Through the Wildwood (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 1)

by M. R. Mathias

  After a moment, Vanx decided that he had to agree.

  I cast this wreath into the sea

  to satisfy Nepton.

  Shelter well into the depths

  those souls you’ve taken on.

  – a prayer to the god of the sea.

  The next afternoon, as they continued through the Wildwood, the group spoke quietly of many things, but no one broached the subject of Dragon’s Isle. Vanx noticed that they weren’t alone. A score or more of the Kobalts on their fleet, shadowy mounts could be detected at the fringes of his vision. He thought that maybe even the enta were still helping protect their passage. Whether they were or not, it was impossible to detect. Even with Vanx’s sharp Zythian senses, sightings of their escorts were few and far between. It was only when one of the creatures, the one with the fur sash, came into plain view ahead of them and raised a clawed hand that the others realized they weren’t traveling alone.

  Quazar, with Trevin and Gallarael mounted behind, had been leading the group from the back of the younger haulkatten. Vanx, Matty, and Darbon rode the slaver’s crotchety old animal following them. The going had been relatively slow, but steady. The weight of three grown people was akin to a full load of ore. The haulkats could travel like this in almost any terrain for days, but only at a steady pace, and only if they were fed their accustomed ration of ground fishmeal each night when they were allowed to rest.

  Trevin and Darbon were riding at the rear on their respective mounts. Both of them kept bows strung and at the ready. Vanx wondered how Darbon was taking the pain of his back wound so well. It had to itch and burn. Several times the boy scratched at it with an arrow over his shoulder. Vanx had long since decided that the weapons, at this point, were redundant. He didn’t say anything to them about it, though; he could tell that the feel of the yew in their hands and the assurance of arrows at their hips went far toward keeping the strain of the situation from getting to them.

  The Kobalt barked out a series of harsh, yapping grunts. Quazar reined in the young haulkatten and motioned for Vanx to do the same. Oddly, Vanx was getting the gist of what the Kobalt was trying to convey to them. Quazar understood the crude language even better and replied.

  “How far behind us?” he asked in the common tongue. Then with a shake of his head, he made an elaborate hand gesture and barked back a series of noises that he clearly struggled to produce. After the Kobalt responded to his question, the wizard spoke to the group.

  “There are men following us, four of them with horses.” His eyes met Vanx’s. “The Kobrary, the leader of them, says they are following our trail and are armed as if they were hunting. If what you have told me is true, then maybe the duke sent his men to clean up the mess.”

  “Duchess Gallarain has no doubt gotten the news as well. She would have put out a search for Gallarael, too,” Trevin offered. “But not without the duke knowing about it. He might not know everything, but he does know who comes and goes through his gates.”

  “We can’t worry about them,” Vanx said with a shrug. He eyed the Kobrary and wondered what it was, besides the furred sash, that made him the leader of the creatures. “Gallarael has to be taken to Dyntalla. If we dally we may not get there in time.”

  Quazar nodded agreement then barked and yelped with the Kobalt some more. When the exchange was over the wolf carried the Kobrary away in swift, bounding leaps, once again leaving the group seemingly alone.

  “Four is not the number of a search party,” Vanx said. “How do you think the Kobalts will slow them down?”

  Quazar’s thick eyebrows rose suddenly. “You understood us then?”

  “I did, but more the gestures than the sounds,” Vanx answered.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. Your race has a great aptitude for understanding the languages of nature.”

  The old wizard shrugged and let out a sigh. “Who knows? They gave their oath to the king’s terms, so they will not kill men traversing the forest road; any men. And since the actual route has not yet been established, those men following us will eventually make it to Dyntalla.”

  “Or into an ogre’s maw,” Matty chimed in.

  “With them comes my slave chains,” Vanx said somberly. “Or worse.”

  “How far behind us are they?” Trevin asked.

  “Less than a day,” Quazar grumbled. “And they are four men, with four good horses. We are six with two tired haulkattens. They will catch us out on the plains between the forest and city wall.” He grimaced. “If they don’t overtake us before we get out of the forest.”

  “We’ll have to travel at night, and only stop long enough to rest the animals,” said Vanx.

