Through the Wildwood (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 1) Page 2

  “Where has your prize gotten off too?” Amden asked Gallarael quietly. “I have not seen him since he returned from digging the shit p… Since he returned from digging the latrine, my lady.”

  “Shhhhh,” she hissed. “No ‘my ladies’ out here, fool.” She looked around the camp. The half-moon didn’t go far toward illuminating the space, and the dying fire served only to throw shadows about like skittering spirits. “I don’t see him, either.” She stood. “We wouldn’t even have to be out here in the wild if you had done what my mother asked you to.”

  “The orders of a duke outweigh the secret requests of a duchess.” He stood beside her and looked around. “I’m already disobeying your father’s orders by conspiring with you and your mother. It could cost me my freedom.”

  “This is my mother’s scheme, slaver.” She spoke from under her hood. “Make no mistake about it.” She had to struggle to keep her voice down. From somewhere at the high side of the camp a long, loud snore sputtered away and then resumed its rhythm.

  “If it’s your mother’s dealing, why did you stop me from whipping the cur bastard earlier?”

  She said the first thing that came to mind, but she knew that she’d stopped the whip because she didn’t want to see such a beautiful man scarred. “Because it’s cruel.”

  “Cruel?” Amden laughed. “Cruel is the way your mother disgraced your father over him. She should have nev—” His words were cut off as an arrow struck him in the head.

  It looked to Gallarael as if the shaft had pierced the man’s skull, but Amden cursed and ducked away, grabbing at it. Gallarael screamed, bringing her two personal guards out of their slumber and to the ready. In a pair of heartbeats she was pinned beneath one of them while the other took up a defensive position over them and called out into the night.

  “Cease your attack!” he yelled. “Do you dare bring harm upon Princess Gallarael, the daughter of the Duke of Highlake? The king’s own—” The man stumbled back and tumbled over Gallarael and whoever was holding her down. An arrow was sticking out of his chest. Frothy bubbles of blood hissed and sputtered as he inhaled.

  Captain Moyle heard the man’s proclamation and recognized the voice as that of Sterven Trent, the head of the duchess’s personal guard attachment. He knew he was in a serious mess now. Sterven’s presence only proved that Princess Gallarael was among them. The girl had to be protected at all costs. It wouldn’t matter to Duke Martin if every member of the caravan was killed as long as Gallarael was spared. He realized, as an arrow sped past his ear, humming like an angry hornet, that the attack on them was coming from everywhere, not just near where the slaves were encamped. Moyle suddenly feared that the duke hadn’t intended for any of them to survive, not even him. Still, the urge to protect the princess overrode his instinctual desire to flee and survive. He started toward the campfire where he had last seen the robed woman he now knew was the princess. The grunts and yells of men being murdered in their half-sleep filled the night. Ahead of him, Amden Gore was on his knees with an arrow protruding out of his temple. The man’s face and shoulder were covered in blood. One of the travelers lay twitching in a sprawl nearby as his life’s blood pulsed out.

  Another arrow went whizzing past and Moyle crouched low so that he could huddle in the shadows.

  “Gallarael,” he hissed. “It’s Captain Moyle. Tell me where you are and I will—” His voice was drowned out by the high-pitched, keening howl of a troll. A chorus of barking cries replied to their alpha. A horse whinnied, then screamed in terror, the sound ending in a sickening wet rip. One of the haulkats roared out, then another. The loud, ferocious sound drowned out everything else. The foot travelers, haulers, and the few caravan guards who were still alive all bungled about in chaos.

  Captain Moyle looked toward the campfire just in time to see a head-sized rock smash into Amden Gore’s shoulder. The man was knocked into the fire and a swarm of firefly sparks went twirling up, lighting the campsite in an eerie orange glow.

  A man the captain didn’t know, one of the bandits, he presumed, staggered and fell into the erratic light. One of his arms was a ruin of meat dangling from a protruding piece of shattered bone. From behind the man, the shadowy form of a rock troll scrabbled out of the darkness on all fours. It snatched him by the ankle, and dragged him screaming back into the night.

