she’d been beaten half to death. Her face and neck were a misshapen welt of blue and purple, but she was grinning with delight. She couldn’t have fired the arrow that saved him, he realized, and the half-dozen questions that came to his mind were answered when one of the young men from the caravan came trotting up holding a bow.
It was the blacksmith’s apprentice.
“You owe me now, Vanxy,” Matty said in a hoarse croak with a devilish lick of her lips.
Vanx could only imagine how she would demand her payment, but he had other things to worry about at the moment. “Get me up! Gallarael and Trevin are poisoned, they need our help.”
Darbon, the apprentice boy, dropped his bow next to the bloody heap that had been Captain Moyle and began tugging Vanx’s clothing from the thorns.
“Who poisoned the poor lass out here?” Matty asked with mock concern.
“She was bitten,” Vanx said. “Tell me you have a good pot in your packs, woman. The girl is the only proof that the duke tried to have us killed. She’s the only advocate for your freedom and I need a pot to boil some herbs for her.”
“We need no advocate,” Matty chuckled roughly, brandishing a bundle of loosely tied parchments from her perch in the saddle. “I found our papers of ownership in Amden Gore’s pack.”
“They’ll do me no good, woman!” Vanx roared as the boy freed his upper body. He sat up and glared at Matty. “I nailed the duke’s wife. The tale is probably to Harthgar by now. As long as the duke’s treachery goes unknown, he’ll have a price on my head.” Tearing his last leg free with an audible rip of cloth, he found his feet. “A pot, Matty. I need a pot.”
“We’ve a pot for your noble tart.” Matty licked her lips again. “But now that’s two favors you owe me, pretty man.”
Vanx knew that Matty, bathed and in decent clothes, wasn’t so bad to look upon. For a woman her age, she still had the curves and tight skin of a woman half as old. Vanx had seen her in her full marketable glory at the Golden Griffin Inn a few months ago when he arrived at Highlake. He’d come to see the legendary pristine waters of the valley’s namesake and sport fish for the elusive garpike with a fishing bow like his elders had in ages past. He played his loot and sang the old ballads of human legend at the inn to sustain himself. Matty had entertained his thoughts several times on the slower nights. Looking as she did now, used, filthy, and bruised to the very core, her attempt to look seductive sent a shiver of revulsion up his spine.
Darbon tried not to feel jealous of the man he’d just saved, but he did. Matty had brought him into manhood the previous night and he was fighting to stay the possessive feelings he was suddenly feeling. He snatched up the tinderbox from the pile of herbs Vanx had dropped and hurriedly went about making a fire. If Gallarael was Vanx’s tart, he figured that saving her would keep Vanx away from Matty. Even as the thoughts struck him, he felt foolish for having them. He knew in his heart what Matty was. He had seen her, day in and day out, tending to the haulers’ desires.
Last night, as she used her mouth to bring him up, she even told him she was only repaying him for saving her from Gregon’s deadly choke hold. He started to tell her that it was actually the haulkat that had saved her, but what she was doing, and what she did with her body when she crawled atop him later, made him forget all but the glory of the moment.
Darbon could tell that Vanx was appreciative of his help. It showed in the way in which he spoke to and treated him. He’d been treated roughly his entire life, as most poor apprentices were. He’d been ordered about and called names, berated at every turn. He found he liked being treated like an equal and decided that he liked Vanx’s company as much, if not more than, Matty’s. It wasn’t long before Vanx finished brewing his remedy and was instructing him on how to help administer it.
“She doesn’t look so good,” Matty said as Vanx poured a sip of the remedy into Gallarael’s mouth.
“You’ve not seen yourself recently, then,” Vanx chuckled. “As dreadful as she looks, she still looks a bit better than you at the moment.”
Matty’s purple-and-blue head darkened a little bit and she stalked off to where Darbon had tethered the animals. Darbon wanted to laugh at her, but couldn’t seem to find the mirth. Matty was right. Gallarael looked so pale and sickly that death might be a comfort for her.
Trevin, on the other hand, was responding well to the foul-smelling liquid Darbon was helping him drink. Trevin even spoke a few crazy sentences, and in a moment of clarity asked about Gallarael’s condition. Vanx lied to him and said that she was doing better, but only to keep Trevin from worrying. After a while, Matty startled Vanx by kneeling beside Gallarael. She took the girl’s swollen arm and began applying a salve. With one hand missing, the task looked laborious, but Matty went about it with concentrated patience.
“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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
From the open sea the black needle grew
and pointed toward the midnight sky.
But nothing else did the Sea Spire do
as a million years passed by.
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.
