Through the Wildwood

by M. R. Mathias

  Copyright 2012 © by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.

  All rights reserved

  I’d like to thank MrLasers for the excellent formatting,

  Anton Kokarev kanartist.deviantart.com for the amazing cover art,

  D. P. Prior for the edit,

  Kristi for the proof read,

  And last but not least,

  Brittany for helping me enter all these words into the pc.

  I’d also like to thank Sherli just for being who you are.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Legend of Vanx Malic - Book 2 Preview

  On an old barrel keg

  in the shade I sat

  with a pint of watered ale

  and a skinny old cat.

  – Parydon Cobbles

  Vanx Malic swallowed the last bit of mulled wine from the goblet the duchess handed him. He was as hard as Wildermont steel and she was purring loudly. Her hands were roaming his tan, shirtless chest with increasing desperation. Her lithe body was barely covered by a sheer gown that was stretched so tightly around her that her huge, dark nipples threatened to burst through the fabric. Vanx wiped the grease from the hearty slab of roast boar he’d just eaten on his sleeve, and then he clamped his hand on the curve of her ass. Even with only a trio of lavender-scented candles burning in the small but opulent chamber, the air had grown hot and steamy. The sweet, musky smell of her sex permeated the room. He was eager to taste her. Vanx hoped the innkeeper could hold his lips shut as tightly as he held his purse. His fleeting concern over the duke’s wrath was quickly wiped away as the hot, tickling breath of the man’s wife found his ear.

  “You filled your belly, Vanx Malic,” the duchess whispered. The warmth of her words heated his blood. “Now I want you to fill me.” More purring as her hand slid around the bulge in his leather britches. “Now get up and fill me!” her voice grew suddenly harder, the purring sound more of a growl. She squeezed his member so hard it ached.

  “Get up, Vanx!” she yelled. “Get up, you filthy dog, and fill me up!”

  Vanx blinked open his eyes and saw the menacing maw of a haulkatten in his face. Startled, he scrambled backward to get away from its toothy feline grin. The chains that bound his legs and wrists quickly pulled taut and the driver’s whip snapped across his shoulder. The searing pain served to wipe away the dream in which he’d been lost. He nearly pissed himself. Even from half a hundred miles away the Duchess of Highlake’s enchantments had a healthy hold on his mind. Every time he slept, she was there. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, save for through the shuttered cell door of Duke Martin’s dungeon, and still she haunted his every idle thought. She was the loveliest of bed partners, talented, with a huge, round—

  “CRACK!” The whip sent her away from his head again.

  “I said fill up my skins you fargin’ dog!” Amden Gore, the big, dark-skinned, foul-breathed slave driver ordered. He was a personal friend of Duke Martin’s and showed Vanx little mercy with his lashes. Only the fact that Amden could get a healthy purse for a well-built young male kept him from driving Vanx to his death.

  The haulkatten the slaver was riding twisted its head back down to growl at Vanx. It showed yellow teeth set in jaws that could remove an arm or a leg with a single snap.

  Wincing from the sting of the new stripes on his skin, Vanx scowled at the draft horse-sized cat and gathered up the water skins he’d been using for a pillow. He’d been sent ahead of the caravan to fill them and had fallen asleep at the stream’s edge. He was exhausted, as were the rest of the caravan’s members. The long trek out of the mountains had been a week of skirting cliff-sided trails, and then two days and a night of nonstop downhill stumbling. Those riding the backs of the heavily laden haulkattens weren’t so bad off, but the three slaves and Vanx, along with the half-dozen other foot travelers, were all at the point of collapse.

  There were also eight caravan guards, every one of them a heavily-armored, overweight slob. They were led by a man called Captain Moyle. Vanx had no choice but to respect the captain because he continually used his dullard men in such a way that they actually protected the group.

  The guards were all on horseback and earlier in the day those horses reached their limits. Now, after coming down through the last of the higher hills on foot, leading their mounts, the guards had exhausted themselves, too.

