of relief. But it was short lived as he knew what he had to do. And when the man took a couple more steps and was barely six feet away from him, looking in the wrong direction Dorn seized his chance. He crouched silently, summoned all of his strength and leapt, landing on the assassin’s back.

  The man screamed as he tried to spin, and Dorn was surprised by his speed and his strength. But he still wasn't strong enough or fast enough to shake him off and Dorn carried him to the ground, his claws digging deep into his flesh. Then he leapt off him, tearing out great gouges of flesh as he did so, causing the man to scream as he never had before.

  The man scrambled to his feet immediately, his terror refusing to let him lie there and die. But he was injured and the blood loss from his wounds would soon start to rob him of his strength.

  “Is that it? Is that the best you can do?” The assassin screamed at him, his voice filled with both terror and rage. He was on the verge of madness. Actually he might have slipped over the edge – all the way into it. “My master won't let you defeat me!”

  And then the man ran at him, charging like a bull at where he thought Dorn was. But he was out of luck. He'd been turned around in the fight and lost his bearings. He sailed straight past him. Dorn took the chance to leap on him again, sending him sprawling to the ground again and burying his claws deep in the assassin's shoulder before pulling them free and tearing his muscles apart.

  The man screamed and Dorn roared, filling the land with the sound of his power. A sound that echoed through the still night air and had people shouting. It had his would be assassin screaming in terror.

  The next time the man got up it was to run. To run screaming with one arm hanging and one knife left lying on the forest floor. He'd finally realised that he was not going to win, no matter what his master had promised him.

  Dorn let him run for a bit, curious as he heard other people shouting in the distance. People heading his way. And since he knew they weren't soldiers he guessed they had to be more of the accursed priests. Trained soldiers wouldn't shout out like that in the middle of a battle, giving away their position. He didn't hear the sounds of leather on metal that went with soldiers in armour either.

  Dorn followed the wounded assassin at a discreet distance, wanting to see what else the Dicans had in store for him. Wondering what the man was too. A priest or an assassin? Or something else? There had always been stories that the church used assassins. To strike in secret at those who were too powerful to attack head on. But he'd always wondered why. The church was so powerful that they didn't need such people. They simply killed everyone they wanted to. That was one of the reasons the nobility were so scared of them.

  The assassin quickly found the arms of his brothers, terror lending his feet speed, before he all but collapsed and his brothers had to catch him. Then they had to carry him. But that Dorn decided was not going to happen. There were only three of them, probably all that had managed to avoid his arrows, and he always had a score to settle with the black robed priests.

  He crept up on them and then struck fast, silently but terribly, letting his claws rip out the shoulder blades of the nearest priest. The man fell screaming, the assassin with him, but by the time they'd hit the ground Dorn was already behind the others. Then he struck again, using his claws to slice the back of a head of one of the other priest’s open. All the way to the bone. He fell screaming as well, blood pouring down his back.

  That left only one, and he broke and ran. Apparently he wasn't as confident of his god as the others, and he fled bef
ore his lack of faith could be put to the test. But no man on foot was as fast as a panther, and Dorn caught him long before he'd covered the distance back to the camp. Two quick strikes and the man would never run again as the tendons were torn out of the backs of his legs. And then when he fell pleading for his life, Dorn let his claws rip right through his face as well. After that the priest didn't move. He just lay on the ground, bleeding and sobbing. Begging for mercy when he could. But there was no mercy. Not for his kind. He left him, not for mercy but simply because the priest was already so badly injured that he would never fully recover.

  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.