M. Mathias: Through the Wildwood

“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.

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 causing 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.

“Shut your mouth, boy,” Sir Earlin barked. “Or me horse’ll shut it for ya!”

This drew a bit of laughter from some of the men, but a lot of the chuckling seemed forced. Vanx saw the duke’s expression pale when Darbon was speaking, and how he hurriedly leaned in to hear what Coll whispered to him in private. The duke wasted no time easing his horse over to the prince’s side. He spoke quietly for a moment, and then Prince Russet gave a glance up at the Dyntalla wall. They were still some hundred yards from the gate. The prince shook his head and left the duke awaiting a reply as he trotted his silvery-gray mount over toward the wagon. With a look of frustrated regret showing plainly on his face, he spoke harshly.