Through the Wildwood (11 page)

Old Master Wiggins

danced a fancy jig.

He tossed his hat out to the crowd

but found he’d lost his wig.

– a Parydon street ditty

A
fter seeing the strange wolf rider, the traveling grew tense. Vanx, Trevin, and Darbon kept arrows to their bow strings, leaving Matty to keep Gallarael in the haulkatten’s saddle. Vanx rode the horse at the lead. Trevin and Darbon shared the younger of the haulkattens at the rear. Trevin rode backward. It was awkward but served to keep him from having to crane his neck around trying to see what was behind them.

They went as quickly as they could travel through the forested terrain without wearing down the animals. Not quite relentless, the pace was constant, and the few breaks they took were quick and purposeful. They rested longer in the afternoon so that Matty could tend Gallarael’s personal needs. While they waited, Vanx scaled a tall red fur and scouted the way ahead and behind them.

There wasn’t much to see either way, save for the otherworldly scape of the treetops. A rolling sea of green peaked occasionally by a towering pine spread out endlessly around them, except for the dark, jagged peaks that still loomed up behind them to the northwest. There were a dozen birds wheeling and circling over a dark cut in the trees that might be a river basin up ahead. A thin grey cloud of fire smoke clung to the treetops a dozen miles behind, letting him know that they were most likely still being watched.

Vanx wondered why no move had been made to attack them. They were outnumbered. The watchers had been in close enough to examine their party during the day. Vanx not only saw them a few times, but he smelled the musk of the wolves the strange Kobalts rode.

None of it made any sense, he decided, as he made his way down from the treetop. He found no reason to turn back. Gallarael’s life might be dependent on them getting to Dyntalla swiftly. All they could do was be alert and ready to defend.

“I saw what might be a stream bed a few miles ahead of us,” Vanx told Trevin and Darbon before he leapt the last few feet to the ground. “We could fill our skins and wash off the dust then find a place to stop for the night.”

“Stop?” Darbon asked with confusion and fear showing plainly in his expression.

“If they wanted to take us, Darby, they could do so anytime they like.” Trevin gave a dry chuckle. “Why they haven’t yet is a mystery to me. We are at their mercy.”

Vanx nodded his agreement. “We need rest. The animals need rest. Maybe they are going to let us pass. Like Trevin said, they could take us if they wanted to. There’s no sense stumbling around in darkness.”

“Maybe we’re not a threat to them?” Trevin showed his agreement with Vanx. He gave Darbon a pat on the shoulder and went to help Matty get Gallarael back in the saddle.

The cut in the trees Vanx had seen was indeed a waterway. A stretch of sun-bleached grey rock with a fairly shallow, yet briskly flowing stream ran through the forest like a giant snake. They filled their skins and ate some dry meat. With Matty’s help, Trevin gave Gallarael’s body a good cleansing, and then they dressed her in some of the hauler’s loose-fitting garments. Matty washed the filth out of Gallarael’s other clothes, thus making the decision for all of them that a fire would be lit when they stopped for the night.

When they were finally mounted and moving again, the sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains. It was then that the strangest thing happened.

As they started through the stream, a trio of wolf-riding Kobalts appeared directly across from them. One of them was a bit larger than the other two. This one wore a bandolier-like sash of some reddish-brown-colored animal pelt across his upper body. He eased his wolf out of the tree line into the open and paused there. The Kobalt’s small, furred ears twitched and he sniffed cautiously at the companions. The low growl of the haulkatten rumbled behind Vanx and he silently hoped that the big cats would stay in line. He was sure that any wrong move could provoke an attack that would end all of their lives. His horse sensed his unease, and he felt it stomp and shudder beneath him.

The Kobalt wearing the sash pointed downstream and gave a harsh, barking grunt.

“There are more of them behind us, Vanx,” Trevin called from the rear. “A lot more of them.”

“I think they want us to go downstream,” Vanx called back. “What do you want us to do?”

“It’s your decision,” Trevin half laughed. “But what choice do we have?”

“Aye,” Vanx agreed and turned his horse in the direction the Kobalt was pointing. “Nice and slow, follow me. Keep those cats calm. Talk to them. Relax your bows, but keep them at hand,” Vanx instructed.

As they made their way down the streambed they saw that they were surrounded. Vanx felt like a sheep being herded to sheer.

After just a short bit of travel they came to what might have been a campsite not long ago. The Kobalts had seemingly dispersed. Vanx wondered if the Kobalts wanted them to camp there.

There was an open pack that had been rummaged through lying under a tree, and the blackened remains of a day’s-old fire in a ring of rocks that had been taken from the stream bed. The area had been trampled, as if a handful of men with horses had tromped around the site for a night, if not longer.

Vanx’s keen Zythian nose picked up a sickening scent. Its source was at least a mile away, as best as he could tell. Remembering the birds he saw circling earlier, he decided they might have been carrion marking the source of the stench. Curiously, he wondered why the smell of death wasn’t alarming him.

