The duke’s men took away the lute to an eruption of boos. They wasted no time shackling his feet and hauling him bodily to the dungeon. As the heavy iron door clanged shut behind him, he woke again.
Vanx felt a sudden lurching motion and was jostled onto his side. Matty was there, and Darbon too. But something was wrong. They were in the back of a supply wagon and they were all in chains.
A crisp, cold burst of laughter came from somewhere nearby. The voice was unmistakable and it sent icy chills down Vanx’s spine. He fought the wrist manacles and peered up over the side of the wagon to see with his own eyes, hoping desperately that his ears were deceiving him.
“I didn’t have enough reason to take his head off before,” Duke Martin joked with the young Prince of the Realm. “But the mandatory penalty for escaping a sentence of slavery is death.”
“It is,” Russet Oakarm replied. “Yes, it is.”
Chapter Twenty
I’m off to make a fool of a fool,
and a fool of a king as well.
Only a fool can fool a fool,
But with a king’s wits who can tell?
– The King of Fools
“The coldhearted bastard hasn’t said one whit about Gallarael,” Matty whispered. She was leaning against Darbon on the other side of the wagon cage. “He’s not even asked a question about her.”
Vanx was momentarily frozen in place by the look the dark-clad man riding behind Duke Martin gave him. The man’s eyes were empty and black, and something told Vanx that he was very dangerous. Vanx felt as if his soul were laid open by that dark, menacing gaze. Finally, a sinister grin twitched across the man’s hawkish, goateed face. The level of comfort returning to him made Vanx wonder if he had just been released from a spell.
“If the prince is siding with the duke, then I’m done.” Vanx twisted back to face his friends. “Didn’t Trevin or the old wizard speak for us?”
“It’s not what it seems, Vanx,” Matty said cryptically. “That princeling gave me a bawdy wink and told me and Darby to hold our tongues and watch over you.”
“’Tis true,” Darbon agreed. “There’s something going on here. The prince’s guards were told not to say a word to the duke and his company. All that happened while the duke rode out of the Wildwood.” Darbon’s expression changed and he indicated with a pointed finger one of the riders. “That—that hairy-looking mountain man is Bear Fang Karcher. Just like them Kobalts said, they were hunting us. He is an ogre hunter.”
“The prince knows as much,” Matty added. “I think we might be alright as long as we do what the princeling says; he seems to be a crafty one.”
“If you say so,” Vanx grumbled. He held up his wrist manacles, letting the footlong chain between them dangle. “It’s not like we have much choice in the matter.”
Matty held up her arms. She had no arm manacles. There was no way to keep one on her handless wrist. “You’d be surprised what I could get done with this lot of soldiers.” Her expression was jovial as she reached up under her pullover top and produced Vanx’s dagger from between her breasts. She showed it for only half a heartbeat before snugging it back into place. Both Vanx and Darbon considered her cleavage with only mildly surprised looks on their faces.
They rode on through the day, bouncing and bumping along on the hard-planked wagon bed. They crossed the Kimber River at a wide, pebbly shallow. Vanx kept expecting the wagon to start floating, but the water never made it over the axel shafts and the horses didn’t even have to slow.
Just before sunset Vanx began to smell wood smoke. Soon after, he saw the tiny speck of an open fire ahead in the dusky distance. Their procession headed directly toward it, following two horsemen who went galloping ahead in a rush. The landscape was mostly flat here. A few clusters of pines and wild oaks thrust up out of the sea of knee-high grass, as did a few lonely knuckles of grey stone.
Right before they gained the encampment, the smell of venison roasting on open flames came to Vanx’s nose. His mouth began to salivate and his stomach rumbled aloud. He hadn’t eaten at all that day. The sensation kept him distracted as he took the place in.
It appeared to be a temporary set up — several tents around a central pavilion. Since it was about half a day’s ride from the edge of the Wildwood, Vanx figured it was some sort of base camp for Quazar’s rescue party. Thinking of the old wizard raised a hundred questions that he doubted he could get answered any time soon.
