“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.
Chapter Seven
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 Captain 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.
He opened his eyes, wondering what sort of luck might have saved him this time, and what he saw was as relieving as it was baffling.
With his free hand Captain Moyle clutched at a bloody arrow that was jutting out of his throat. The captain’s eyes registered, that his shaft had missed Vanx and, even though he looked to be choking on his own blood, he drew another from the quiver at his hip and nocked it.
Vanx was helpless but showed no fear. He could see and hear Amden Gore’s angry haulkatten growling as it bounded up and swiped Moyle to the ground with a razor-sharp claw.
Vanx was amazed that it was the one-handed whore, Matty, commanding the slaver’s beast. She looked as if she’d been beaten half to death. Her face and neck were a misshapen welt of blue and purple, but she was grinning with delight. She couldn’t have fired the arrow that saved him, he realized, and the half-dozen questions that came to his mind were answered when one of the young men from the caravan came trotting up holding a bow.
It was the blacksmith’s apprentice.
“You owe me now, Vanxy,” Matty said in a hoarse croak with a devilish lick of her lips.
Vanx could only imagine how she would demand her payment, but he had other things to worry about at the moment. “Get me up! Gallarael and Trevin are poisoned, they need our help.”
Darbon, the apprentice boy, dropped his bow next to the bloody heap that had been Captain Moyle and began tugging Vanx’s clothing from the thorns.
“Who poisoned the poor lass out here?” Matty asked with mock concern.
“She was bitten,” Vanx said. “Tell me you have a good pot in your packs, woman. The girl is the only proof that the duke tried to have us killed. She’s the only advocate for your freedom and I need a pot to boil some herbs for her.”
“We need no advocate,” Matty chuckled roughly, brandishing a bundle of loosely tied parchments from her perch in the saddle. “I found our papers of ownership in Amden Gore’s pack.”
“They’ll do me no good, woman!” Vanx roared as the boy freed his upper body. He sat up and glared at Matty. “I nailed the duke’s wife. The tale is probably to Harthgar by now. As long as the duke’s treachery goes unknown, he’ll have a price on my head.” Tearing his last leg free with an audible rip of cloth, he found his feet. “A pot, Matty. I need a pot.”
“We’ve a pot for your noble tart.” Matty licked her lips again. “But now that’s two favors you owe me, pretty man.”
Vanx knew that Matty, bathed and in decent clothes, wasn’t so bad to look upon. For a woman her age, she still had the curves and tight skin of a woman half as old. Vanx had seen her in her full marketable glory at the Golden Griffin Inn a few months ago when he arrived at Highlake. He’d come to see the legendary pristine waters of the valley’s namesake and sport fish for the elusive garpike with a fishing bow like his elders had in ages past. He played his loot and sang the old ballads of human legend at the inn to sustain himself. Matty had entertained his thoughts several times on the slower nights. Looking as she did now, used, filthy, and bruised to the very core, her attempt to look seductive sent a shiver of revulsion up his spine.
Darbon tried not to feel jealous of the man he’d just saved, but he did. Matty had brought him into manhood the previous night and he was fighting to stay the possessive feelings he was suddenly feeling. He snatched up the tinderbox from the pile of herbs Vanx had dropped and hurriedly went about making a fire. If Gallarael was Vanx’s tart, he figured that saving her would keep Vanx away from Matty. Even as the thoughts struck him, he felt foolish for having them. He knew in his heart what Matty was. He had seen her, day in and day out, tending to the haulers’ desires.
Last night, as she used her mouth to bring him up, she even told him she was only repaying him for saving her from Gregon’s deadly choke hold. He started to tell her that it was actually the haulkat that had saved her, but what she was doing, and what she did wit
h her body when she crawled atop him later, made him forget all but the glory of the moment.
Darbon could tell that Vanx was appreciative of his help. It showed in the way in which he spoke to and treated him. He’d been treated roughly his entire life, as most poor apprentices were. He’d been ordered about and called names, berated at every turn. He found he liked being treated like an equal and decided that he liked Vanx’s company as much, if not more than, Matty’s. It wasn’t long before Vanx finished brewing his remedy and was instructing him on how to help administer it.
“She doesn’t look so good,” Matty said as Vanx poured a sip of the remedy into Gallarael’s mouth.
“You’ve not seen yourself recently, then,” Vanx chuckled. “As dreadful as she looks, she still looks a bit better than you at the moment.”
