M. Mathias: Through the Wildwood

“It will get better,” the deckhand nearest the two said with a three-toothed grin. “About the time we hit Zyth you’ll just be getting used to her.”

“How long is that?” Trevin managed to ask.

“About two days, if this wind holds.” The sailor grunted as he hauled up a bucketful of seawater on the end of a rope. “But that’s only iffen we can avoid the tempests.” He sloshed the seawater from his bucket onto the deck between Darbon and the rail, washing away the small puddle of bile the boy had recently heaved forth. “If the tempest gets us,” the deckhand went on, “then we’ll be tossed about mightily, and if lightning don’t get our boom, or set our sails afire, then maybe we’ll not drift too far off course; might make Zyth in a week or two.”

“Enough,” Captain Willington barked from somewhere. He was a barrel-chested, full-bearded seadog stuffed into the fancy uniform of a royal captain. “Quit scaring the poor landlubbers, Yandi, or I’ll let the heathen feed you to his kin when we get to Zyth.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n Willie,” the man responded over a snort and a few hoots of laughter from his mates.

“He was just sportin’ with them, Cappy,” another hand said from above. This one had all of his teeth, but was missing the lower half of his left leg. It was no surprise that everyone called him Peg. True to his name, there was a thick wooden dowel booted in rusty iron strapped to his left thigh so that he could walk about.

When he’d first seen the one-legged seaman, Trevin had wondered what good he’d be at sea. He couldn’t envision a man with a wooden leg being able to keep his balance on a continually moving vessel. He found out how wrong he was when they left Dyntalla Bay and Peg shot up into the rigging like a monkey. The man’s arms were powerful, and he went about pulling lines and unfurling sails better than any man in the rigging. Only moments after that, Trevin found the side rail. Now, several hours later, with Darbon still fatefully at his side, he was feeling no better at all. In fact, he was feeling worse. He couldn’t even manage to thank Captain Willie for calling the annoying deckhand away from them.

Darbon started to say something, but only groaned into another heave. This time, not even stomach fluids came out of him.

“Thank old Nepton himself,” Yandi said, trying desperately to contain his mirth. “The lad’s finally empty. The other emptied out half a bell ago.”

“That means your shift of swabbin’s over, Yan.” The captain looked to be fighting his grin. “Take your bucket and brush down and clean out the prince’s privy. One of these two lost it there before making it to the rail.”

Yandi let out a grumble of displeasure over his new order, but all that escaped his mouth as he tossed the bucket back overboard was, “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

The captain leaned over the rail of his slightly elevated steerage deck and looked down at the two seasick men. “Let yourselves heave a time or two more to make sure you’re really out of juice, and then make your way down to your cabin. I’ll have Cookie draw you a cup of stout to help you sleep. When you wake up from that, the misery will be behind you.”

Trevin tried to thank the captain but only managed to raise his head before the ship lurched. The bow went down sharply and sideways. Trevin gasped and went instantly into another fit of heaving. This time Captain Willie’s laugh wasn’t containable, nor were the hoots from the rigging.

Below deck, in Prince Russet’s royal cabin, Vanx, Prince Russet, and Sir Earlin were discussing several subjects while sipping fine wine.

“A dragon killed his brother when we were boys,” Vanx was saying about Zeezle Croyle. “Since then, the study of wyrms has been his passion. He is the only person I know who has ventured to Dragon’s Isle.” Vanx shrugged. “He might be able to help us. I doubt we’ll be able to just walk up and prick a vile of blood from a mature fire wyrm. But you never know, this might not be as hard a quest as it seems.”

“Good, Vanx,” Prince Russet nodded.

“I’ll tell you where the big dragons sleep,” Sir Earlin said jovially. He was more than a little drunk. The other two waited, but it became clear that the knight wanted to be prompted before finishing. Finally Prince Russet asked, “Where do those big dragons sleep, then?”

“Why anywhere they fargin’ well please!” The knight slapped his knee and bellowed out a deep, contagious laugh.

“Sir Earlin, is this really the time for such jests?” Prince Russet asked after his fit had subsided. “My half-sister’s life hangs in the balance of this endeavor.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” The knight’s smile faded. “But if ever there is a time to make light of life, it’s when you are on the way to an island full of dragons.”

“Or an island full of man-eating heathens,” Vanx added dryly.

Prince Russet caught his eye and smiled. “Sorry about that. I was trying to scare the oarsmen.” He shrugged. “I meant no offense.”

“I took no offense, Majesty, or Highness, or whatever it is I’m supposed to call you.” Vanx returned the somber grin. “The look you put on his face was worth it.”

“You can call me Russ if the setting is casual, for you are not from Parydon. But in public, Prince, or Prince Russet will suffice.”

“Do you treat all your slaves with this much consideration?”

“You’re the first slave who’s ever been in my service, Vanx.” The prince took a sip of wine. “If it were up to me, sir, you would be knighted for the way you selflessly braved into that horde of ogres so that my men might have a chance to break away. And the simple fact that you had no idea that I was the Crown Prince at that time makes the deed all the more extraordinary. Not very many men,” he shook his head apologetically, “or Zythians for that matter, would have done half as much.”

“Most folk not sworn to protect a liege would have flat-out bolted away,” Sir Earlin said with a look of deep respect. “Only a lunatic or a baresark, or maybe a half-crazed man-eating heathen would have waded in so deep with not a scrap of armor to protect his body.”

Prince Russet raised his heavy pewter goblet in toast. “To man-eating heathens.”

“Aye, and to dragon’s blood easily obtained,” Sir Earlin added.

Vanx touched cups with them and found himself feeling a little more pride.

He’d considered leaving this tangled human melodrama behind him back in the Wildwood. He’d survived the slave shackles twice now, and had somehow gotten through the treacherous, ogre-filled forest. Though he could find a hundred reasons to abandon this affair, he hadn’t. He was proud of that, too.

His moment of self-congratulations was blunted when Prince Russet returned to the table and unrolled an old sheepskin map of the area. The map was centered on the strange spire that Vanx still longed to see. To the far north, the tip of the bitter lands dipped down into the picture. To the west, the Isle of Parydon sat next to the coast of the huge continent the humans had claimed. The northern half of Zyth could be seen at the bottom of the page, but what drew the eye was the ferocious-looking dragon drawn over the landmass east of the spire. Below the artist’s menacing sketch were the words, “Dragons Be Here”, and reading them caused Vanx to reconsider the idea that going there for any reason might be a mistake. Sir Earlin had just described his actions on the edge of the Wildwood as something done by a lunatic. Vanx was starting to wonder if the old knight wasn’t right.