  Captain Moyle darted toward the group of travelers by the fire. One of them was trying to get out from under the corpse draped over him. Amden Gore’s clothes were flaming now, and the sizzling smell of roasting meat was drawing the trolls closer to the fire.

  In a flare of fiery light from the renewed blaze, Moyle saw a disheveled fan of golden hair at the bottom of the pile, just as a pair of fleeing horses leapt the heap and knocked him to the ground. A trio of howling trolls followed right behind the animals. Luckily, the captain had tumbled into the half-opened flap of one of the traveler’s tents. A young blacksmith’s apprentice, a boy not yet old enough to grow a beard, huddled in teary-eyed terror over his dead master. He gave a yelp and pushed himself into the corner of the canvas shelter.

  “Shhhhh,” Moyle hissed with an index finger pressed to his lips. Seeing that it wasn’t a bandit or a troll coming for him, the boy heaved a sigh of relief. Moyle forced a reassuring smile and peeped back out where he had seen Gallarael’s golden locks splayed across the dirt. A cold shiver ran down his spine as something big and covered in fur stepped down just inches from his face. After it moved on, he swallowed his heart back down into his body. Where Gallarael had lain, under a pile of robed travelers, a single arrow-riddled body remained.

  In the long silence that followed the attack, only the sound of Amden Gore’s fat sizzling on the fire, and the sickening noise of the trolls ripping and munching the flesh of the others, was left to fill the cloying night.

  They came on clever ships of wood,

  those that called themselves men.

  They spread like mice through fertile fields

  and overtook the land.

  – Balladamned (a Zythian song)

  After striking apart his wrist chain, then doing the same with the length of chain that ran between his ankle shackles, Vanx used some pieces of baling wire he’d pilfered to reattach the links. To the naked eye it appeared that he was still bound wrist to wrist, and ankle to ankle. No one, not even Amden Gore, gave him a second look when he shuffled back into the camp and strapped the pick and shovel onto the slaver’s pack-frame. Before Amden had a chance to give him new orders, Vanx unloaded a heavy sack of fish meal and started dispensing it among the haulkattens. One of the beasts in particular, a younger male, received a double issue of the ripe-smelling food. The animal knew it was getting special treatment, and after each feeding Vanx had taken the time to scratch the young feline behind its ears and speak kindly to it. Once, when Amden’s formidable yet aging beast growled in protest of Vanx’s affection, the younger cat warned it away with a low, rumbling nudge. The event confirmed Vanx’s hope that the young katten would be agreeable toward him when the need arrived.

  As the sun was disappearing beyond the mountaintops and the sky was growing dim, Vanx rearranged the packs on the young cat’s pack-frame. It was common practice to unburden the kattens after they had eaten. With the animals it was always water first, then food, then rest.

  The haulers didn’t seem to mind Vanx doing their work. Some days they chided him, others they helped, but this night they were too busy making their meal and arguing over who would get Matty’s attentions first. Vanx was actually taking food and supplies from the other pack-frames and swapping them with the heavier chunks of ore with which his katten had been laden. If he had to venture into the Wilds, or backtrack into the mountains for a time, he and his mount wouldn’t run short of provisions, while those chasing him would.

  Knowing that Gallarael was among the travelers, and that Captain Moyle had stopped them so that they could be ambushed, gave Vanx cause for concern. He hadn’t fallen in love with the crafty Duche
ss of Highlake, nor did the affairs of her daughter concern him, but he had a feeling that Gallarael was there on his account. She was acting on behalf of her mother, no doubt, and this compelled him to at least warn her of what was soon to happen. The only problem with this was the fact that, when Vanx decided to get close enough to her to speak, he saw with his uncannily sharp Zythian eyes a pair of rock trolls climbing around in the shadows. What was worse was that the trolls were stalking the bandits who he saw were about to attack the caravan.