None of the wolf-riding Kobalts were to be seen now. Apparently this is where the ugly little creatures wanted them to be. The group that had camped in this clearing before them had obviously gone in the way the smell was coming from, but they hadn’t been in a hurry. The spacing of the tracks showed that they had ridden and walked away at a casual gait. There were five, maybe six horses and three sets of prints left by standard boot-clad feet.

Had they been herded this way too? Vanx doubted it, but the possibility lingered in his mind. Kobalts couldn’t know that he was half Zythian and had senses as keen, or even keener, than their own. They couldn’t know that he knew how many dozens of them were out there surrounding them, nor that he could smell the death that lingered not so far away.

“It’s full of pouches of herbs and powders,” Matty said. “Some rocks and some scrolls too.”

“What good would it do you, woman, if it was full of gold?” Trevin asked.

Matty turned with a snarl on her bruised face. “Maybe you could just live off your woman’s coin if she—if we survive all this.” Her angry tone lost some of its steam as she continued. “If I walk out of the Wildwood alive, all I got, is all I got.” She sighed, seeing that Trevin was no longer paying attention to her. Instead, he was getting Gallarael out of the saddle.

“There’s not much work for a girl with one hand,” she finished in a whisper.

Vanx bit his tongue for Darbon’s sake. The boy was obviously blind to Matty’s current occupation.

“Help me lay out her bedroll, Matty,” Trevin said through his struggle to get Gallarael down by himself. “Please,” he added when she hesitated. She let out another huff and went to help him.

By then Darbon had a kindling fire burning inside the ring of rocks and was adding pieces of deadfall to the blaze as he found them. Once the fire was raging and some extra wood was stacked, the boy began building something. Vanx was impressed when he realized it was a sort of rack they could use to dry Gallarael’s clothes.

Darbon almost spoke up for Matty, but the words she had chosen to defend herself hurt him so badly that he couldn’t speak. She’d said that if they got out of this mess, all she had was what she had. Where did that leave him? He knew that he could find work with a smith in any village or town; he was already well trained. Old Uncle Elbar had taught him all sorts of tricks of the trade. He could work lumber too, like his father had before he died. Remembering the loss of his uncle at the hands of the trolls made him sad. Matty’s comments only served to add to the lonely feelings that were suddenly assailing him. But still, when she saw the drying rack he had set up and smiled at him, he couldn’t help but smile back.

“After it gets dark we can sneak off to wash our clothes by the stream,” she whispered to him seductively.

“What about those things out there and their wolves?” Darbon asked, the true nature of her suggestion lost to him.

“You can bring your bow, if you’re afraid,” she said with a smirk that left him confused, but no longer dwelling on the loss of his loved ones.

While the others settled in and the sunlight faded from the sky, Vanx took one of the bows and disappeared into the forest. He had no problem shafting a fat rabbit and pinning a lazy pheasant to her nest. The latter was the better of the two kills because the bird was sitting on a trio of eggs, and Vanx loved eggs more than most any other food in the wild. He had intended to go on and scout what the source of the rotten scent was, but the promise of freshly scrambled eggs brought him back to the fire.

They ate like starving dogs. Even unconscious Gallarael reflexively gulped down the chunky broth Matty made from the rabbit meat.

While Darbon and Matty went to wash their clothes, Trevin and Vanx sat by the fire. They discussed the quality of the first warm meal they’d had in days and fought to keep from laughing at the sounds of Darbon and Matty’s passion. The two were only a score of paces beyond the firelight and every grunt and heavy breath carried through the night.

“He’s a naive fool,” Trevin commented quietly.

“It’s a matter of viewpoints,” Vanx replied.

“What do you mean?”

“We are here looking at the fire, and he is getting his wick wetted,” Vanx shrugged, letting his own high-browed grin punctuate the statement. “How could he be a fool?”

Trevin chuckled at the truth of it, but glanced at Gallarael. Vanx watched the mirth drain from his face. The girl’s arm was still swollen and the fang marks on her wrist looked like puckering sores. Otherwise, she looked like she was sleeping soundly.

“Either we will get her out of here and get her well, or we won’t,” Vanx said. He meant to be encouraging but the words didn’t come close to conveying his sentiment. Trevin must have caught the gist of the comment because he nodded silently.

Vanx retrieved the pack Matty had examined earlier and explored its contents in the firelight. Some of the pouches of herbs and powders contained substances that Vanx recognized. These were components used in the casting of spells. Some of them were the kind of ingredients needed to cast spells of the most potent nature. The scrolls confirmed that the bag belonged to a human wizard. The writings were incantations, directions, and recipes all written in Kingscript.

Kingscript was the written language of choice for the Parydon nobility because the wording and flow were too elaborate for the average citizen to grasp. Had it been a Zythian wizard’s pack, there would have been no scrolls. Vanx knew a few spells, of the most basic sort, but nothing substantial enough to even consider himself a dabbler.

His curiosity was now piqued to the point of restlessness, so he made a decision.

“When Matty and Darbon return, I am going to scout our surroundings.”

Trevin, seemingly lost in his brooding, only nodded and moved over to Gallarael’s side.