  “Not all of us can see in the dark, Vanxy,” Matty said from behind him. “I can barely see in the light, but I have grown used to not having chains on my ankles, so I’m willing to keep moving.”

  “The wizard can make light,” Vanx reminded them. “And once we’re out of the forest, these kattens can move much, much faster than they can in the trees.”

  “That’s true,” Trevin agreed. “But we’ll get nowhere sitting here arguing the matter.”

  With that they resumed course. When the sun was low enough that the world under the thick canopy became dim, Quazar called forth a melon-sized orb of light and caused it to hover a few feet over his head. It was harsh, bright illumination that threw long eerie shadows away from their passage.

  When the moon was high in the sky they stopped to feed and rest themselves and the animals. The break was a short one. By dawn, both Matty and Darbon were slouched in the saddle against each other and leaning heavily against Vanx’s back. He didn’t mind so much. Matty’s breasts were soft and their constant shifting and jiggling kept him awake.

  Vanx hadn’t been sure what to expect on his vision quest, but he was certain that this sort of adventure wasn’t it. Singing his songs in fire-lit taverns was what he loved. Exploring different places while enjoying the humor and spirit of those he entertained, the fawning women, and the free tankards of the good ale, now that’s what he was about. The only reason he’d been in Highlake was because of the huge fish that swam in the waters there. He still wanted to see the icefalls at the edge of the Bitter Lands. He wanted to hunt the spike-horned shagswine, whose delicious meat supposedly caused one to have grand visions of the future. He wanted to lay his eyes on the dark, needle-like spire that jutted up out of the sea for no apparent reason, and he wanted to visit the distant land of Harthgar, from where the humans came. There were supposedly castle cities as big as the entire island of Zyth, dozens of them. But still, the destination he’d always contemplated, the place that filled his youthful dreams, was the one place he’d never truthfully expected to go.

  Dragon’s Isle was infested with its namesake. Dragons were beyond dangerous. He’d seen one once, a smaller wyrm that had flown across the sea looking for a place to roost. It chose a cavern in the mountainous region of Zyth and tried to settle there. It fed on the herds and terrorized villagers until the council of elders decided that it had to go. No matter how hard they tried to repel the beast with magic, it wouldn’t leave. Finally, the creature was killed.

  Vanx had seen the corpse laid out in the field where it died. He’d walked the twenty-two pace length of it, from head to tail. He remembered it clearly.

  To kill the dragon they had poisoned a fat sheep and staked it out. The young, red-scaled wyrm had taken the tainted offering and later fell from the sky. Vanx was around thirty summers old then. It was the day after he’d looked at those sparking scales and teeth as big as his forearms that he’d decided to scratch Dragon’s Isle from his list of places to explore. The prospect of going there now - if he survived the Wildwood and if the Duke of Highlake’s men didn’t catch and kill him - didn’t seem as daunting. Gallarael was in her present position because she was helping him. He wasn’t about to forget that.

  They were about to stop again when Vanx caught the scent of magic in the air. The sun was high in the sky and Qu
azar had long since extinguished his magical light. The old man was barely awake in his saddle and the source of the static sensation was too distant to have come from him. What struck Vanx as odd was that the source of the magic was somewhere ahead of them, not behind.

  “Come,” Vanx said loudly, reaching over and giving Trevin a smack on the shoulder before he urged the old haulkatten past the younger one. “Follow me, and get yourselves ready for a fight.”

  “What is it?” Trevin asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I sense there may be trouble ahead.”

  “If it’s trouble, why don’t we go around it?” Matty yawned but reached up and pulled Vanx’s dagger from his belt. This time he noticed her taking it.

  “We might have to do that,” Vanx answered. “But I want the wizard to get close enough to see if he can figure out what magic I am sensing.”

  “No need,” Quazar said with a bit of alarm in his voice. Vanx stopped his mount and looked back at them. “It’s magic all right; good clean magic. Like we of the Order use.” He looked back over his shoulder at Gallarael, who was slumped between him and Trevin, and frowned. “I think you should get close enough to see what it is. Those are things I can’t divine. It might be Garner’s rescue party. Then again, it might just be more trouble. We can follow at a safe distance.”

