M. Mathias: Through the Wildwood

“Can’t we go around?” Gallarael asked as they finished off an afternoon meal of dried beef and started packing up their gear. The past two days they’d seen nothing but rolling foothills marked with small copses of elm, oak and pine. Every so often, huge outcroppings of grey stone seemed to grow out of the earth like jagged boils on emerald skin. Not too far ahead of them, they could see the dark tree line of the Wildwood.

“If you want to be out here for another turn of the moon or more we could go around,” Vanx replied with a shake of his head. He had to admit the stretch of forested valley that spread out below them did look daunting. To go around it would take weeks.

“My da once told me that no one ever comes back out of the Wildwood to tell what’s in it.” This from Trevin, and though he said the words jokingly, his expression told Vanx that he was afraid.

Vanx gave the dark forest another look and grinned. He’d left the island of Zyth to explore the world beyond. He was on a quest of enlightenment, a ritual that all young Zythian men undertook as they came of age. Most Zythians traveled by ship to the distant lands of Harthgar and Zarn where their race has deep-rooted cities and safe havens. Most humans, including Parydonians, had a mistrust of Zyths. Only the fact that Vanx didn’t look Zythian allowed him to roam Parydon without having to suffer the racism and underlying ill will of men.

There was no open hatred between the races or their kingdoms, and both traveled freely in the other’s realms, but the undercurrent of the times made for many a tense situation. The Zyths disliked the way the human population multiplied and spread like a plague. The humans were ever jealous of the Zythians’ crafting skills and long lives. Still, they’d managed to get along without warring with each other; but this, Vanx had been taught, was only because the humans hadn’t yet tried to settle on the Isle of Zyth.

Vanx chuckled out loud as the words of one of his old lesson masters came to him. “Humans will take root in any place that will allow them, save for those places they fear they cannot prevail.” The only three pieces of land that Vanx knew in the whole world where men hadn’t settled were Zyth, Dragon’s Island, and the Great Fire Sands. Even the Wilds couldn’t keep the persistent humans at bay forever. Already the well-protected walled cities of Dabbldwyn and their destination, Dyntalla, were booming along the coast of this untamed part of the world. The Wildwood, though, and the heart of the Wilds, still held enough unknown dangers to strike fear in the hearts of men. It would be a very long time before the roots of the humans’ so-called progress had a good hold here. Vanx had never ventured through the Wildwood, but over the years many of his people had; partly because humans were still afraid to go there, but primarily because there are herbs, roots, and animals in the gloomy forest that are sacred to his people’s customs, and used in the casting of many Zythian spells.

Those Zyths who went and sought the sacred items came home telling stories of stunted, black-scaled dragon spawn called wyvern that could reduce one to pieces with their dagger-sharp teeth and acidy saliva, and of wood trolls and the green-skinned ogres that hunted them both. They spoke of living trees that stalked the forest on bark-covered legs, and of wolves as big as haulkattens.

Vanx saw the tusk of a wild boar one Zythian had returned with. It was a curve as long as a child’s arm and as hard as quality steel. Vanx laughed as he climbed onto their haulkatten. If half of the tales he heard were true, then Gallarael and Trevin were right to fear the Wildwood. It never occurred to Vanx that maybe he should fear it, too.

“We’ll ride ‘til sunset,” Vanx said as he strapped down the gear the other two handed him. “We’ll get close, but I think that we can wait until morning to enter the forest.”

Vanx unstrapped a pair of bows and handed one to Trevin after he and Gallarael were situated. “String it, and keep a good eye on our rear. We wouldn’t want a big old ogre running up on us unchecked.”

Gallarael gasped. She gave Trevin an uneasy glance. “Do you think-” Her words trailed off at the intense look on her lover’s face.

“We’ll be all right, Gal.” It was clear the reassurance in his voice was forced, but he said it as he tested the draw on the bow and took the quiver of arrows Vanx was handing him.

“How long will we be in the Wildwood?” Gallarael asked Vanx, not trying at all to conceal her nervousness.

“Four, maybe five days.” Vanx heeled the haulkatten toward the dark green line ahead of them, jerking them into motion. “Then another three to the Dyntalla wall, if we make it through.”

“If we make-” Gallarael’s words were cut off this time by Vanx’s laughter.

Vanx’s laughter was cut off by the sharp-knuckled fist she slammed into his kidney from behind.

Trevin gave him a look and Vanx decided that he’d teased them enough. The group was silent as the haulkatten’s smooth gait carried them closer and closer to the dreaded Wildwood.

Captain Moyle was still on the hunt. He followed Vanx’s cleverly winding trail on the north side of the main passage for more than half a day. He finally realized he had been duped when he passed a marker he’d seen a few hours earlier, only from a different direction. By the time he made it back to the main trail and found where his prey had crossed into the Wilds, he’d wasted an entire day. Ever determined to catch his quarry and save Gallarael from the slave who took her, he traveled on through the night. Eventually he had to go on foot and lead his horse using the light of an oil lantern to see the trail he followed.

After a few twists of his ankle, and a near tumble into a dark crevice that had been formed over the eons by trickling water, he decided to stop before he got himself killed.

He didn’t build a fire, even though it would serve to keep the predators at bay. He wanted one, if only to keep the chill of the spring night from his bones. Instead, he hung the lantern in some scrub brush some twenty paces away and rolled out his blanket close to his picketed horse. He didn’t plan on sleeping long. Years of military training and field experience made him a light sleeper. The slightest snuffle of the horse would wake him. He kept his sword lying at his side and a strung bow within reach, then lay back and closed his eyes.

The captain dreamt of war and glory and the cheers of a welcoming crowd as he led his men proudly back from battle. Gallarael was there cheering for him. Then his dream shifted to a hot, sweaty affair where skin stuck to skin, and a fan of golden hair fell in his face while his young lover moaned on top of him.

The dream quickly vanished as he woke with a start. He opened his eyes in time to see a shadow cut through the glowing fog that settled over the area. The shadow meant that someone or something was between him and the dully glowing lantern.

A glance at his horse showed that it was afraid. It stood stock still with muscles taut, save for the nervous quivering of its flanks and its heavy intake of breath. Had its reins not been tied to the scrub, it would have bolted long ago.

“MUAALG!” A wet throaty sound came from nearby. “Muaalg,” it sounded again.

Still lying on his back, the Captain eased his blade from under the blanket and made sure the roughspun wool wouldn’t catch if he had to make a sudden move. He was about to bring himself to his feet when the shadow fell across him again.