M. Mathias - Through the Wildwood

“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.

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.