Matty’s purple-and-blue head darkened a little bit and she stalked off to where Darbon had tethered the animals. Darbon wanted to laugh at her, but couldn’t seem to find the mirth. Matty was right. Gallarael looked so pale and sickly that death might be a comfort for her.
Trevin, on the other hand, was responding well to the foul-smelling liquid Darbon was helping him drink. Trevin even spoke a few crazy sentences, and in a moment of clarity asked about Gallarael’s condition. Vanx lied to him and said that she was doing better, but only to keep Trevin from worrying. After a while, Matty startled Vanx by kneeling beside Gallarael. She took the girl’s swollen arm and began applying a salve. With one hand missing, the task looked laborious, but Matty went about it with concentrated patience.
“It’s cactus juice,” she said quietly. “It will help her skin shrink back nicely if the swelling ever goes down.”
“Gal,” Trevin moaned and sat up with a struggle. “Gal?”
“Drink,” Darbon said, shoving another cupful of Vanx’s brew in his face.
“By all the gods of earth and man, Vanx,” the dazed young guard mumbled. “If she dies, I’ll hang the Duke of Highlake with his own guts.”
“Aye,” Vanx agreed. “And I’ll help hoist him to the rafters.” He reached over and patted Trevin on his uninjured shoulder. “But she’s not dead yet, Trev.”
“Tell me true, friend.” Trevin’s eyes were clearer. “Will she make it?”
“We need to get her to Dyntalla as quickly as we can,” Vanx told him, with no sugar coating this time. “The brew seems to have halted the progression of the poison’s work, but unlike you, she’s not coming around.”
A tear rolled down Trevin’s face. When he tried wiping it away, his hand missed his cheek. Then he crumpled back into his half-conscious daze.
Matty took the cup from Vanx’s hand. “Go brew another pot, then get some rest. Darby and I will tend them for a while.”
Vanx nodded. He let out a sigh of frustration and eased Gallarael’s head from his lap to Matty’s. After he brewed some more of the remedy he would close his eyes and rest, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t find slumber.
Chapter Eight
From the open sea the black needle grew
and pointed toward the midnight sky.
But nothing else did the Sea Spire do
as a million years passed by.
– a sailors song
The next day, going was slow. It sapped all of Vanx’s and Darbon’s energy taking turns hacking their path through the dense and unforgiving Wildwood. The only thing positive was that Trevin felt better. He was still feverish, but managed to keep Gallarael’s half-conscious, sweltering body seated atop the haulkatten. Matty rode the older haulkatten behind them, and whichever of the two healthy men wasn’t cutting the trail rode Captain Moyle’s horse at the rear with an arrow nocked.
Late in the afternoon the forest stopped thwarting their presence and opened a little bit. The tangled underbrush gave way to patches of berry bushes and thick green grass. The ugly twisted trunks and limbs of the tangle trees yielded to oaks, elms, and pine.
It amazed Vanx. A moment before he’d felt as if he were underground. Now, bright shafts of mote-filled sunlight cut through the gloom at frequent intervals, and patches of clear blue sky could be seen.
The pace quickened. Darby rode with Matty, guarding their rear, and Vanx lead the way on Moyle’s horse. Sometime before dusk they came across a trickling stream which had pooled against a beaver dam. In the middle of the pool stood an old pecan tree; it looked like an island tower surrounded by scores of little boats formed from the leaves and hulls floating on the surface. It sort of resembled how Vanx pictured the place called the Sea Spire; only the Sea Spire was a towering needle-like projection of black stone which jutted up out of the ocean for no reason any Zyth or human could say. Master Ogzon, who’d seen it firsthand, had described it in his lore lessons. The sight of the tree island and the memories it evoked reminded Vanx that he still had many places to see, and that he might be getting too caught up in the affairs of humankind. After all, he would still be youthful in heart and appearance long after Gallarael and Trevin died of old age.
A complaint spoken by Matty to Darbon in a rather harsh tone brought Vanx back to the moment.
“We’ll make camp here,” he said to the others.
“Go farther, or let’s backtrack a ways,” Trevin said. His voice was crisp and clear, as was his complexion. It looked to Vanx like the day of resting and riding had brought him back to form. Gallarael’s condition, though, hadn’t changed. She still looked hot to the touch and was as limp as a rag doll.
