Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (7 page)

Kalry cried as Quin lifted her off her feet again.
With a swift stroke, he sliced through the mass of hair beneath his fist. She
dropped to the ground and he flung the thick handful onto her. “How am I going
to sell you with hair like this? It belongs on a deck-mop! I’ll have to have
your head shaved.” He smiled as he walked away.

Aedan was breathing heavily. The tears that ran
down his cheeks were liquid fire. His now-bloody fingers itched for Quin’s
neck. The man’s mask was finally gone and the slaver was revealed. It was not a
face of obvious cruelty – twisted and sneering – but rather one of utter
indifference to the anguish of others, an airy comfort with his work, his
destruction of lives.

Kalry was not far from Aedan. If he ran and cut
her bonds, the two of them could probably make it into the forest. Quin was
looking away and only one of his men was with him. Aedan pushed the branch
aside and measured the distance. But then he realised that he was not thinking
far ahead. If he risked freeing her now, there was good chance he would fail
and be caught, and then there would be no hope. Emroy would sit tight just as Quin
had foreseen and no warning would reach the sheriff in time.

The logic tore him. It was cold and heartless, yet
what it demanded was the better choice. He looked at Kalry. She trembled with
sobs, her shorn locks scattered over her like refuse. All his morning’s agonies
were forgotten as his heart broke for her.

He would not fail. He
could
not fail.

Quin’s men returned in groups. They were given terse
orders and began to get the captives to their feet, roping them by the necks
and untying the bonds on their ankles. Quin kept barking orders, clearly eager
to be gone with his catch. When they were ready, he spoke,

“You will march. We move at speed and in silence.
Anyone who attempts to slow us or makes any kind of noise, even a question,
will be executed immediately – man, woman or child.”

He gave a string of orders and three men moved to
the front of the line of captives. One of them took the rope and tugged. Dresbourn’s
head jerked and he staggered forward, pulling the line behind him. Aedan began
to count. Forty-seven captives, twenty-seven slavers. He sat tight. Another
three arrived. The line disappeared into the forest and Quin’s men set to work
covering the trail that had been left. They were thorough. Aedan was glad that
he was watching – even his father might have missed such a carefully hidden
trail. If they continued to show this kind of caution he would need to keep
them in sight, but if he followed now he would be alone. And what could he do
alone?

He looked around the farmyard and an idea struck
him. It was an outrageous plan. No sane person would consider something like
this, but it was perfect.

He crept back onto the hidden deer track and
sprinted to where he had left Emroy. The older boy was still there,
sweat-soaked and pasty. Aedan explained what he had seen as quickly as he was
able. Every word was putting him another yard behind the slavers. When he had
finished with his observations, he explained his plan and Emroy’s jaw dropped.

“You want me to do what?” he gasped. “If anyone
finds out it will be all over for me!”

“If you don’t do this it will be over for everyone
at Badgerfields. Emroy, I can’t be in two places at once. I need your help. If
you do this it will be like a thousand bridge jumps. Everyone will think of you
as a hero.”

Emroy considered. He reached for his chin hairs
with shaking fingers. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it. But remember that it’s your
idea. And just so you know, I think it’s terrible.”

Aedan had a sudden urge to kick Emroy, but he
pushed it aside. “Wait until you can no longer see or hear the slavers. If they
are too close they will come back. But don’t wait long or it will be too late.”

Emroy blinked and nodded.

Aedan led him back to his vantage point and left him
with the crossbow and a whispered reminder of the plan. Then he slipped under a
leafy branch and was gone.

Emroy’s mumbled words drifted after him, “Idiotic
plan. Utterly idiotic!”

Nulty scratched his head as he cast one final look out
towards the distant farm.

“Well, Pebble, if we wait any longer we’ll be marked
as spies. It’s time we –”

That was as far as he got. His little blue eyes
grew as round as his gaping mouth. “Oh, oh, oh my whiskers … Lanor!
Lanor!
”

He sprang into the saddle as if the ground were on
fire and set off at a gallop that pulled the whiskers flat against his cheeks.

The party had been walking for some time, but
Nulty caught them after a few miles.

“Lanor!” he yelled as he came careening round the
bend at perilous speed. The men drew to a stop and Nulty burst into their
midst.

“The farm – it’s on fire!” he gasped.

“On fire?” Lanor said.

“There’s a huge tower of smoke growing thicker and
darker by the moment. The only time I’ve seen fire like that is when houses
burn down.”

The sheriff levelled his eyes at him. “If this
turns out to be another wind chase then you are spending a day in the stocks.”

“I accept. And if it’s not, will you spend a day’s
wages in my store?”

Lanor grunted something, then raised his voice and
gave the order to head back to the farm. There was more than one complaint, and
two or three of the men ignored him. They were not soldiers and did not need to
obey. The rest of the party cantered back to the bend and there they saw what
Nulty had described, only now it was twice the size – a swirling pillar of grey
and black that flung shards of fire from its turbulent innards. Nothing could
have sent a bolder message of tragedy.