  Captain Moyle called a halt and the group began to set up camp not far from where Amden Gore was harassing Vanx. Vanx noticed that the sun had moved over to the far side of the horizon. He must have slept a good while, not enough to completely revive his mind and body from the last few days of travel, but enough to feel better.

  Of Amden’s small herd of slaves, he was the one who was being worked the most. Well, maybe Matty, the heavy-breasted, one-handed pickpocket was working a bit harder in the haulers’ tents at night. After failing at her first choice of trades, and losing an appendage, she was now earning favor and coin with her body.

  The other two slaves, an old drunkard who’d run over a wealthy merchant’s son with his wagon, and a younger man who’d attacked a woman who refused his advances, were both too thin to be of much use for anything. The Duke of Highlake had literally worked them to the bone. Useless now, he’d given them and the one-handed whore to Amden to sell at the market in Andwyn.

  Vanx couldn’t be outright killed for sleeping with the duke’s wife; the progressive new King of Parydon had passed laws against using the chopping block, save for the punishment of the most heinous crimes. To the duke’s disgrace, his wife had admitted openly to not only being willing, but to actually encouraging the week of nocturnal rendezvous she and Vanx enjoyed.

  Vanx was an accomplished bard and had been employed at the inn. Since he was no vagabond rapist he could only be charged with adultery. He was put in chains immediately. The duke had planned to keep Vanx around and work him to death, but through a family connection, the duchess made a healthy bid on his ownership. The duke found out about his wife’s deceit and decided that he wanted Vanx out of his sight, or more accurately out of his wife’s sight. He sold Vanx to Amden for next to nothing. Obviously Amden hoped to fatten his purse at the slave market, and knew he had to restrain himself when punishing Vanx. Vanx knew this, too, and continually pushed his luck, thus, the afternoon nap.

  Vanx was no fool; far from it. He was young and looked even younger by human standards. As far as he knew, no one realized that he wasn’t completely human, so the fact that he had lived for fifty-two years was lost on almost everyone he met. In truth, he was half-Zythian and half-human. The normally pointed ears and almond-shaped eyes of his mother’s line were softened by the human influence of his father. He had the look of a young man in his early twenties. His shoulder-length shock of dirty blond hair, his brilliant sea-green eyes, and his rugged, yet symmetrical, face served to intrigue nearly every human woman he met. His tall, well-muscled build was another reason they flocked to him. In the two short years he’d been away from the Isle of Zyth, where he was born and raised by his mothe
r’s people, his appearance caused him no small amount of grief.

  Vanx filled the skins, as ordered, and then studied the layout of the camp on his way back into it. The captain was having his men set up on the high sides of the narrow ravine they were now blocking. The high side of the camp was most likely to be attacked by rock trolls, or the ever-territorial hill giants. The low side of the camp was where the slaves were pitching their tattered shelter. Vanx knew that if caravan bandits came, they would come from the low side. The haulers and their big, ore-laden haulkattens, the horses, and the foot travelers were all setting up camp in between. They would be relatively safe, surrounded by living and natural barriers on all sides.

  Vanx smiled, despite his pain. It was a perfect setup for his escape.

  If he managed to get away undetected, which he was fairly certain he could do, he knew he had to beat the caravan guards to Waterdown Outpost. That part would be easy if he got away clean and had most of the night as a head start. If his escape was discovered, though, he knew he couldn’t outrun Amden’s haulkattens.

  If he made it to Waterdown he had two choices, and though he hadn’t decided which way he would go from there, he knew that he would set a false trail on the way he didn’t choose. He had done some things with the haulkattens that might help his chances if he was chased, but one could never be sure about such things. Once Amden and the caravan reached Waterdown, word of a slave’s escape would travel down the river from outpost to outpost, then by rider to Andwyn and by ferry to Dabbldwyn. Words could move faster than Vanx could travel to either place. Realizing this, he was reconsidering going to Waterdown at all, but to bypass the Kingdomguard Outpost meant traveling to the wild lands south of the river, or through the slightly tamer homesteads and orchard farms that were regularly patrolled by the Parydon Kingdomguard. If he went south, he would try to steal a haulkatten. If he went north to Andwyn, by way of the homestead lands, only a horse would do. Maybe he could—

  “CRACK!” the whip snapped far too close to his left ear, bringing him out of his thoughts.