  Vanx had the urge to charge the haulkatten into the heart of the camp, scoop Gallarael up and whisk her away to safety, but Amden Gore was talking with her. As Vanx removed the wire holding his chains together and climbed atop the young haulkatten, Gallarael and the slaver both stood and began searching the camp. He wondered if they were searching for him, or if they were aware that the trolls were closing in? The answer became a moot concern when Amden pitched forward and Gallarael screamed. After that, the encampment was reduced to chaos.

  One of Gallarael’s guards tackled her while the other stood over them and started spewing out words that Vanx couldn’t quite make out over the keening of a troll. The fool was quickly pierced with an arrow. Vanx winced as the shaft sunk deep and was strangely satisfied with his earlier assessment that the guards were wearing leather armor instead of fine chain under their robes. The thought reminded him that he wasn’t wearing any armor at all. He didn’t even have a weapon. He urged the young haulkatten out of the camp and found the rocky crag he’d spied earlier. He half expected to be given away by the guard Captain Moyle had posted there. Instead, he found the guard face down, rasping for breath, with a deep sword wound across his back.

  Vanx felt no mercy for the guardsmen. If the man had been alert and doing his duty, he wouldn’t be dying in a puddle of his own blood. Vanx slid down off the haulkatten and gave the nervous animal a reassuring pat on the flank. The dying guard’s armor was far too big for Vanx, but there was a decent-looking bow with half a quiver of arrows, and a bone-handled dagger. Vanx wasted no time rolling the man over and arming himself. He pulled the man’s belt off, buckled it, and put it over his head and shoulder bandolier style. If he survived, he would have to make a new hole, for the belt was nearly long enough to wrap his waist twice.

  As he climbed back up into the haulkatten’s saddle he thought he heard Gallarael scream again. The sound could have been a man’s dying call or a lusty battle howl from a troll, though. Either way, it sounded enough like Gallarael that he abandoned his intentions of just leaving the scene. He wanted to go, but couldn’t find the cold detachment it would take to leave her to her fate. With a huff of disgust at himself for being so weak, he heeled his katten around and headed back into the fray.

  It wasn’t hard to find her. She was still struggling to get herself out from under her protector’s corpse. The cooking body of the whip-happy slaver smelled oddly like a feast. His clothes were on fire now, lighting the area like a beacon. To Vanx’s dismay he saw that there were two guards on top of Gallarael. One heaved the corpse away and both he and Gallarael stood at the same time.

  Obviously thinking that he could just commandeer the haulkatten from Vanx, the guard drew his sword. Vanx met his gaze down the shaft of a drawn arrow, freezing the guard in a state of determined confusion.

  “Climb up behind me, Gallarael,” Vanx commanded softly. “There are trolls about.” To punctuate the statement, a troll was suddenly running at them. In the span of a heartbeat, Vanx loosed the arrow he had drawn, hit the beast right in its heart, and drew another arrow.

  “You’ll save Trevin, too,” she said with pleading eyes. “He’s a good man.”

  “A good man pointing a sword at me.” Vanx suddenly lifted his aim again and loosed an arrow that passed a finger’s breadth above the guard’s head. Behind them, a troll crashed to the ground and howled out in pain. The guard tried to seize the moment and charged. The young haulkatten moved its big head in the way in an attempt to protect its rider, but it was unnecessary; Vanx already had another arrow nocked and aimed.

  “Stop it, Trev.” Gallarael stepped up to the soldier. “Your blade, please.”

  Apparently the trolls had gotten hold of the bandit archers; even so, Vanx had no desire to stay there. A glance at Gallarael’s pleading expression broke him. A moment later the young haulkatten was carrying him, Trevin, and Gallarael into the darkness surrounding the lower foothills.