“Why not here?” Darbon asked before Matty could start in on him again.
“The pool will draw creatures throughout the night. They, in turn, will draw predators.” Trevin caught Vanx’s eyes with a serious look. “We can fill our skins and wash off the dust, but camping this close to water hole isn’t wise.”
“Aye,” Vanx agreed as he booted over a dried-up carcass that at first appeared to be nothing more than a moss-covered rock. Only bones, gristle, and a few persistent silver-green beetles remained underneath the brittle hide.
“We will need to gather wood before the sun sets,” Trevin added. His voice betrayed the concern he was feeling. “She needs more of your brew, man.”
“I’d hate to be out here in the dark,” said Darbon.
“I’ll fill the skins then,” Matty growled. “Let’s get on with it. The sooner I’m in my blanket, the sooner my bones will stop screaming.”
Trevin helped Darbon and Vanx gather up some wood, then they walked the animals a quarter of a mile past the pool and made camp in a small clearing. The open area was surrounded by high-branched hardwood trees, which allowed them a good line of sight.
The fire was blazing. Vanx split up the last of the herbs so that after this pot there would still be enough to brew another diluted one. Darbon went about tying off the animals. He gave the horse enough tether for it to graze, then poured a generous pile of fishmeal for the haulkats. Trevin made a pallet for Gallarael and quietly laid her in it while Matty asked for privacy and went back to the pool to bathe.
After getting Gallarael to swallow a cupful of Vanx’s brew, Trevin let her rest and paced around uneasily. “We’ve got to hurry Vanx,” he said. “She’s hot enough to thaw all the ice on Bitterpeak.”
“Even if we galloped night and day it would take maybe three full days to get to Dyntalla.” Vanx frowned. “I don’t know what more we can do.”
Trevin let out a long, slow sigh and glanced around the camp. “We’ll need two sentries at a time watching this night.” He strode around the campfire until it was exactly between him and Vanx. “Next time, we set the fire off to a side. One pair of eyes can’t see what’s coming beyond this blaze, and I’d rather have the fire roaring than not.”
Vanx started to say that he could see well beyond the fire with or without its light, but caught himself. He was fairly certain that knowing that he was half Zythian wouldn’t change the way his companions felt about him, but he wasn’t ready to take that chance. Too many of his people had returned from their travels through
the realms of men with sad and pathetic tales of jealousy and hatred toward his kind. What always irritated him most about the stories was that he was as much human as he was Zythian. By all rights, he should hate himself for one half being envious of the other. He chuckled at the absurdity of it all and wished he had a lute with which to play a song. Music had a way of clearing his mind and easing his troubles.
The sky was dark now and the pinpricks of a multitude of stars filled the night sky. Over the crackling of the fire, a lone owl hooted every now and again. The constant hum and chirp of the crickets and cicadas was lost in the mix. Then there was the crackling of dry deadfall and the sound of footsteps coming in from the forest. Everyone was expecting Matty’s return, so none of them gave the approaching sound a serious thought, at least not until a small, doggish creature, about half the size of a man, barged into the firelight. It was ugly, with gnarled bones and greenish-black skin. Seeing the humans at the fire, the creature flared open bright amber eyes and hissed through a mouth full of sharp, yellowed teeth. With the quickness of a wild animal, it darted back into the forest.
“What in all the nine hells was that?” Trevin asked as he fumbled for his sword.
“I don’t know,” said Darbon with a voice full of concern. “But it went toward Matty.” He pulled the dagger from his belt and strode into the forest in the general direction of the pool. Trevin started to follow, but Vanx blocked his way.
“Stay with Gal,” Vanx said, and before Trevin could finish blinking, Vanx was gone.
Vanx could see as if it were a typical overcast day. He couldn’t so much make out the distinguishing colors of things as he could discern the textures of what his eyes took in. The rough bark of the trees contrasted with the silky blackness of open space. The uneven, yet relatively smooth forest floor appeared as a deeply shadowed carpet before him. He moved quickly and quietly, like a predatory animal seeking to flank its prey. In a matter of moments he could see Matty ahead standing thigh-deep in the pool, cupping water in her hands and letting it run down her glistening body. Her hair was wet and hung over most of her face, concealing her ugly bruises. The moonlight accentuated the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips, causing Vanx to have to look away.
The Legend of Vanx Malic Books I-IV Bundle: To Kill a Witch Page 5