  “Matty should trade places with me then,” Trevin said as he slid off the young haulkatten. “She can keep hold of Gal.”

  The two switched places and Vanx urged the old haulkatten up ahead of Quazar and the two women. He felt certain they were heading for something bad. He wished he, Trevin, and Darbon were on the younger mount instead of Amden’s old beast. At least he knew the young katten would defend Matty if the old man hid in his magical shell again.

  “Don’t put an arrow in my back by mistake,” Vanx jested as they slowly crept ahead.

  “It might be a better fate than what awaits you in Dyntalla,” Trevin replied.

  Darbon chuckled. The tension of the moment was plain in his laugh. “Being shafted in the back is a far better end than itching to death from being clawed. I can’t even reach where it’s worst.”

  “Maybe so,” Vanx agreed. They’d gone far enough that the others were probably out of hailing distance. Vanx still sensed the crackly static of the magic, but he couldn’t see or hear anything other than the forest itself. Then the old haulkatten hesitated beneath him. The animal flicked its ears and rotated them forward. It could hear something.

  Inching the animal ahead, Vanx thought he heard a shout and the ring of steel on steel. He figured the latter sound as improbable as a flying boar. Who would be sword fighting in the Wildwood? Another shout, from a different voice, then the low, growling battle rumble of an ogre came to his ears.

  The haulkatten shuddered beneath them. It was growing nervous.

  “What is it?” Trevin asked.

  “There’s a battle ahead,” Vanx hissed in a harsh whisper. “Swordsmen and ogres, I think. A lot of them.”

  He pressed the haulkatten until it grew so skittish that he thought it might bolt.

  Spying a towering pine tree, Vanx handed the reins back to Trevin and slid off of the beast.

  “I’m going to climb up and take a look,” he whispered before scaling the tree as quickly as a startled lizard. He looked down to see Trevin and Darbon gaping up at him. No human could ever hope to climb as well.

  Vanx couldn’t believe what was happening. He could see the edge of the Wildwood, and the flat, slightly rolling plain beyond the trees. The transition from forest to plain wasn’t a constant. Copses and glades broke off from the main wooded area in a random fading pattern. In one of those open glades, a group of men flying the Parydon banner were engaged in a heated battle with a horde of blood-lusting ogres. The ogres had the upper hand and the men desperately needed help.

  I’ve walked a long and lonely road,

  if you could only see where I’ve been.

  It’s a mystery how the stories unfold,

  but sooner or later we all meet our end.

  – A Zythian bard’s song

  “Darbon, get off the katten!” Vanx ordered as he half-slid, half-fell out of the tree. “Run! Go back to the wizard as fast as you can. There’s a battle. Tell him that his rescue party is in it neck deep.”

  Vanx gathered himself from his landing and with two strides leapt into his previous position in front of Trevin. The old haulkat sensed the excitement and tried to rear up and dislodge its riders, but Vanx and Trevin held firm. Vanx jerked the guide reins then put his mouth near the frightened creature’s ear. He spoke something to the beast in words that were stern, yet soothing.

  Darbon was staring up at them with wide eyes. Vanx gave him a lopsided grin. “Go, Darby. Stay there and keep an eye on those women but tell that old coot to get his arse up here. That katten he’s riding will lead him right to the fighting.”

  “Done,” Darbon finally nodded before sprinting away.

  “Are you ready, Trevin?” Vanx asked.

  “I am, but you don’t even have a weapon. You gonna throw rocks like Darby?”

  Vanx reached to his belt and chuckled. His dagger was gone. Matty. He remembered her taking it earlier. He just shrugged and heeled their mount toward the battle.

  “Do you want my bow or my sword?” asked Trevin.

  “Give me the bow. Hook that quiver to my belt,” Vanx called back over his shoulder, pausing every few words to make sure he didn’t take a low-hanging limb to the head. “I saw what you did against the ogres before. Keep your blade. If you could do that much damage again, those men might just have a chance.”

