Through the Wildwood

If he managed to get away undetected, which he was fairly certain he could do, he knew he had to beat the caravan guards to Waterdown Outpost. That part would be easy if he got away clean and had most of the night as a head start. If his escape was discovered, though, he knew he couldn’t outrun Amden’s haulkattens.

If he made it to Waterdown he had two choices, and though he hadn’t decided which way he would go from there, he knew that he would set a false trail on the way he didn’t choose. He had done some things with the haulkattens that might help his chances if he was chased, but one could never be sure about such things. Once Amden and the caravan reached Waterdown, word of a slave’s escape would travel down the river from outpost to outpost, then by rider to Andwyn and by ferry to Dabbldwyn. Words could move faster than Vanx could travel to either place. Realizing this, he was reconsidering going to Waterdown at all, but to bypass the Kingdomguard Outpost meant traveling to the wild lands south of the river, or through the slightly tamer homesteads and orchard farms that were regularly patrolled by the Parydon Kingdomguard. If he went south, he would try to steal a haulkatten. If he went north to Andwyn, by way of the homestead lands, only a horse would do. Maybe he could-

“CRACK!” the whip snapped far too close to his left ear, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Put the water skins there, dog,” Amden Gore commanded from beside his big feline mount. “Then go downwind and dig us a shit pit. You know where the shovel is.”

Grumbling, and shuffling in his chains, Vanx did as he was told. He purposely found a place that was rocky and started digging. After a few moments he meandered back into the camp, drooping his shoulders as if he were still as tired as the others. “Too rocky,” he said in explanation at Amden’s glaring look. “I need the pick.”

“Get it. You’d better be done before the sun gets down, you fargin scum,” the slaver barked. “I’ll lash the skin from your adulterous hide before I waste a drop of lamp oil on your labors.”

“I’m far too valuable for you to lash, you fat, stupid bastard,” Vanx barked, then immediately cursed himself for not holding his tongue.

“CRACK!” the whip snapped across his chest. His roughspun jerkin was laid open, as was his skin. It felt like a red-hot piece of iron was laid there. Amden was rearing back for a second lash when one of the foot travelers, a young girl in a hooded cloak, spoke up.

Vanx had noticed, during the days of stumbling downhill, how she went out of her way to try to conceal her curvy figure with plain, unattractive garb. She never let her hood down for more than a moment. This intrigued him, but his present troubles had been caused by a similar sort of mental meandering, and until now, he’d kept his curiosity at bay.

“Enough,” she said in a mildly commanding tone. What surprised Vanx the most was that Amden obeyed her. The slaver stood seething, his narrowed eyes piercing Vanx, his whip dangling from a grip that clenched and relaxed then clenched again.

“Do your work,” the girl snapped from under the hood. Vanx got his first glimpse of the lower part of her face and recognized her immediately. It was Princess Gallarael, the fiery-hearted daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Highlake.

What is she doing on this trek? Vanx wondered. And with such a piss poor lot of guardsmen to protect her. It makes no sense.

He scanned the group of foot travelers as he unstrapped the pickaxe from Amden’s tool bundle. Two hooded men, whom he’d mistaken for monks or priests, were clearly more than what they seemed. It prickled his skin that he hadn’t noticed them before now. The bulge of sword hilts, and the hard lines of leather armor pieces worn under the hooded robes, became more obvious to his keen eyes. Counting Captain Moyle, that was only three capable guards. Not enough for a trip out of the treacherous mountains through wild and unforgiving terrain with a princess.

He pondered all of this while he went off to strike his chains with the pick. He’d have done it sooner, but it was smarter to suffer the whip and travel all the way out of the mountains with the group.

Why is she here? He kept wondering. If she had business in Andwyn, surely her father would have sent a more formidable escort. He had to know that the three caravan bandits in his dungeon were only the tail-tip of a larger serpent. By the way they bragged about their comrades, Vanx was surprised that this group hadn’t been attacked yet. According to the man who had been locked in the Highlake dungeon cell next to his there were no less than a hundred men hiding out here in the hills, all waiting for a lot of haulers, with guards just like the ones Captain Moyle commanded.

The sound of the pick hitting the chain links was worrisome. It was no easy chore getting through the leg irons. While he tried awkwardly to split his wrist chains, someone grunted and cursed behind him. He froze in terror, expecting Amden’s whip to split his hide, but all he heard was a long sigh. One of the haulers was taking a well- needed piss. Vanx didn’t know a man could piss that long.

Something occurred to Vanx while he waited. Captain Moyle had called this halt far too soon. Another hour of travel would have brought the group down to the outer orchards where the guards patrolled. There was no way the captain would have called the halt if he knew Princess Gallarael was among them. He suddenly understood why Duke Martin sold him to Amden so cheaply. This caravan was going to be ambushed just so he would be murdered.

Vanx whistled. It was all he could do to contain his anxiety as he went about breaking apart the chain between his wrists. The sun was already setting, and neither Gallarael, nor her guards, had any idea what sort of danger they were in.

CHAPTER TWO

That white haired witch

in her icy northern hole

is the reason there’s no warmth

in the Bitterland Hold.

— Frosted Soul

Captain Moyle looked down the twisting trail and wondered what was taking so long. Duke Martin’s mercenaries were supposed to attack at dusk. He glanced back over his shoulder at the blazing fire in the center of the camp. The smell of the haulers’ stew was savory enough to draw a clan of rock trolls down out of the higher hills. Moyle hoped the duke’s men would arrive soon and kill the slaver and his bunch. He wanted this over.

Who could blame the duke for wanting vengeance? Moyle thought. He knew he wouldn’t have waited this long to kill a man who bedded his wife. The way the duchess humiliated the duke after being caught, Moyle figured she would soon fall from her window, or choke on a piece of fishbone, if not just disappear altogether.

Moyle patted the dust off of his blue uniform and thought back to the previous night when he had slowed the caravan’s descent long enough for the mercenaries to pass them on a lower trail. He was sure they’d gotten by. Hell, they should be coming up the road at them like a pack of bandits any moment.

Moyle wondered if they were just waiting for full darkness so they wouldn’t be recognized. It wouldn’t do for word of the feigned bandit attack to be linked back to the Duke of Highlake. The duke was already on shaky ground with Parydon royalty. After six years at his post, a safe trade route into, and out of, the mountains hadn’t been established. The Highlake Stronghold was secure. The duke had worked the kingdom’s prisoners to supreme effect while building an imposing wall around the entire Highlake Valley, but the trolls and giants hadn’t been beaten back in any meaningful way.

The giants and trolls foolish enough to venture close to the barrier usually only lived long enough to warn their fellows away from the spear launchers and longbows of the Wall Guard. The duke’s inability… no, Captain Moyle decided, inability was the wrong word. The duke was able, and if given enough slaves and soldiers he could