  “Put the water skins there, dog,” Amden Gore commanded from beside his big feline mount. “Then go downwind and dig us a shit pit. You know where the shovel is.”

  Grumbling, and shuffling in his chains, Vanx did as he was told. He purposely found a place that was rocky and started digging. After a few moments he meandered back into the camp, drooping his shoulders as if he were still as tired as the others. “Too rocky,” he said in explanation at Amden’s glaring look. “I need the pick.”

  “Get it. You’d better be done before the sun gets down, you fargin scum,” the slaver barked. “I’ll lash the skin from your adulterous hide before I waste a drop of lamp oil on your labors.”

  “I’m far too valuable for you to lash, you fat, stupid bastard,” Vanx barked, then immediately cursed himself for not holding his tongue.

  “CRACK!” the whip snapped across his chest. His roughspun jerkin was laid open, as was his skin. It felt like a red-hot piece of iron was laid there. Amden was rearing back for a second lash when one of the foot travelers, a young girl in a hooded cloak, spoke up.

  Vanx had noticed, during the days of stumbling downhill, how she went out of her way to try to conceal her curvy figure with plain, unattractive garb. She never let her hood down for more than a moment. This intrigued him, but his present troubles had been caused by a similar sort of mental meandering, and until now, he’d kept his curiosity at bay.

  “Enough,” she said in a mildly commanding tone. What surprised Vanx the most was that Amden obeyed her. The slaver stood seething, his narrowed eyes piercing Vanx, his whip dangling from a grip that clenched and relaxed then clenched again.

  “Do your work,” the girl snapped from under the hood. Vanx got his first glimpse of the lower part of her face and recognized her immediately. It was Princess Gallarael, the fiery-hearted daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Highlake.

  What is she doing on this trek? Vanx wondered. And with such a piss poor lot of guardsmen to protect her. It makes no sense.

  He scanned the group of foot travelers as he unstrapped the pickaxe from Amden’s tool bundle. Two hooded men, whom he’d mistaken for monks or priests, were clearly more than what they seemed. It prickled his skin that he hadn’t noticed them before now. The bulge of sword hilts, and the hard lines of leather armor pieces worn under the hooded robes, became more obvious to his keen eyes. Counting Captain Moyle, that was only three capable guards. Not enough for a trip out of the treacherous mountains through wild and unforgiving terrain with a princess.

  He pondered all of this while he went off to strike his chains with the pick. He’d have done it sooner, but it was smarter to suffer the whip and travel all the way out of the mountains with the group.

  Why is she here? He kept wondering. If she had business in Andwyn, surely her father would have sent a more formidable escort. He had to know that the three caravan bandits in his dungeon were only the tail-tip of a larger serpent. By the way they bragged about their comrades, Vanx was surprised that this group hadn’t been attacked yet. According to the man who had been locked in the Highlake dungeon cell next to his there were no less than a hundred men hiding out here in the hills, all waiting for a lot of haulers, with guards just like the ones Captain Moyle commanded.

  The sound of the pick hitting the chain links was worrisome. It was no easy chore getting through the leg irons. While he tried awkwardly to split his wrist chains, someone grunted and cursed behind him. He froze in terror, expecting Amden’s whip to split his hide, but all he heard was a long sigh. One of the haulers was taking a well-needed piss. Vanx didn’t know a man could piss that long.

  Something occurred to Vanx while he waited. Captain Moyle had called this halt far too soon. Another hour of travel would have brought the group down to the outer orchards where the guards patrolled. There was no way the captain would have called the halt if he knew Princess Gallarael was among them. He suddenly understood why Duke Martin sold him to Amden so cheaply. This caravan was going to be ambushed just so he would be murdered.