There weren’t many men. With those from the prince’s escort who had ridden in with them, Vanx guessed there were around half a hundred in all. He also noticed that there were more horses and empty saddles than there were bodies. He didn’t want to think about the numerous corpses who met their end battling the ogres at the edge of the Wildwood.
It was near darkness when their wagon lurched to a halt. A quartet of soldiers came to escort them. Like Vanx, they were weary and they stunk of sweat and battle. Vanx could make out the gore still spattered on their chain and plate armor. The pitch torch one of them carried hissed and sputtered and cast a crazy, dancing orange light.
“The prince says to tell you to have faith in what is right. I have to run a chain through your legs and lock you all together, but I don’t like it none.”
“Nor I,” another of the men added softly. He met Vanx’s eyes. “You saved our chops when them big bastards had us pinned down and this is no way to give thanks.”
“We follow the prince’s orders. He is as just as they come. He is up to something that is in your favor, we think.”
They were herded over to a tiny copse at the edge of the camp. It consisted of six stunted pine trees huddled around an older, towering one. The soldier carrying the long chain looped it around the central trunk and, after running it between the three prisoners’ legs, he closed the loop with a heavy lock.
“I’ll bring the makings for a fire and set up a privy blind so that the lady can have a modicum of privacy.”
“Yes, good, Sir Earlin,” one of them agreed. “And I’ll fill my plate with those choice cutlets and some cheese and ease over after full dark.”
“And here.” The man with the torch handed the brand to Sir Earlin and fumbled at his hip. He loosed a half-full skin and passed it to Vanx. “Sir Cyle, give the lad your skin.”
“Yes, sir.” Sir Cyle did so.
“He might try to kill me in the night while I’m chained,” Vanx said after sipping from the skin. Seeing the utter confusion in the man’s eyes, he clarified. “The duke was in the forest hunting us. He wants me dead.”
“I might want you dead too, if you was pokin’ my wife,” Sir Earlin chuckled. “But not to worry. Our orders are to make sure the three of you get to Duke Elmont’s dungeon unharmed.”
Sir Cyle nodded in the darkness. “And that’s how it will happen, so at least try to enjoy our piss-poor hospitality. If it were up to us, you would be sleeping in the prince’s pavilion tonight.”
True to their words, one or more of the knights was at hand all through the evening. A privy pit was dug and a canvas screen was erected around it so that they might relieve themselves in semi-privacy. Hot food — choice cuts, not scraps — was brought on a platter of bread and cheese, and a pitcher of clean water was passed around as well.
When asked if they needed anything else, Matty requested a bucket of wash water. It came along with a bundle of clean clothes, all thin under-armor wear, most likely from the packs of the fallen men. They took turns washing while Sir Cyle answered Darbon’s myriad questions about Dyntalla. The tired knight didn’t seem to mind, and somehow managed, with broad gestures and general descriptions, to evade Darbon’s actual questions.
Soon another knight came to relieve Sir Cyle. This man either hadn’t been at the battle, or had an extra set of fully polished armor lying about. Vanx assumed the former, for this young man wasn’t battle-jaded or road weary.
It was late; the full moon was silvery pale, and stars speckled the cobalt sky. Vanx had just drifte
d off to sleep when a boot at his side shook him awake. It was the dark-eyed, dark-clad man who rode with Duke Martin. Feeling a chill in his blood, Vanx sat up and glanced about. There was no one around them but Matty and Darbon, and the two of them were in a tangled knot of slumber. None of the knights were anywhere to be seen and Vanx’s heart began to hammer into a panicked tattoo, for the sinister-looking man’s expression was a blood-chilling grin of triumph.
“What do you want?” Vanx asked.
“Shhhh!” The man hissed through his delight. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d not have shaken you awake, fool.”
The reality of that statement made such stark sense to Vanx that it calmed him. He struggled to gather his wits, though, because his every instinct was telling him that this man was dangerous and evil.
“What is this Blood Stone I’ve overheard the soldiers whispering about?”
“I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew,” Vanx replied. “What are you? Where is our guard?”
