He’d seen the trophy heads of felled ogres brought back to the gates at Highlake for the duke’s reward. What he’d just killed was far too small to be an ogre. As malformed and ugly as the thing had been, he knew it was no troll either. Its head wasn’t much larger than a man’s.
The thing had fallen into a gasping heap right in the captain’s blankets, and the horse wasn’t very pleased about it. It fought its tether and stomped, still shivering and snorting nervously. Still, the shadows and mist hid the beast’s features.
Whatever it was, he was worried that there might be more of them about. The only creature he could think it might be was a young giant, and if that’s what it was there would be many more members of its tribe around. For a long time, Moyle huddled in the foggy shadows listening to the wet breathing of his victim fade away. The thickness of the mist dampened any sound that might come from afar. Even the occasional nicker of his horse seemed to come from a distance. After a good while, the first light of the sun tinted the sky with a streak of coppery illumination. The breaking of dawn gave him the confidence he needed to retrieve his lantern so that he could get a better look at what he’d just killed. Even before he rolled the form over he knew what it was. The buckled leather boots on the corpse’s feet were the same issue as his own, and the mismatched pieces of armor had all came from the armory at Highlake Stronghold. The face, though, was another matter.
One eye was missing from its socket, and the man’s jaw had swollen to twice its normal size so that it looked like he had tomatoes stuffed in his cheeks. A trio of furrows ran across the man’s head and down across his nose and temple making it look like the swelling had burst his skin apart. “Gregor, Gregon… Greg something,” the captain spat. He put away his sword, pulled out his dagger and cut Duke Martin’s insignia from the man’s breast. “One less loose end to tie.”
Not even bothering to take the coins from his belt, Captain Moyle left him for the carrion. He fed his horse some oats and then took a chunk of cheese and dried meat for himself.
It took longer than he hoped for the sun to burn the cottony blanket from the earth, but once he was underway he made good time. The haulkatten he was after was carrying two or three people and a fair load of supplies on its back. Its paw marks were easy to find, and were close enough together to let the captain know that the creature was traveling at a pace that could be overtaken.
“Two days at the most,” he figured as he hurried out of the rocky crags into the rolling foothills of the Wilds. “Two days.”
CHAPTER SIX
A bolt of lace I brought her
and a ballad I did verse.
My love professed, I should have guessed
she ran off with my purse.
When the companions entered the Wildwood it was midmorning. None of them knew they were being watched. Several sets of eyes from several different vantage points saw them slowly disappear into the mist that still clung to the trees. Some of those eyes followed hesitantly, others hungrily, and some of the followers were being followed themselves.
Vanx decided that the forest wasn’t as bad as he’d heard. The trees were widely spaced, enough for relatively easy travel. After a while, though, Vanx figured that maybe the tales of thick growth and the grotesque trunks of imposing old tangle trees hadn’t been exaggerated enough.
The group was forced to dismount, then choose a path through the humid, overgrown mess. The sounds of a normal forest thriving in late spring glory were there-whistling birds, chirping tree jumpers, and a loud, thumping groan that erupted occasionally. That particular sound reminded Vanx of the woodpeckers back home, only this sounded like a bird with a beak made of iron was hammering on a stone wall instead of a tree trunk. After every outburst of the deep, clacking tattoo, the rest of the forest stilled for a few heartbeats. Then slowly, the hum of the insects and the whistle of the birds would resume.
The flora was abundant and varied; thorny clusters of bright yellow flowers hosted a plethora of busy insects. A glittery, silver-green butterfly fluttered from the lavender-petaled bloom of a ropy vine which twisted its way up and around through the limbs of one of the old tangle trees.
Vanx watched as Gallarael flushed with embarrassment. She was looking at a fleshy pink flower that strongly resembled a woman’s genitalia. Bright crimson splotches specked some of the blooms as if someone had slung a bloody sword across them.
Obviously curious, the girl tromped through the undergrowth and grabbed the stalk on which the flowers grew. With a tentative grin she pulled the flower to her face to smell it. The plant suddenly squirmed in her hand, causing her to yelp and jump back. When she tried to let go of the stalk it wouldn’t separate from her palm. Vanx was flooded with alarm. The flower twisted over on its stem as if it were a snake and latched onto her wrist. Gallarael screamed.
“It’s biting me, Trevin! It hurts!”
Trevin already had his sword out and was using it to hack a trail toward her. He looked calm as he charged over and cleaved the thick stem in two. He and Vanx both were startled to the point of nearly fouling their britches when a loud roar erupted.
A score of the flowers shook and danced away crazily. Vanx saw that they were growing from the back of a strange, turtle-like creature as it scuttled off.
Since it was no longer attached, the gripping bite of the flower relaxed. Gallarael pulled the thing from her wrist and examined the wound. A trio of puncture holes were leaking blood and an ochre fluid. Vanx knew immediately that it was venom. Purple bruises were already starting to form, and her flesh was streaking red up her arm.
Vanx snatched the collar lacing out of the calfskin hauler’s shirt he was wearing as he raced over. He tied it tightly around Gallarael’s upper arm while he racked his brain trying to recall the herb lore Master Karzen had drilled into his brain a dozen years ago. Trevin took his lover’s wrist in his hand and cut deep crosses over each hole. He began milking the blood and poison from her body as if her arm were a teat. This was far more serious than the bite of a trail snake, Vanx knew, but getting some of the poison out of her body could not hurt.
“Good, Trev,” Vanx voiced his approval as some of the knowledge he needed came back to him. “Stay with her. We need grutta spore and palin root.”
Trevin grunted and gave a nod that he’d heard, then overcame his fear and sucked a mouthful of the thick-looking poison from her arm.
Vanx looked at Gallarael before he charged off, and regretted doing so. Her eyes were rolled up in her head, and she was hanging limply in Trevin’s grasp. Her cheeks were cherry red, and rivulets of sweat ran freely down her face as if water were being trickled over her head. The bitten arm was already swollen to twice its normal size. She had very little time left.
Vanx stepped away from them and called on his Zythian goddess for aid. It wasn’t so much the fact that he needed Gallarael’s testimony to clear his name as it was the fact that he’d grown to like her fiery personality, and the fierce loyalty she had for her common-born lover, that caused him to do so. Besides that, the girl was only in this situation because her mother had sent her to help him.
It was no small thing to call on the Goddess. She had smiled upon the Zythian race so much during their creation that to ask her for more bordered on blasphemy. This wasn’t a request for himself, though. Vanx didn’t hesitate to voice his need in the prayer he mumbled as he stalked away into the deeper Wildwood.