  Vanx whistled. It was all he could do to contain his anxiety as he went about breaking apart the chain between his wrists. The sun was already setting, and neither Gallarael, nor her guards, had any idea what sort of danger they were in.

  That white haired witch

  in her icy northern hole

  is the reason there’s no warmth

  in the Bitterland Hold.

  – Frosted Soul

  Captain Moyle looked down the twisting trail and wondered what was taking so long. Duke Martin’s mercenaries were supposed to attack at dusk. He glanced back over his shoulder at the blazing fire in the center of the camp. The smell of the haulers’ stew was savory enough to draw a clan of rock trolls down out of the higher hills. Moyle hoped the duke’s men would arrive soon and kill the slaver and his bunch. He wanted this over.

  Who could blame the duke for wanting vengeance? Moyle thought. He knew he wouldn’t have waited this long to kill a man who bedded his wife. The way the duchess humiliated the duke after being caught, Moyle figured she would soon fall from her window, or choke on a piece of fishbone, if not just disappear altogether.

  Moyle patted the dust off of his blue uniform and thought back to the previous night when he had slowed the caravan’s descent long enough for the mercenaries to pass them on a lower trail. He was sure they’d gotten by. Hell, they should be coming up the road at them like a pack of bandits any moment.

  Moyle wondered if they were just waiting for full darkness so they wouldn’t be recognized. It wouldn’t do for word of the feigned bandit attack to be linked back to the Duke of Highlake. The duke was already on shaky ground with Parydon royalty. After six years at his post, a safe trade route into, and out of, the mountains hadn’t been established. The Highlake Stronghold was secure. The duke had worked the kingdom’s prisoners to supreme effect while building an imposing wall around the entire Highlake Valley, but th
e trolls and giants hadn’t been beaten back in any meaningful way.

  The giants and trolls foolish enough to venture close to the barrier usually only lived long enough to warn their fellows away from the spear launchers and longbows of the Wall Guard. The duke’s inability… no, Captain Moyle decided, inability was the wrong word. The duke was able, and if given enough slaves and soldiers he could easily secure the passage. It was the duke’s lack of enthusiasm, or maybe his downright lack of respect for King Oakarm’s wishes, that kept the passage from being turned into a prosperous avenue of commerce.

  At the moment, the passage was only prosperous for the duke and his cronies. The remote location of the ore-rich valley where the stronghold stood made traversing it next to impossible, and made it more than a little inconvenient for the kingdom to impose its will. Duke Martin exploited this fact, and the orders he was given sometimes left Captain Moyle a little unsettled.

  Slowing a typical caravan so that bandits could attack was one thing. The stolen goods always found their way back to Highlake and the bandits who were sometimes captured ended up slaving on the wall. Captain Moyle’s pocket was lined with quality coins. Very few lives were lost and the thieves usually only made away with a small portion of cargo before being beaten back. This fiasco was an entirely different matter. He was about to be party to the outright murder of four slaves, not to mention anyone who got in the way of the slaughter.

  Amden would fight fiercely to protect his property, and the lard-assed guards would try to fight as well. Moyle’s head was about to be on the line for the duke. Now the anticipation of the attack had him wishing he had declined to participate. When this was done, he would either become one of Duke Martin’s most trusted men, or a total liability.

  Gallarael couldn’t believe her mother had sent her on this horrid journey to buy the pretty slave man back from the marketers in Andwyn. The guards, the slave driver, and even the two skinny slaves had been leering at her the whole way out of the mountains. What lechers, she thought. She could understand them ogling if she were dressed in her normal fashion, but in a roughspun smock, with her dirty face under the hood no less, they should not have been attracted to her. At least none of them had badgered her or given her grief. Thankfully, the one-handed whore was keeping them satisfied. Gallarael thought about flipping her hood back and ordering Captain Moyle to take his men back to the stronghold. She would relish the look on his smug face when he realized he was in the company of his liege’s daughter. The sharp remarks he had made over her lagging pace the day before would cause his bowels to ice over. Had he known who she was, he would have offered her his mount and trotted along beside her like some hungry dog.