“My name is Coll, and I suggested that Sir Pallance take a break and fill his skin from the keg in the cooks’ tents. He has a long day ahead of him, leading troops back to the edge of the Wildwood to fetch the bodies of the dead.”
“And he just went?”
Coll chuckled. “I can be very persuasive, as you’re about to find out.” Coll waved his hand around and mouthed the words to a spell that should have made Vanx want to answer his questions eagerly. Zythian blood was far more resistant to magic than human blood. Vanx had enough of it in him that it simply deflected the spell’s power and dispersed it into the night. Clearly Coll couldn’t understand how Vanx had defied his dark magic. He grew angry when Vanx was still able to refuse his will. Determined to learn about the powerful artifact, Coll tried a different tact. He strode over to where Darbon and Matty were sleeping in each other’s arms and cast another spell. This one was quite a bit more powerful than the last.
Just as a deep crimson cloud of gas began flowing out of his palm and crept down over the unsuspecting couple, Sir Earlin stepped out of the darkness, drawing steel.
Had he been listening all along? Vanx wondered as his hope rose and fell in the same heaving of breath. Coll’s red mist, looking like a roiling cloud of steamed blood, quickly formed around Sir Earlin’s face. The knight’s sword slid back into place. His determined expression went slack, and the big, armored man took a knee right beside the sleeping forms of Vanx’s friends.
“You see, Vanx, even though you can somehow thwart my spell, you will still tell me what I want to know.”
“Why should I?” Vanx asked with halfhearted defiance. He could have guessed Coll’s next words.
“Because if you don’t, these three will die.” Coll’s eyes locked onto Vanx’s, and Vanx felt that same icy chill he had earlier in the day.
“As we speak they are breathing in more and more of the poisonous gas. The more they breathe, the more damage is done to them, so you’d better start talking before their minds are permanently damaged due to your dalliance.”
“What do you want to know?” Vanx asked. He would say what he had to say to save his friends, but no more. Not a word more.
“You can start by telling me what talisman you carry that keeps my spells from affecting you.”
“I’m only half-human. My blood makes me immune to fledgling cantrips such as you work.”
Coll’s brows narrowed at the insult. “I might just kill your friends for that.” Coll gave Vanx one last glaring look. “Now tell me about the Blood Stone.”
While Vanx told him vaguely of the stone and how it attracted the ogres, he searched the recesses of his mind for the words and gestures required to cast a spell that he knew would summon a gust of wind. It was a sailors’ incantation, a silly poetic phrase containing a magical binding, a bargain of sorts. One day off the end of your life in trade for a steady wind. It’s a small price to pay if you’re going to die at sea without it. Vanx learned the limerick during the first days of his vision quest, when he sailed from the isle of Zyth to Parydon proper. He had worked the binding twice, just to pass the time at sea, but that had been many, many mugs of ale in the past. Still, it came to him like the words of a song.
“Who has the Blood Stone now then?” Coll asked, his face a study in smugness and burning curiosity.
“Ahhh.” Vanx sighed and put his fingers into a curl at his mouth, as if he were holding a horn. He blew into them then started reciting. “Fill the sails and sail us on, for we have been adrift too long. Wheek mar un bartered treth, a day of life for one sweet breath.”
Before Coll realized what was happening a sudden blast slammed into him. He went staggering back, windmilling his arms to no effect. The poisonous cloud of gas, as well as a few of the encampment’s tents, went with him. Within the span of three heartbeats the whole camp was alive with fright.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’m off to make a fool of a fool,
and a fool of a kingdom too.
I might lose my head to the kingsman’s ax,
but I’ll try to fool him too.
