Through the Wildwood (18 page)

The unhelmeted young commander and a knot of his men were being pressed back against the Wildwood’s tree line. The men were afraid to seek its cover, and rightfully so. Vanx saw movement behind them. There was no telling how many of the beasts were lurking in the dark tangle of trees. There wasn’t much Vanx could do for them, other than harass the ogres from the rear.

Elsewhere, Trevin and a half-dozen kingdom swordsmen had their hands full with the two ogres. They looked like ten-year-old boys fighting full-grown green-skinned men. They also looked to be gaining the advantage.

Trevin was rolling and diving and darting about the legs of one of them. He made a slash, nearly hamstringing the thing, but it kicked out and spun away in time to save itself. Another swordsman heeled his horse in quickly and jabbed his blade in the ogre’s buttocks before it could get hold of Trevin. The other ogre palmed a destrier’s head and twisted. The horse screamed and bucked and went down on its side, pinning its rider’s leg. The terrified horse thrashed, crushing the man’s chest armor. The ogre kicked its head so hard that it went still.

Vanx didn’t watch any longer. He raced across the battlefield, stopping only to snatch up a sword from a fallen man. The archers of the rescue party, some of them anyway, were regrouping at a distance. Vanx heard someone yell, “Looooose!” and then the thrum of bow strings. A tight group of arrows arced out and sank into the crowd of ogres pinning the blond-haired commander’s group.

Loud bellows of rage and pain erupted from the horde. The second volley of arrows came in as Vanx spitted one of the ogres from behind. He yanked the sword free from the creature’s spine with the aid of his booted foot, and then went after another. His world became a wild, spinning blur of green-colored flesh and hot, dark blood. Snarling faces snapped at him as he dodged filthy-clawed fingers. The sweaty beasts smelled like rotting meat and fought ferociously.

Vanx’s movements became mechanical and instinctual, yet fluid enough to keep from getting walloped. Club-like arms and jagged, raking claws were everywhere. He was grazed across the cheek by an arrow, of all things, but he didn’t let that slow his devastatingly fluid assault. At one point an ogre managed to grab a fistful of his hair. He spun away with his blade, taking the creature’s hand off at the elbow as he went. Untangling the stubborn fingers caused him to lose the rhythm of his battle trance long enough to get clawed across the chest and knocked from his feet. When he landed he saw the wild-haired commander and was shocked. His face was alarmingly familiar.

The hair, the nose, and the perfectly symmetrical eyes were virtually identical to someone he’d seen recently. He didn’t have time to ponder who, though. He had to get to his feet before he was trampled. On the way back up, he was kicked in the ribs. His lungs were emptied of air, but that didn’t stop him from spinning a complete circle with his blade held out to buy himself some breathing room. Around him the violence raged on.

Gasping for breath, Vanx hacked into the neck of an ogre and spun away. He saw, more than felt, the effects of the thick-bone club that shattered to pieces on his skull. A burst of light, a shade of lavender not so different from the wizard’s protective sphere, engulfed his vision. Emerald and sapphire stars exploded as he tumbled to the ground again. He was dazed to near unconsciousness. He thought he heard the young blond warrior scream, but he couldn’t be sure. Then his eyes focused long enough to see two of the king’s men fleeing in terror and the twisted yellow toenails of the dirty green foot that violently met his body and sent him all the way into blackness.

Trevin finally severed the big ogre’s tendon and sent it to its knees. After that, the mounted swordsman came in and stabbed the creature full of holes. Finally, it fell over and lay still. More ogres erupted out of the forest, some right into the group pressed against the trees, some well clear of the jumble of butchered bodies.

Trevin didn’t register it at the time, for he was trying to put down the other of the over-sized beasts, but later he would reflect that the expressions on those ugly, pug-nosed faces that were just arriving were looks of fear, not rage. The ogre with which he was engaged kept him from seeing why they would be afraid. It was intent on pounding him into the dirt, or tearing him in half, as it had just done to another man.

When the new wave of ogres came, the bowmen lost their clear shot of what was left of the horde pressing the king’s men at the forest edge. That didn’t stop them from loosing at individual targets, though, and then there was a moment where everything stopped just long enough to draw a breath.

All of a sudden the forest itself came raging out of the forest. Half a hundred or more wolf-riding Kobalts and a dozen enta caused the archers to flea in utter terror. The rest of the men, and some of the ogres, just stood slack-jawed as the wolves, their mounts, and the living trees of legend laid waste in a very unpleasant fashion to every green-skinned creature that remained.

The beast before Trevin looked determined and hungry one moment, then wide-eyed with terror. An enta’s grasping branch-like hand reached over Trevin and took hold of the ogre’s upper arm. The mounted horsemen around them couldn’t keep their well-trained animals from bounding away. It was all Trevin could do to roll clear of the enta’s massive root-footed leg as it came down next to him and gripped the earth.

What happened next defied everything that Trevin understood about size and strength. A strand of limb no bigger around than two of Trevin’s fingers squeezed the monster’s bicep until the flesh pulped. The ogre jerked and screamed, but the enta held it fast. The enta screamed back at the ogre from a knothole maw, and then took a wide stance with its earth-grasping root-feet. How the enta could see, Trevin couldn’t imagine. There was no semblance of eyes to be seen anywhere. The ogre thrashed and wailed like a child about to belted by his father, but the enta held it firm. Then suddenly, with more strength and power than Trevin could imagine, the enta yanked the massive ogre up off of its feet and swung it overhanded only to slam it back into the earth with so much force that it shook the ground. The ogre didn’t so much as twitch after that. Trevin didn’t care, though. He darted in and ran his sword hilt deep into the ogre’s chest.

