M. Mathias - Through the Wildwood

A thought occurred to her and she voiced her concern.

“How do you know that Captain Moyle was involved in all of this?” She was asking Vanx, but Trevin answered.

“I’m not so sure as our friend here.”

Vanx then explained how Captain Moyle had called the halt just an hour or so away from patrolled territory. He then gave his opinion of the caravan guards and of the choice of slaves the duke had gifted to Amden Gore, not to mention the unexpectedness of his generosity.

“If that is so, about where we made camp, then why didn’t Amden or any of the other haulers object when we stopped?” Gallarael asked.

Vanx chuckled. “They were too busy worrying about getting a turn with Matty.”

It was dawn by the time Vanx finished explaining. The young haulkatten was exhausted, as were he and Trevin. After the animal was fed a generous issue of fish meal, and unloaded, a bit of dried meat was shared amongst them. Gallarael offered to keep watch while the two men napped. Vanx was leery of Trevin, afraid that he and the girl might subdue him while he was disadvantaged. To Vanx’s surprise, Trevin sensed his unease. The man gave his solemn word that he would do his best to help clear Vanx’s name. It was enough to ease his concerns and he fell into a deep sleep as soon as he lay back and closed his eyes.

As the sun crept into the sky, burning the morning mist away, Gregon ruined his dagger busting apart Matty’s leg chains. He refused to even attempt to get her shackles off. Matty knew that their presence marked her as property. Now that she had the chance to make a run at full freedom, she wasn’t about to let some lust-craved oaf ruin it. At the moment, she was trying to talk him into going back to the camp to see if they could find the slaver’s corpse and pilfer the key.

“While we’re there we can loot the corpses, or I could just kill you now and move on.”

“But, Gregon, if we get these things off of my ankles it won’t be so hard for me to do that thing you like so much.” She purred and licked her slightly parted lips with half-lidded eyes. Her heavy breasts were on full display and she squeezed her arms at her sides, making them swell.

The oaf cursed under his breath, but she knew she had him.

“We’ll go back and pilfer the lot of them bodies, wench,” Gregon snarled. “But I’m keeping the coin. I’ll use that slaver’s tools to get them shackles off your legs if we don’t find the key.” Gregon smiled a broken yellow grin. “After that, your pretty mouth better be keepin’ the promises that came out of it. If’n it don’t, I’ll bust it up.”

Captain Moyle didn’t wait for the mist to clear before sending Darbon out to search for a horse. The boy did as he was told, but only until he was out of the captain’s sight and lost in the foggy dawn. After that, Darbon ran blindly away from the camp and the mean old captain who meant him harm. Around a cut of rocky crags, and down a lush green, gently sloping hill, he ran. Through a thicket of thorny growth and past a gurgling brook, never seeing more than a dozen feet in front of him, he ran, and ran, and ran. Then he heard a noise behind him. Turning in mid-stride to see what it was, he found himself being pursued by one of the giant haulkattens. It pounced just as Darbon stumbled. The boy screamed, and then hot breath and clawed paws engulfed him as if he were no more than a baby rat to a castle mouser.

Captain Moyle found a horse and, after hearing the boy scream, figured him for dead. He’d probably fallen into a ravine, or gotten bitten by a snake. It didn’t matter, though. The fool boy wouldn’t survive in these parts alone, not for more than a few hours anyway.

The captain went back to the camp and took the time to load up a fat pack of rations, several water skins and a pair of fully stuffed quivers to go with his longbow. He waited there, thinking how much like a feast boar the slaver’s corpse smelled, until finally the sun burned the mist away.

Hearing nothing more from the boy, he hurried out of the camp to follow the haulkatten’s trail. Oddly, only a few hundred yards from the camp, he came across a fresh set of horse tracks. Upon further investigation he found that two horses had veered off to the south. The tracks were deep and defined enough that he felt certain the horses were ridden. Some of Duke Martin’s bandits maybe? Or a pair of fat bastard guards who deserted in the heat of battle? Whoever they were, they were witnesses to Duke Martin’s charade. With a sigh of frustration he marked in his mind where the tracks left the main trail. Finding Gallarael and returning her safely to her father had to be his priority. Tying up Duke Martin’s loose ends could be handled later. If it was a pair of the duke’s bandits, which it most likely was, then this trail really didn’t matter. Gallarael hadn’t left on a horse.

He doubted anyone other than the bandits would have left the trail for the Wilds. The homesteaded lands to the north were the safer route to take. As if to reinforce his thoughts, he came across one of the trails the haulkattens had made leaving the camp going north. With a self-satisfied grin, he heeled his horse into a trot, and told himself that the chase had begun.

Not long after, Gregon and Matty plodded back up the trail into the camp. The sun’s warmth was ripening the corpses, and things were starting to buzz and flap about in a frenzy of carrion delight. Crows and fat green flies leapt from their feasts in noisy clouds, and big, thick-skinned buzzards screeched and opened their wings, hoping to scare away whatever it was that had come to threaten their meal. Matty leaned forward and heaved up a gutful of bile when she saw what lay under the hungry birds: half of a man here, an arm, shoulder and head there, and a half-eaten horse between them.

She could tell that Gregon had to hold down his gorge, too. He went about shooing the buzzards away so he could roll the bodies and loot their pouches. Matty went to a dead haulkatten’s pack frame and starting searching it. Most of the supplies had been ransacked. She did find a small sack of coins tucked next to a head-sized piece of iron ore, but she had to leave the prize when Gregon came stomping up behind her.

“The key,” he chuckled. “The slaver kept it with his coppers. I found him and his pouch charred to a crisp. Hell, wench, his arse was still sizzling in the coals.” He wiped some gore from his hands on a jerkin he had picked up. “I hope you’re ready to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Matty kept herself from vomiting again while Gregon knelt down behind her and unfastened the steel-banded clasps. She took in a deep breath and a thought struck her like a bolt of lightning. The last thing she wanted at that moment was his filthy sex. She was sickened, but thrilled as the first binding fell away. She bent down. Using the nub of her wrist and her good hand she hefted a chunk of ore, turned, and slammed it down into Gregon’s upturned grin with all she had. The only thing scarier than the way the piece of stone tore into the man’s flesh and bone, was the way that he stood, roared, and backhanded her right off of her feet. She tried to get up and run, but he was on her like a pouncing lion. Without hesitation, he rolled her onto her back and put his hands around her neck.

She felt her throat being crushed and fought futilely to breathe. Blood ran from his broken nose and mouth in thick streams. One of his eyes looked off to the side, while the other glared murder at her.

She beat at him with her fist and her stumped wrist, but it was no use. Blackness and the need to draw breath slowly overwhelmed her. In a last-ditch effort to break his grasp she twisted and flailed, but it was too late. Her air-starved body had grown too weak to resist. Oddly, the last thing she saw before blackness consumed her was a huge shadow falling across her and her killer. After that, there was nothing.