– The King of Fools
The wall around Dyntalla was as impressive as it was imposing. It was built for the sole purpose of keeping the wilderness at bay with absolutely no attention paid to aesthetics. Vanx estimated it to be thirty feet tall. It was made of dull, grey granite and had a crenelated top. Its plainness was broken by the two square towers that flanked the heavy, iron-banded double gate. Each tower rose about fifteen feet above the top of the wall. Vanx could make out an archer and the triangular kingdom banner posted atop each one. On the left was Duke Elmont’s family crest, a rampant lion silhouetted in a field of green. The other displayed the spread-winged Parydon Falcon in gold on a field of bright purple. The men looking out at the approaching procession were armed with heavy crossbows. Vanx knew this was so that they could easily shaft someone below them at the gate. Not until Prince Russett’s banner men raised his pennant, which showed the Parydon Falcon swooping with outstretched claws in purple on a field of gold, did the distant rattle of the gate chains come to Vanx’s ears.
To Vanx, the scene was right out of some epic song. Dark wizards scheming under the nose of a young, headstrong prince; a snake-skinned duke who cared little for his own honor, and even less for the life of the daughter he didn’t know wasn’t his. The poisoned princess and her common-born lover, a crazy old wizard, and a would-be hero chained in the back of a supply wagon unjustly. Vanx laughed at the last thought.
He was no hero.
Still, as they drew nearer to the slowly opening gates he couldn’t help but feel that he was in some wild tale told by the hearth to pass away the winter months. All that was missing, he decided, were trumpeters blasting a proud, heart-quickening anthem, and a crowd of flower-throwing commoners waiting to greet the procession’s arrival.
Vanx let his wandering mind drift back to the beginnings of the new wall they’d passed a good mile back. Farmsteads and grazing swaths littered the span between here and there. None of the dwellings had the homey feel of permanency, as if the brave occupants knew they might have to flee back to Dyntalla for safety at any moment. Humans might spread across the new land like a plague, as some of his people thought, but at least they did it thoroughly well. And who was to say they were wrong for doing it?
Once the new wall was completed the human’s foothold on the Wilds would be more of a headlock, maybe even a chokehold. He pondered the idea that this uprising of magic-influenced ogres might be nature’s way of rejecting man. Then he remembered how the king of men had sworn to protect the Wildwood and how the ogres had chased away most of its inhabitants.
Sir Earlin, who had kept his men close to the wagon throughout the day, spurred his big, grey destrier up close to them.
“I owe you double now, Vanx,” he said. “You saved my chops again last night.”
“So you remember then?” Vanx felt a wave of relief. He hadn’t mentioned the incident with Coll for fear of causi
ng himself even more trouble than he was already in. “I thought maybe you’d blanked it from your mind.”
“Nay, friend.” The knight paled at the memory. “As much as I’d like to forget that foul magic, I doubt I ever will.”
“That sorcerer is dangerous,” Vanx warned. “Someone has to warn the prince.” As much as Vanx disliked Duke Martin, he felt he had to say what he said next anyway. “There’s a strong possibility that the Duke of Highlake is under his sinister influence.”
“Yes,” Sir Earlin agreed. “I’ve spoken to the prince already. That’s why I’m here. He has a message for you. He wants you to be ready to leave your cell at two bells past midnight. Rest until then, my friend. My cousin is the dungeon master and you will be fed and treated well.”
Matty shot across the wagon bed. “All of us, or just him?” Her movement was so fast that she startled the knight’s horse.
Sir Earlin grunted at her. “That I cannot answer, lady,” he said. “I was told only to give a message to Vanx.”
“You can’t leave us in there, Vanx,” Matty said, giving a slight nod back at Darbon. “Especially him.” Vanx didn’t catch the meaning of Matty’s glance, but knew it had significance and that he should figure out what she meant.
“I’ll not let the prince forget about you two, Matty, I promise.”
“Why am I even in chains?” Darbon blurted out defensively. “I am an apprentice smith. I was on my way to Parydon with my master to get my guild badge.” His voice had grown into an indignant yell that everyone could hear. “I’ve done no wrong, and people in Parydon are expecting me.”
Seeing that Duke Martin, Coll, Prince Russet, and even Bear Fang Karcher were now staring at them, Vanx lunged out a wild boot kick at Sir Earlin’s horse. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath, more to the animal than to the rider, as his heel thumped the side of its head soundly. The well-trained horse snorted then lowered its head and gave the wagon’s side-plank a solid head-butt.
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