Free Wildling by Greg Curtis Page A

taught how to craft one. They only considered other members of their clan worthy of the honour of carrying the weapon. So he must have taken it from the body of a fallen elf.
    The other oddity he discovered as he set about gathering his possessions were the hoof prints. There were far too many of them. There had only been three horses when he'd come across the man. The one Lorian was riding, the spare horse she'd brought for him, and the one Rodan had been riding. But looking at the ground and the piles of dung the horses had left behind he had to guess that there had been at least half a dozen animals there. What was more some of them were shod. None of their three horses should have been. Dusky elves didn't shoe their horses. They let their hooves grow broad and trimmed them as they needed to. It was a cruel practice as their horses often ended up lame and died sooner than they should. But dusky elves were a cruel people.
    So whose horses had been shod?
    Still, that was a matter to think on later. For the moment he just wanted to dress and feel a little more like a man again.
    Five minutes later he'd done that and was feeling a little like his old self. The wounds had healed as of course he'd known they would. Shifters healed, each form able to act as a sort of lifeboat in a storm while the other recovered. To kill a shifter, unless you could strike him instantly dead you usually had to kill him twice in quick succession. But he'd lost weight. That too he'd expected. Healing took strength and that strength had to come from somewhere. So his body had eaten into his reserves as the damaged flesh was replaced with healthy new flesh.
    But at least he was in one piece, alive and standing when any other would be dead. He was even ready to set off after them, except that he wasn't sure he wanted to. But he had little choice as they were all surely heading to the same place, or at least their tracks lead north as did his path. And he would be faster on foot than they would be riding. The compulsion to travel to Balen Rale was still strong. But he had no appetite for a battle. Least of all when he was unarmed. He would have to fletch some arrows. Then he would have to find some food.
    But before he had to worry about that he had to do a couple of things. Like stripping the bark off the side of a nearby tree abutting the trail and writing the word “Manticore” on it. He noticed the man hadn't done that either.
    Clearly Rodan wasn't a good citizen of the wastes. But that didn't surprise him. It was the least of his failings.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter Eight.
     
     
    Two nights later Dorn caught up to the others, though he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
    He'd been following them, not because he wanted to particularly but because they were all travelling the same way just as he'd expected. Wildlings one and all were heading to the ruined temple the glowing woman had told them to go to. It wasn't a choice and they all understood that.
    Apparently they’d had the same thoughts about travelling safely too. Both he and Rodan had decided to avoid the town of Broken Falls at the north end of the fisherman’s trail. Dorn had steered clear because he didn't know it and he didn't like going to places he didn't know. Especially ones that were rumoured to have been settled by brigands. Rodan and Lorian had avoided it for their own reasons. But they'd all then decided to head north north east by cutting through the rolling scrub and bush covered hills instead of taking the road from the town that cut north east. It would have been easier travelling but they both preferred the certainty of a direct route instead of taking a chance – even when the horses had to weave their way between brambles, over rough ground and around trees and it took twice as long.
    Others though had wandered through these same lands in the previous months. He knew that because he'd come across an altar to Andrias in a small clearing and