Read Online Wanderling (Spirit Seeker Book 1) by Hannah Stahlhut - Free Book Online
Authors: Hannah Stahlhut
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criminals to populate an entire village.”
“Branding someone doesn’t make
them infertile, you know. They call us Wanderlings—the descendants of banished
criminals.”
“And, of course, you supplement
your population by capturing wayward travelers,” Adala added with a bite to her
voice. “Don’t forget that.”
Tobin’s voice was bitter. “It’s
only fair, isn’t it? Wanderlings aren’t welcome in your town because of what
our ancestors did. I would be as worthless as a mangy stray. We treat wanderers
from Gerstadt with slightly more courtesy, offering them places in our community
as slaves.”
His last word made her gulp.
I will be no man’s slave.
Chapter 8: Shem
As Shem and his captors reached
the summit of a hill overlooking the Wanderling village, a great bustle of
movement unfolded before him. Haphazard rows of shanties and tents lay in the
valley below, people lingering in the streets and children playing. Shem spied
a herd of goats at the opposing edge of the valley and horses tethered to posts
outside tents. Meager crops sprouted here and there in an unorganized manner—a yellow
patch of new corn, some already-dry winter wheat. Shem marveled at the sheer
size of this village. Hundreds of tents lay before him, and people of all ages
bustled through the streets, worked the fields, and spread hay for the
livestock.
“Why doesn’t anybody know about
your village?” Shem asked, baffled to see so many people living in secret
behind the shelter of the mountains.
“Your town isn’t keen on
outsiders,” Jarod replied shortly.
The horses picked up their pace as
they navigated down a path on the side of the hill, perking their ears and
whinnying at the sight of their home. The wind carried the scent of smoke and
meat up the valley, making Shem’s stomach growl as they arrived at the edge of
town. Tanned and half-clothed children scurried away and peered at him from
behind tent flaps, eyes round and curious. Adults and youths took note of Jarod
and his men’s arrival with curiosity, some whispering. Shem felt exposed in
front of them, filthy and barefoot, still wearing his nightshirt. Yet the others
showed signs of neglect almost as strong. A girl his own age wore a tattered
skirt that scarcely reached her knees. A young boy walked past without any
shoes, and his hair was a scraggly mess hanging in tatters to his shoulders.
The middle-aged men in the street, who paid little attention to Shem’s passing,
were greasy, weathered beasts with unkempt beards, but none of them showed
signs of violence. They went about their business, carrying bushels of crops
and speaking animatedly in groups. Barely any of them even had brands, as far
as Shem could tell.
A couple of buildings ahead of
them were built of gray stone, the roofs made from patchy leather and canvas
canopies. Jarod tugged the reins to stop in front of the largest structure,
where men mulled outside with crossbows and knives at their hips.
“Willie, take Havard to a healer
straight away. I need to talk to Burano now,” Jarod ordered. “We had a change
of plans in Gerstadt, and I hope to gods it was worth the trouble.”
Shem sucked in a nervous breath as
he was pulled off of the horse and roughly prodded past the guards and through
the doorway of the larger stone structure. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and
he saw a wide windowless room inside with a gigantic table in the middle and a
bed to his left, plus a row of trunks to his right.
From behind the table rose a
broad-shouldered man with greying hair and a trimmed black beard. Something
about him emanated authority, and Shem thought, This must be Burano, the
commander that Jarod and his men talk about . Shem blinked to notice an H
branded into the leader’s forehead. He could not think of any words starting
with an H sound that were against the law, but he wasn’t great with letters yet
anyway. His stomach quivered at the thought that he was now in the presence
“Branding someone doesn’t make
them infertile, you know. They call us Wanderlings—the descendants of banished
criminals.”
“And, of course, you supplement
your population by capturing wayward travelers,” Adala added with a bite to her
voice. “Don’t forget that.”
Tobin’s voice was bitter. “It’s
only fair, isn’t it? Wanderlings aren’t welcome in your town because of what
our ancestors did. I would be as worthless as a mangy stray. We treat wanderers
from Gerstadt with slightly more courtesy, offering them places in our community
as slaves.”
His last word made her gulp.
I will be no man’s slave.
Chapter 8: Shem
As Shem and his captors reached
the summit of a hill overlooking the Wanderling village, a great bustle of
movement unfolded before him. Haphazard rows of shanties and tents lay in the
valley below, people lingering in the streets and children playing. Shem spied
a herd of goats at the opposing edge of the valley and horses tethered to posts
outside tents. Meager crops sprouted here and there in an unorganized manner—a yellow
patch of new corn, some already-dry winter wheat. Shem marveled at the sheer
size of this village. Hundreds of tents lay before him, and people of all ages
bustled through the streets, worked the fields, and spread hay for the
livestock.
“Why doesn’t anybody know about
your village?” Shem asked, baffled to see so many people living in secret
behind the shelter of the mountains.
“Your town isn’t keen on
outsiders,” Jarod replied shortly.
The horses picked up their pace as
they navigated down a path on the side of the hill, perking their ears and
whinnying at the sight of their home. The wind carried the scent of smoke and
meat up the valley, making Shem’s stomach growl as they arrived at the edge of
town. Tanned and half-clothed children scurried away and peered at him from
behind tent flaps, eyes round and curious. Adults and youths took note of Jarod
and his men’s arrival with curiosity, some whispering. Shem felt exposed in
front of them, filthy and barefoot, still wearing his nightshirt. Yet the others
showed signs of neglect almost as strong. A girl his own age wore a tattered
skirt that scarcely reached her knees. A young boy walked past without any
shoes, and his hair was a scraggly mess hanging in tatters to his shoulders.
The middle-aged men in the street, who paid little attention to Shem’s passing,
were greasy, weathered beasts with unkempt beards, but none of them showed
signs of violence. They went about their business, carrying bushels of crops
and speaking animatedly in groups. Barely any of them even had brands, as far
as Shem could tell.
A couple of buildings ahead of
them were built of gray stone, the roofs made from patchy leather and canvas
canopies. Jarod tugged the reins to stop in front of the largest structure,
where men mulled outside with crossbows and knives at their hips.
“Willie, take Havard to a healer
straight away. I need to talk to Burano now,” Jarod ordered. “We had a change
of plans in Gerstadt, and I hope to gods it was worth the trouble.”
Shem sucked in a nervous breath as
he was pulled off of the horse and roughly prodded past the guards and through
the doorway of the larger stone structure. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and
he saw a wide windowless room inside with a gigantic table in the middle and a
bed to his left, plus a row of trunks to his right.
From behind the table rose a
broad-shouldered man with greying hair and a trimmed black beard. Something
about him emanated authority, and Shem thought, This must be Burano, the
commander that Jarod and his men talk about . Shem blinked to notice an H
branded into the leader’s forehead. He could not think of any words starting
with an H sound that were against the law, but he wasn’t great with letters yet
anyway. His stomach quivered at the thought that he was now in the presence
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