Without a word, Lanor kicked his horse and galloped
forward. There was no hesitation this time as the rest followed.

The first impression they had on entering the
farmyard was bewildering. They rode into a snowfall of stringy ash and blinding
smoke. Even so, the glare and roar of the flames cut through the haze. At a
good two hundred feet, the men at the front cried out and held their hands
before their faces as the wind backed and the heat struck them.

It was not the house but the hay shed that was
burning, and not a soul was to be seen looking on or dousing the flames, though
by this stage nobody could have carried or even thrown a bucket anywhere near
the inferno.

A pallid red-headed boy emerged from behind a bush
and shouted over the din to Lanor. They drew back until they could speak.

“Emroy?” Lanor asked. “Son of Mennox?” Everyone
knew the district’s titled men and their kin.

 The boy nodded. He looked sick with worry. “They
have all been carried into the forest,” he said, pointing with rattling
fingers. “They covered their tracks, but Aedan is following and will leave
marks on the trees.”

Lanor looked as if he were about to strike
someone.

Emroy backed away a step.

“Who were they?” Lanor asked.

“That pompous lieutenant’s men, whatever his name
is. Big, ugly-looking brutes, all well-armed. They spoke some filthy-sounding
language I couldn’t understand.”

“How many were they?”

“Thirty.”

Lanor glanced at his men, at the collapsing barn,
then back at Emroy. The boy looked as if he were about to justify himself.

“You’ve done well,” Lanor said, pre-empting Emroy.
“No soldier could have done better with only two men. This was all your idea?”

Emroy hesitated, but only for an instant. “Yes,”
he said.

Lanor gripped the boy’s shoulder and turned to
address those who had not heard.

“It seems we have a young general in our midst,”
he announced, then explained what had been done and what lay before them. Many
of the men nodded their approval at Emroy who accepted it with a tired grace.

“We all know the stories about Nymliss. Now we
have no choice but to forget them. Any man who turns away, knowing what has befallen
our friends, will be denounced as a coward to the town. If these criminals who abduct
even women and children can enter Nymliss, then by the giants’ wrath so can
we!”

There was a loud cheer, though several faces had
turned very white.

Horses would not be able to pass through the
tangled undergrowth so they were left in Emroy’s care, despite the noticeable squirming
in his manner. He seemed eager to be off at speed, his back to the scene.

Men readied their weapons, and after Emroy showed
them where the slavers had entered the forest, they soon found the first of Aedan’s
cuts on a branch where the bark had been sliced and peeled back, leaving a pale
scar.

After he had taken a few steps, Lanor stopped and
shouted to Emroy, “How good a lead do they have?”

Emroy considered. “It was still grey when they
left.”

The sheriff looked at the sun that was now clearing
the smaller trees. He cursed, then turned and plunged into the riot of dense
undergrowth.

Aedan held his breath and tried to squeeze deeper
into the soil under the fallen log, hoping his deerskin jacket would help him
melt away. It was a poor hiding place, but it had been a desperate scramble to elude
an unexpected glance. One of the three trail-sweepers had grown suspicious as Aedan
had grown bold and followed too closely.

The man was creeping past him now in a half crouch,
dagger raised. Not much concealed Aedan – only a few branches and the log under
which he had wormed himself. The log was in that crumbling stage of rot, and Aedan
had a tough time keeping still as he felt things drop onto his back and neck and
begin to crawl around. A sharp pain on his arm showed him what he should have
expected. Ants. The little red ones with tempers to match their colour. His arm
had dug right through their nest and a sizable army was swarming over the
offending limb. If he so much as flinched, he would be discovered and caught,
or worse. He grimaced as the bites multiplied.

The crouching man paused. He listened and swept
his gaze slowly around. Aedan shut his eyes as the man’s search passed over
him. In games, he’d found that eyes often gave someone away – they were
frequently to blame for that treacherous reflection or flicker of movement.
Finally the man straightened up and returned to the others. They spoke loudly
and disappeared around a bend.

Aedan wasn’t fooled. He’d also used this trick. He
rubbed the ants off his arm, edged a little ways forward to where he could see
over the roots, and waited. When they should have covered a half mile, he heard
the faintest crack. It was enough. He remained where he was. A little while
later he saw a branch shudder. The three men slid out from their ambush,
peering round the corner and back up the empty track before moving off. This
time their withdrawal appeared genuine, but there was no telling if they would
wait again further along. He considered his options.

If he stayed where he was, he could join up with Lanor
and his men. Together they could track and fall on the slavers at their camp,
wherever that would be. Many would die, perhaps even some of the captives from
Badgerfields. The idea sickened him.

He remembered something and checked his pocket –
the vial was still there. He had taken it on impulse, not really knowing what
to do with it, but suddenly he had an idea.

