Through the Wildwood

by M. R. Mathias

  “MUAALG!” A wet throaty sound came from nearby. “Muaalg,” it sounded again.

  Still lying on his back, the Captain eased his blade from under the blanket and made sure the roughspun wool wouldn’t catch if he had to make a sudden move. He was about to bring himself to his feet when the shadow fell across him again.

  The horse whinnied in fright behind him. The sound sent Captain Moyle’s heart to pounding, and no doubt drew the attention of the beast that was investigating the lantern light.

  Moyle rolled to his feet to keep from getting hoofed in the face by his terrified horse. Once he was up he patted the animal on the rump, meaning to reassure it, but it flinched, snorted, and stamped its hooves on the ground.

  The shadowy figure voiced a series of strange noises that sounded oddly like a man trying to speak with food in his mouth. Moyle contemplated what it could be through his fear as the shadow loomed and swelled. Whatever it was, it was coming slowly for the horse.

  “Mwo… mwo viss aut deer,” the thing sounded as it came in closer, silhouetted in a misty glow.

  Moyle’s level of fear dropped slightly because he understood then. Who, who is out here, the thing had asked. He was just about to chance a response when a hideous-faced humanoid creature charged at his horse with a howl. Instinctually, he lunged a lightning-quick thrust into the beast’s side. His blade bit deeply and as he yanked it back, he heard the telltale sigh of an emptying lung.

  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.”

  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.

  – Parydon Cobbles

  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 gra
sp. 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.

  His goddess must have heard him, for he’d only made it twenty paces before he stumbled and fell into a patch of mushrooms growing at the base of an ancient oak tree which had somehow managed to keep the tangle of the rest of the forest at bay. Grutta spore. Vanx’s realization came with a snap of surprise. He gathered up a few of the reddish-purple caps and got to his feet. Looking around, he realized that the elder oak wasn’t part of the Wildwood at all. He was standing in a hazy patch of forested glade that was open, lush, and free of undergrowth. After a moment, he shook off the wonder he was feeling and tried to focus his mind on the task at hand.

  “Palin root,” he said, thinking of Gallarael and her horrible dilemma. He started pacing around the edge of the glade looking for the five-tined leaf of the palin plant and its tiny white flowerings. As he did this, the instructive words of Master Karzin came to him:

  “Boil two parts palin root to one part of grutta spore in a small pot of water.” Even in memory, the old Zythian’s singsong voice was roughened by his vast age. “Once the concoction cools, the one affected should drink the resulting tea until it’s gone. While the affected is doing this, brew another dose for them to sip while the initial mixture works at the toxins in the body. This potion will only work on the most common of bites and stings. More complex poisons require more complex remedies.”

  Vanx hoped this would work. He hoped that he could find some of the elusive palin root that he needed to make the stuff. He wasn’t sure that the potion would even work on a human. At the moment, though, none of that mattered. He had to find the palin plant and dig up its root before he could even find his way back to the Wildwood and brew the tea to test it.

  Vanx searched everywhere in the glade, but never let the old oak from his sight. He’d heard of Zythians getting lost during happenings such as this one. Gallarael didn’t have time for that. He was just about to panic when a pair of blood-red butterflies fluttered in his face. After a moment it became obvious that they were trying to lead him. Vanx didn’t hesitate to follow.

  Trevin was sucking only blood from her wrist now. His mouth felt hot and raw from all the venom he’d extracted. He was starting to feel feverish himself, but he didn’t care. Gallarael’s color was getting closer to normal again, but her skin was still hot to the touch. For a while she’d glowed cherry.

  Trevin would die for her, he knew. He loved Gallarael that much. That is why he didn’t even pause to acknowledge the fact that Captain Moyle was hacking his way into the area. Trevin spat a wad of cottony saliva from his mouth and bent down to suck more fluid from her wrist. Vanx’s haulkatten let out a rumbling growl, but Trevin didn’t look up.

  “What are you doing to her?” Captain Moyle asked harshly as he yanked his bow from the saddle and nocked an arrow.

  “Where’s the escaped slave?”

  Trevin spat the contents from his mouth. A trickle of blood ran down his stubbled chin. He tried to focus on the captain, but felt himself getting dizzy.

  “You!” Trevin accused, pointing above and beside the captain. “You led us into a trap. It’s your—it’s your fault.” The last words came out in a drunken slur.

  Captain Moyle took a single step and booted Trevin away from Gallarael. “I asked you where the slave was, man. Answer me! That’s an order!” The captain’s eyes skittered around nervously. From his knees, Trevin fumbled around at the ground for his sword but only managed to stumble.

  “You’re not my captain,” he managed as darkness swirled around the edges of his foggy mind. “You—you’re a murderer.”

  “Ah, lad, I had hoped you’d see it differently.” Moyle drew back the arrow he had ready and aimed it at Trevin’s chest. “Now I’ve no choice but to kill you too,” he said as he let the razor-tipped shaft fly.