  The old haulkatten carried them right out of the Wildwood. One minute they were in the thick foliage, the next they were on rolling grassy turf. A score or more of king’s men, some in full armor, some in studded leather uniforms, were battling as many ogres, a few of them nearly twice as large as those they’d faced in the forest. A wild-haired young man in glittering mail was doing severe damage to the opposition by charging his silver destrier at them then withdrawing quickly. The way the other soldiers formed around him when he backed out of the enemy showed Vanx that he was the one in charge. Vanx figured him more brave than smart.

  “Get around behind them, Vanx,” Trevin yelled. The din of battle was intense. Steel rang on wood and iron. One of the ogres was using a huge bone club to pummel a swordsman who’d lost his horse. Vanx let the old katten have its head for a heartbeat while he loosed at the ogre. The arrow struck deeply into its chest. The severely wounded soldier took advantage of the creature’s surprise and ran his sword straight up into its guts.

  As they flanked the horde of foul-smelling, green-fleshed hulks, Trevin climbed to one side of the saddle and made ready to leap into the fray. “At least we made it through the Wildwood,” he jested.

  “Like Darby said, if we die today, it’s still better than ending up a dragon turd,” Vanx replied, but Trevin was already rolling to his feet and cleaving the lower portion of leg from one of the huge ogres. Again, Vanx wished he was on the younger haulkatten. Were he so mounted he would have charged right into the horde. As it was, he didn’t dare get too close for fear of being launched from a bucking, twisting katten whose only desire was to flee.

  He saw a mound and directed the haulkatten that way. Twisting in his saddle, he snatched the last quiver of arrows from the pack frame, untied the cords holding the other gear in place, then pulled all the rigging off of the animal as he jumped to the ground and let it run away. Using the slightly elevated position and his keen sight, he wounded or put down as many of the ogres as his supply of arrows would allow. It took only moments to empty the two quivers. After the last arrow was loosed he surveyed the battle to see how else he could help.

  The unhelmeted young commander and a knot of his men were being pressed back against the Wildwood’s tree line. The men were afraid to seek its cover, and rightfully so. Vanx saw movement behind them. There was no telling how many of the beast
s were lurking in the dark tangle of trees. There wasn’t much Vanx could do for them, other than harass the ogres from the rear.

  Elsewhere, Trevin and a half-dozen kingdom swordsmen had their hands full with the two ogres. They looked like ten-year-old boys fighting full-grown green-skinned men. They also looked to be gaining the advantage.

  Trevin was rolling and diving and darting about the legs of one of them. He made a slash, nearly hamstringing the thing, but it kicked out and spun away in time to save itself. Another swordsman heeled his horse in quickly and jabbed his blade in the ogre’s buttocks before it could get hold of Trevin. The other ogre palmed a destrier’s head and twisted. The horse screamed and bucked and went down on its side, pinning its rider’s leg. The terrified horse thrashed, crushing the man’s chest armor. The ogre kicked its head so hard that it went still.

  Vanx didn’t watch any longer. He raced across the battlefield, stopping only to snatch up a sword from a fallen man. The archers of the rescue party, some of them anyway, were regrouping at a distance. Vanx heard someone yell, “Looooose!” and then the thrum of bow strings. A tight group of arrows arced out and sank into the crowd of ogres pinning the blond-haired commander’s group.

  Loud bellows of rage and pain erupted from the horde. The second volley of arrows came in as Vanx spitted one of the ogres from behind. He yanked the sword free from the creature’s spine with the aid of his booted foot, and then went after another. His world became a wild, spinning blur of green-colored flesh and hot, dark blood. Snarling faces snapped at him as he dodged filthy-clawed fingers. The sweaty beasts smelled like rotting meat and fought ferociously.

  Vanx’s movements became mechanical and instinctual, yet fluid enough to keep from getting walloped. Club-like arms and jagged, raking claws were everywhere. He was grazed across the cheek by an arrow, of all things, but he didn’t let that slow his devastatingly fluid assault. At one point an ogre managed to grab a fistful of his hair. He spun away with his blade, taking the creature’s hand off at the elbow as he went. Untangling the stubborn fingers caused him to lose the rhythm of his battle trance long enough to get clawed across the chest and knocked from his feet. When he landed he saw the wild-haired commander and was shocked. His face was alarmingly familiar.