Another ten miles ahead was a cave that opened
into a clearing beside a spring. It would be irresistible. Surely that was
where the slavers were headed. Apart from two or three splits that circled through
the bush and got lost in hog burrows, the faint track they were using would
take them directly there. Hopefully Lanor and his crew would be able follow the
trail from here onward.

Aedan would have to take another route and reach
the cave ahead of Quin. He placed a few branches on the ground, making an
arrow, then crept into a vine-strewn thicket and pressed deeper into the
forest. Once he was far enough in, he began to move in a way that showed he was
no stranger here.

Since his fifth birthday, his father had
encouraged him to explore, to grow familiar with the language of the forest,
and learn to move through it quickly and silently.

To say he ran would be misleading. He flowed,
leaping over gullies, skimming under branches and bending around tree trunks at
a speed that never dipped. What was most remarkable was the sound – apart from
the brushing of trousers he was nearly silent. This was his secret place where
he had found adventures beyond counting and mostly beyond telling, for it was unwise
to talk of entering Nymliss.

The pace took a toll though, and after a few miles
he was scratched from the rank thorns and grazed from tumbles where fallen
leaves concealed slippery rocks. It was a reckless pace, but he had to win back
the time or it would be for nothing.

He was ragged when he eventually topped a crest
and looked out. This was one of the few places he had found where he could
sweep his gaze over the canopy and see the slow folds of the great forest
rooftop. Before him was a long and steep valley. Beyond it, thickly wooded
hills emerged through the mist – a hazy first breath of the damp forest
awakened by a swelling sun. The river tumbling down below was as noisy as the birds.
It almost drowned out the stream that gurgled past the clearing.

Aedan did no more than glance to find his
bearings. He crept towards a short drop of crumbling soil and tried to work his
way down. The ground began to slide from under his shoes. A quick look ahead revealed
a monkey vine just out of reach. More earth started to crumble around him. It
was closer to a reaction than a decision – he leapt out into the air and
snatched the vine with both hands, just ahead of the rumble and hiss of falling
rock and debris. The vine, fortunately, reached all the way to the ground. Aedan
clambered down and dropped into the thicket at the edge of the clearing.

He took a few steps forward and then stopped,
calling himself a fool. His boots were leaving clear tracks. He took them off
and tried walking barefoot, but this wasn’t good enough either. An experienced
tracker would see. After a moment of uncertainty, he came up with a way to
puzzle any tracker. He tied his jacket to one foot and his shirt to the other
and arranged them until he was walking on cushions that left no recognisable
print on the bare ground.

The clearing was generous, but the massive
branches hung thick and full over the space, leaving only a central gap where
sunlight poured through. Here, standing proudly in the light, a tall, dried-out
oak retained its old ground. Dead roots still reached into the earth and held
up the massive trunk, a statue that honoured the once-majestic life. A creeper
that had once thrived in its branches clung stiff and stark. It looked like an
impossibly big spiderweb that had become knotted and tangled during a gale.
Some of the threads hung down not too far from a fireplace ringed with stones.
It gave Aedan an idea, but as he peered up at the smooth branches, he realised how
dangerous the climb would be. And the first part of the climb did not even
appear humanly possible. He looked around, but all the other plans he could
assemble were pitiful in comparison or would require a large team of labourers
to set up.

He walked to the base of the tree and noted the
prints of many boots, the ashy powder not yet dislodged from the exposed
surfaces around the fireplace, and the edges of blackened cinders that were
still sharp. This was definitely their camp, no more than a day or two old.

His eyes drifted back to the oak tree.
Could
it be climbed? It would have taken half-a-dozen men to ring the trunk with
their arms, so hugging and edging upwards would not work here. He spotted a
series of finger-sized pockets that had been left by some wood-boring creature.
A little above that was a woodpecker’s hole, and above that, a horribly thick
and smooth branch that he might just be able to scramble onto. From there he
could see a way up, but it would be slippery, and high. He looked to where the
creeper hung and his stomach twisted. Experience told him that looking down
would double the distance. The bark-stripped, smooth surfaces would double that
again.

He almost walked away, but then he thought of Kalry
and of Quin, and the knife that had torn through her hair.

He kicked off his cloth shoes, plugged his fingers
in the holes in the aged trunk, and hauled himself off the ground. For once,
his lightness was to his advantage. Nevertheless, tendons screamed and arms
shook as his bare feet searched in vain for some purchase on the slippery wood.
Groaning and shaking with the effort, he lifted himself as high as he could and
raised one foot until he could work his large toe into a small pocket in the
wood. It was an uncomfortable position but he held it only long enough to catch
his breath. Then, with his chin and chest sliding against the surface, he
pushed off the already-aching toe and hauled on his numb fingers until he could
snatch up with his left hand and jab two fingers into the next pocket. He
tottered for an instant, his weight almost carrying him over backwards, but
there was just enough grip to keep his fingers from slipping out. Finding a
second toe-hold, he managed to work his way up to larger pockets that admitted
three fingers. It was becoming easier, but this was still the most difficult
and treacherous tree he had ever attempted.