  Captain Moyle caught a glimpse of them as they faded into the dancing shadows thrown by Amden Gore’s sizzling body. Moyle was smart enough to stay put, though. He knew that the trolls were still feeding on the numerous corpses but would stop to kill him if they saw him. In his day he had seen the aftermaths of many a troll attack. If he and the apprentice boy stayed still in the tent, the trolls would most likely eat their fill and move on. He hoped he could track down a horse or a haulkatten when the sun came up. The important thing was that Gallarael was still alive. Once he found a mount, he could track down the slave who had nabbed her, kill him, and gain all the favor the duke could muster. As the night wore on he even entertained hopes of winning Gallarael’s heart in the process.

  “What’s happening?” the sniffling young man asked. “Are they coming for us?”

  “Shut it,” Moyle hissed through clenched teeth. He had forgotten about the boy. “Sit still and keep your mouth shut or we’ll both be troll shit by the morning.” Moyle decided then and there that he might have to kill the lad. Once he saw the corpses of the duke’s bandits, he would be a liability. He would wait until they found one of the escaped animals, though. Four eyes looking for a scared horse or a skittish haulkatten would be better than just two. The boy sniffled loudly, then sobbed. Moyle turned and with the back of his hand smacked him across the face.

  “What’s your name?” Moyle whispered.

  “Darbon,” the adolescent whimpered.

  “If you make another sound, Darbon, I will kill you where you sit.”

  Matty and one of Captain Moyle’s guards had been off behind the picketed horses when the trolls came. Half naked and rolling in the rocky shrubs, they hadn’t even noticed the attack until a stalking troll crept right past them. The guard, Gregon, quickly lost his interest in the one-handed whore, but only for the moment. After the sounds of battle erupted and the trolls began to howl, he took Matty and two of the horses and fled. He had to take the extra horse because Matty was in leg chains and couldn’t straddle a saddle. He threw her over the second horse like a sack of grain and led the animal east down the bandit trail, not the well-traveled road. As soon as they had some distance between themselves and the massacre, he turned them south right into the wilderness. Gregon hoped to find a place to camp and spend a few days alone with the whore. He would grow bored of her, kill her and then cut himself. He would tell the Duke that he narrowly escaped the attack. Hell, he thought. He might even be able to get some stripes on his sleeve. When he got back to Highlake, he would be a bloodied veteran.

  “You’re—a fargin—bastard—” Matty grunted between the horses bouncing steps. “This—fargin—hurts.”

  “Hush woman,” Gregon said. “We’re not out of harm’s way yet. I’ll break your chains as soon as I can.”

  A few moments later a low, rumbling growl confirmed his assessment. The sound came from not far behind them and served to give Matty the will to bite her tongue no matter how uncomfortable she was. It also served to hasten Gregon’s pace as they twisted and turned out into uncharted territory.

  Vanx hissed to quiet the argument going on between Trevin and Gallarael. It turned out that the two of them were secret lovers. Vanx had the urge to tell the young guard an old saying that kept repeating in his mind: Like mother like daughter, but he held his tongue.

  He heard something not far ahead of them: voices. Thinking that it might be more of Duke Martin’s bandits, he left the trail, heading north toward Andwyn. This seemed to lift the spirits of his two passengers. He didn’t have the heart to t
ell them that it was only a false trail he was creating. In a few minutes they were going to backtrack south into the Wilds.

  I picked a special flower

  to make my Molly purr

  but right after she kissed me

  she said two coppers sir.

  – Parydon Cobbles

  Gallarael jerked awake. The moon was low in the sky and the sounds of the night—the chirps, hisses and resounding croaks, wafted on the cool, late-spring breeze. The smooth, rolling gait of the haulkatten rocked her body gently back against Trevin. Reflexively, he tightened his arms around her waist in a reassuring hug. This caused her to smile and she leaned into him as the memory of her situation came to her.

  “I feel like I’ve slept the night away and yet the moon has barely risen,” she observed in a whisper.

  “It’s almost dawn, my lady,” Trevin replied hesitantly. “The slave switched us back the other direction several hours ago.”