  Just then, Vanx stepped into view, seemingly out of nowhere. Captain Moyle was so shocked by the slave’s appearance that his arrow went high and caught Trevin in the shoulder instead of the heart. Trevin’s pain-filled yelp drew Vanx’s attention to the situation just as the captain brought another arrow up to bear.

  “If you kill me, Gallarael dies,” Vanx said calmly. “She’s been poisoned and I have the makings of a remedy. You’ll not be able to return to Highlake without her.” Vanx snarled smugly at the man before him. “The duchess will have you quartered, and your head piked on ogre row.”

  The captain licked his lips and glanced at Gallarael’s arm and sweat-slick skin. “What does an adulterous songsmith know about healing a poisoned girl? I think you’re lying.”

  “She’s running out of time, fool,” Vanx sighed. “The duke didn’t want you to kill his daughter. He wanted you to kill me.” Searching his mind for an idea, or a plan of action that might actually work, Vanx drew a blank.

  “Let me heal her and the boy,” said Vanx. “After that you can do what you want with me.”

  Trevin moaned and struggled to sit up. He yanked at the shaft protruding from his shoulder and yelped out as the pain hit.

  “Do what you must for Gallarael, slave,” Moyle snapped. “But Trevin Lispan will die with you when it’s done.”

  “I’ll do as you say, captain.” Vanx went to his haulkatten to get a pot for the herbs he’d gathered, and the tinderbox to start a fire. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t hold his tongue as he continued. He regretted each word even as he spoke it. “Gallarael and Trevin are lovers, and she already knows of your treachery. She will have your head faster than her mother will for all of this.” Vanx forced a chuckle. “If Duke Martin doesn’t remove it himself for botching his plan.”

  “I guess that means I have to kill the lot of you and make it look like the trolls did the bloody work.”

  By the icy sound of the captain’s voice, and the way the man so calmly sighted Vanx’s heart down the length of his arrow shaft, Vanx had no doubt that he was about to die.

  Like roots they spread and dug in deep

  they built a kingdom strong.

  And if the short-lived take hold here

  we’ll all be but a song.

  – Balldamned (a Zythian song)

  The arrow flew and all Vanx could do was throw his arms up to block it. The herbs he was carrying went everywhere. There was a loud “ping!” then a sharp pain bit into his chest over his heart. At the same time the deep, rumbling growl of Amden Gore’s haulkat came from the forest not too far away. If Captain Moyle had others with him, Vanx knew that Gallarael and Trevin were done. Then he wondered why he wasn’t already dead. He fell to his knees and looked down to see Captain Moyle’s arrow sticking through the cooking pot he’d been carrying. Its tip was buried in his chest, but mostly visible. There was pain, then the relieved shock of somehow cheating death. Still, the emotion that consumed him was panic. How could he brew Gallarael’s remedy in a pot with a hole in its bottom?

  Remembering that a murderer was trying to kill him, he looked up and rolled to the side. The wild-eyed captain was drawing back another shaft. Scrabbling away, the thorny undergrowth bit into Vanx’s loose-fitting garb. It threatened to snag him still as he struggled to get clear of the coming arrow.

  Had Ca
ptain Moyle possessed the ultra-keen senses of a Zyth he might have sensed the slaver’s haulkatten rapidly approaching. Moyle was only human, though; a human consumed with murderous rage. His hope of returning to Highlake as a hero was ruined. He would fare better if he killed these three. He could catch a ship to Coldport or Oradyn and change his name. If he went back and pilfered the purses of the corpses at the destroyed camp, there would surely be enough left after buying passage that he could make a new start.

  The simple fact that these limited choices were being forced upon him was making his blood boil. He stalked closer to the struggling slave. He wouldn’t let his shot get fouled this time. He would spit the adulterous dog right through his heart.

  Vanx pushed the cooking pot away. The arrow tip came out of him and he felt a warm trickle of blood as it ran down his ribs. The thorny underbrush had him stuck, but he wasn’t about to give up. Kicking and rolling, he did all he could to tear himself free, but he only managed to tangle himself further. He could see the hate in the captain’s eyes as he came storming closer. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to save Gallarael and it looked like Trevin needed the remedy as well. The thought burned his brain. It might already be too late for them. It wasn’t looking too good for him, either.

  Vanx couldn’t move his legs, and only one of his arms was free of the gripping growth. He had no weapon, and just a punctured pot to defend himself with. The Captain’s arrow was now only a few feet away from his chest. He tried to put the pot between him and the arrow tip, but the thorns held his sleeve short and kept him from getting it where it needed to be.

  “Die, slave.” Moyle raised the bow and sighted with a sneer.

  With a sigh of sorrowful resignation, Vanx closed his eyes and waited for the shaft to pierce him.

  He heard the thrum of a loosing bow string and his body tightened reflexively. The sound, though, had come from a good distance away. Then he heard a thumping gurgle over him. He picked up another, closer, bow string loosing and the angry hum of an arrow whizzing past.