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.
The horse whinnied in fright behind him. The sound sent Captain Moyle’s heart to pounding, and no doubt drew the attention of the beast that was investigating the lantern light.
Moyle rolled to his feet to keep from getting hoofed in the face by his terrified horse. Once he was up he patted the animal on the rump, meaning to reassure it, but it flinched, snorted, and stamped its hooves on the ground.
The shadowy figure voiced a series of strange noises that sounded oddly like a man trying to speak with food in his mouth. Moyle contemplated what it could be through his fear as the shadow loomed and swelled. Whatever it was, it was coming slowly for the horse.
“Mwo… mwo viss aut deer,” the thing sounded as it came in closer, silhouetted in a misty glow.
Moyle’s level of fear dropped slightly because he understood then.
He’d seen the trophy heads of felled ogres brought back to the gates at Highlake for the duke’s reward. What he’d just killed was far too small to be an ogre. As malformed and ugly as the thing had been, he knew it was no troll either. Its head wasn’t much larger than a man’s.
The thing had fallen into a gasping heap right in the captain’s blankets, and the horse wasn’t very pleased about it. It fought its tether and stomped, still shivering and snorting nervously. Still, the shadows and mist hid the beast’s features.
Whatever it was, he was worried that there might be more of them about. The only creature he could think it might be was a young giant, and if that’s what it was there would be many more members of its tribe around. For a long time, Moyle huddled in the foggy shadows listening to the wet breathing of his victim fade away. The thickness of the mist dampened any sound that might come from afar. Even the occasional nicker of his horse seemed to come from a distance. After a good while, the first light of the sun tinted the sky with a streak of coppery illumination. The breaking of dawn gave him the confidence he needed to retrieve his lantern so that he could get a better look at what he’d just killed. Even before he rolled the form over he knew what it was. The buckled leather boots on the corpse’s feet were the same issue as his own, and the mismatched pieces of armor had all came from the armory at Highlake Stronghold. The face, though, was another matter.
One eye was missing from its socket, and the man’s jaw had swollen to twice its normal size so that it looked like he had tomatoes stuffed in his cheeks. A trio of furrows ran across the man’s head and down across his nose and temple making it look like the swelling had burst his skin apart. “Gregor, Gregon… Greg something,” the captain spat. He put away his sword, pulled out his dagger and cut Duke Martin’s insignia from the man’s breast. “One less loose end to tie.”
Not even bothering to take the coins from his belt, Captain Moyle left him for the carrion. He fed his horse some oats and then took a chunk of cheese and dried meat for himself.
It took longer than he hoped for the sun to burn the cottony blanket from the earth, but once he was underway he made good time. The haulkatten he was after was carrying two or three people and a fair load of supplies on its back. Its paw marks were easy to find, and were close enough together to let the captain know that the creature was traveling at a pace that could be overtaken.
“Two days at the most,” he figured as he hurried out of the rocky crags into the rolling foothills of the Wilds.