“Appreciate it,” he called up to the tree-beast as he fought to yank his blade free.

The sound of cracking wood, repetitive and powerful, like that of a falling tree crashing through other trees on its way to the ground, erupted from the enta before it turned and awkwardly lumbered away. Trevin couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling that the ancient forest creature had been laughing at him.

Looking around, Trevin saw that the ogres had either been killed or had fled. Immediately his thoughts went to Gallarael. Unceremoniously, he half begged for, half pulled a man off of his horse. Before anyone could think, he was riding back toward the Wildwood to find his love. He didn’t have to go far. The young haulkatten came bounding excitedly out into the clearing. On its back, Gallarael’s limp form was sandwiched between Darbon and Matty. The wizard Quazar was nowhere in sight. As Trevin approached he was overcome with relief and didn’t see the young, blond-haired king’s man come limping up to the reunion, but Matty did.

“Ha!” She barked out a satisfied grunt of a laugh. “I bet every last coin in my stash that I could tell you who Gallarael’s real father is now.”

Trevin looked at her askance, and then turned to see the approaching young man. His jaw nearly hit the dirt. He was looking at a gore-covered, battle-hardened young man who could have been Gallarael’s twin. The resemblance was beyond all doubt. Only siblings could look so much alike. Then he saw the insignia on the young man’s breast and it all fell into place. This was Prince Russet Oakarm. Gallarael’s real father was the King of Parydon.

Without another thought, he fell to a knee and bowed to the prince of the realm.

Her name was Itchy Witchy, and her arse was always twitchy,

but her tits made the sailors forget to care.

The first mate tried to fit her, but her bush was full of critters,

and the captain made him cut off all his hair.

– a sailor song

V
anx opened his eyes back in his mother’s humble abode. It was just like it had been when he was a boy. As he rose from his padded floor mat and yawned, she turned and smiled that wonderful smile and her golden eyes lit into sparkling jewels. That smile was love incarnate and he hoped it would always be with him.

In the back of his mind he knew he was either hallucinating or dreaming because his mother had died a dozen years past. Vanx forced that thought away, though, and decided to revel in the warmth of his vision.

On bare feet he ran to her. When his arms wrapped around her waist and he had to look up to see her loving face, he realized he was in his boyhood form.

The comfort and familiarity of the vision shifted and he was skipping along the flower-lined path to Master De Xava’s grove, which was in a copse of ancient iron oaks near the river. Vanx had part of a cheese wheel, some fresh-baked bread, some dried venison, and some green apples in a sack thrown over his shoulder. His mother always packed enough for both him and the lesson master.

The feeling was carefree and intensely joyful, as if the whole world would eventually bend to his will. Just before he entered the copse, a pair of young Zyths a few years older than Vanx stepped out of the afternoon shadows and surprised him. Before Vanx could catch the breath they scared out of his lungs, they started pelting him with rocks and insults. Fists and booted feet soon followed.

“You’re not Zythian,” one of them barked as they sat on Vanx’s chest. “You’ve dirty hair and green eyes. You’re one of them.”

“He’s a mud-bug’s shit pile, is what he is,” the other boy said. “And his mother is just a man-loving whore.”

“Tainted boy.”

“Half-born.”

“Stupid half-human.” And so it went for a good long while.

Vanx remembered hitting up into the jaw of the bronze-haired, yellow-eyed boy on top of him. He’d struck with all he had. He remembered feeling a hard-toed boot hit him in the temple and the explosion of light and pain that it caused. Then there was the horrendous beating that followed. He also remembered that the idea the two boys were right, that he wasn’t like any of the other children on the island, so distracted him that he hadn’t even cried.

Master De Xava carried him back to his glade and boiled up a brew of thatchle root, lichen extract, and cherry bark.

“It is the custom that you decide the punishment of your assaulters,” the thin, silver-haired teacher told him as Vanx sipped the pain-relieving tea.

“What would you have done to Zeezle and Dorlan Croyle for attacking you unprovoked?”

“But they’re right, Master,” Vanx said through swollen lips. “I’m not like them—or you. I’m not a Zythian.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” the old amber-eyed scholar asked. “The blood of Zyth and man do not mix well. Nearly all children of that sort of union die at birth, or shortly after. As far as I know, Vanx, you are the only one of your kind.” Master De Xava smiled kindly. “I’d say that makes you especially extraordinary.”

“I don’t want to have them punished for what they did, Master Xava,” Vanx said with a shrug. “I’d rather have the chance to face them one at a time on the practice yard. Or better yet at the center ring, at the Fairy Fest, before the council of Elders and all the clans.”

“What if one of them beats you? They are both bigger and older than you.”

“Then they will be shamed all the more for having both jumped me in the forest.”

The old man’s laughter was cut off a few moments later when Vanx continued. “…But neither will win, Master. Dorlan called my mother a whore. His insult will be returned tenfold. You can wager on it.”

The scene shifted a little bit. They were in the same forest glade, only it was many years later. Zeezle’s expression was hollow. There was none of the mirth in his eyes that Vanx had come to associate with his close friend. All that could be found in Zeezle’s dim amber orbs were tears of anguish. Dorlan, Zeezle’s brother, was dead. Killed when the notorious young dragon attacked the herd of big-horned billies that Dorlan was shepherding. Vanx knew that it would be a few more years before Zeezle found the portions of life’s joy that were charred away on Dorlan’s pyre. Zeezle’s passion, though, the grim subject of his work, and the focus of most of his attention, had been determined that day.