M. Mathias: Through the Wildwood

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 with 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.