Wildling Read Online Free Page A

face.
    Dorn had hoped for a long time that his mother would come to him in his sleep. She was a dream walker and that was what they did. But her gift wasn't strong. To use it she had to be physically near the dreamer, and that hadn't been the case.
    After that he'd spent a year travelling from town to town, searching for them. Criss-crossing the realm of Lampton Heights, visiting all the towns. Asking in the alehouses and markets and anywhere else he could think to. It had been all for nought. He had never managed to find a sign of them. And every night after that he had lived with the nightmare that they had been caught and burnt alive by the black robed priests. He had heard their screaming in his dreams.
    Eventually he'd finally given up and realising that there was no hope of finding them, and he'd crossed into the wastes. In doing so he knew he was heading into the lands so dangerous that no soldiers would ever follow him. The Dicans might still want to hunt him down, but the nobles weren't about to sacrifice too many of their own soldiers to do it. Loyalty – even that bought through fear – only went so far.
    In time he'd found the ancient fort and built himself a home. A home and a name. Dorn Clearwater had become simply Dorn the trapper. Most people in the wastes used only a single name, and if they needed a second they took that of their home town. He supposed he could have called himself Dorn of Little Rock. But he never did. He was just Dorn.
    Ever since then he'd stayed here, hoping against hope that his family would find him. But they never had. And he was sure now that they never would. They had either fled too far or were dead.
    He didn't even know if they'd recognise him if they met. He'd been only a young man of twenty when they'd fled and in the six years since he'd grown a lot. He was taller and stronger than he had been and now had long ropey muscles showing everywhere. His skin was heavily tanned from spending his days in the sun. His dark hair was long and unkempt, and some said uncivilised. He tied it back with a cord when it got in the way and ignored it the rest of the time. His facial hair had come in too, and though he shaved, the bristles added a dark cast to his features. The bitterness of his past had also lent his face a dour tone. In fact people often said he was too serious by a league and a half, though the village girls liked his face well enough. They often complained that he needed a bath though that didn't seem to put them off.
    Now all he had left of his family were memories and hopes. Hopes that they were alive and well somewhere. But almost no hope that they would one day find him. The idea that they might one day ride up to the fort was less than a hope. It was a dream. An idle fancy. But it was the only dream he had.
    The truth was that his last memory of his family would be that of his little sister, frightened and crying, as she understood only a fraction of what was happening. His father's face turned ashen and lined with worry as he stood at the window searching for the approaching guards. And his mother's frightened tears running down her cheeks. The same tears he had seen in Veria's eyes.
    But there was nothing he could do for Veria. To get involved would be to risk exposing himself. And that when he didn't know what was wrong. Besides, if it was an illness it was beyond his ability to help anyway. He was no healer. But he did know the rules of survival for a wildling. Never take chances. Never expose your nature. Never get involved. Not even here in the wastes.
    In fact he had already done too much. He had already broken those rules. He had saved her life. Hopefully she would credit that to Xeria. It would be best if she did and she would have reason to. It had occurred in the shrine of Xeria. The Goddess of Home and Hearth would surely require her servants to protect her worshippers in her own shrine. But that had to be the end of his efforts. If he turned up in town and