The Prodigal Troll (4 page)

Someone approached from beyond the houses. Darkness obscured his features, but the size and posture belonged to a soldier.

"Stay behind me, stay back," Yvon told Xaragitte.

The man approached them, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword. Not a soldier then, but a knight. A young one, a puppy, without much tail, Yvon saw when he came close. But it wouldn't do to take him lightly. Some puppies bit hard, and this one was big.

"Why didn't you stop when I commanded?" the knight asked.

"Eh?" Yvon ducked his head, like a good, subservient commoner and twirled his little finger in his ear, acting deaf. Not that he needed to act much. "I didn't hear you."

"Why didn't you stop?"

The most believable lie began with an obvious truth. "Because we're leaving the village," Yvon said.

"So you're not loyal to the Baron?" It was an accusation, but an uncertain one. The puppy loosened his sword in its scabbard.

"Of course I'm loyal to the Baron." Yvon jerked his head in the direction of the fiery castle. "But those sparks are going to fall on some roofs soon, and the whole village'll be aflame. You won't catch us in that fire!"

He had a hand on his dagger, ready to grab and stab the knight, but the castle roof caved in, a great crash followed by an upward rush of sparks and ash. They all three jumped, and Yvon missed his chance.

The knight pointed them in the direction of a campfire. "Huh! You may be right. Just come over here first so I can get a better look at both of you."

"Glad to," Yvon said, though it was the last thing he wanted. If his wet pants were noticed, the ruse was up. The damn puppy never turned his back or let down his guard. Fortunately there were no other soldiers around the campfire.

The young knight peered at Yvon's face in the flickering campfire light. "I don't recognize you from the work details. Who'll vouch for you?"

"The temple priestess knows me, she does. She'll be happy to vouch for old Bors," he said, picking a random name. The priestess was the best reference he could give. She'd welcomed Baron Culufre's men and rendered them all kinds of assistance.

The knight indicated Xaragitte. "And who's she?"

"My daughter. Who'd you think she was?"

"I don't like your tone. Or your manners. Grandpa."

"M'lord." The word grated on Yvon's tongue.

"That's better. Let's have a look at her. Sorry, m'lady, but you don't want to go out into the-hey, what's this? You didn't mention any baby."

"What's to mention?" Yvon shouted. "The babe's right in front of your eyes. A fine little girl to carry on her mother's name."

Yvon glanced at Xaragitte, who wrapped her arms protectively around the child. Something in her anxiousness was conveyed to Claye. He fussed, struggling against the sedative to force himself awake.

The young knight took a step back, resting his hands on his hips. "We've got orders about babies. Sorry, m'lady, but you'll have to come with me to see the captain."

So there were orders to look out for Lady Gruethrist's heir. Claye's death would resolve many difficulties, even if he was only a boy.

Yvon dropped the bag from his shoulder, grabbed Xaragitte by the arm, and yanked her forward. "There's no call for that! Look for yourself. You can tell the difference between girls and boys, can't you?"

He tugged at the swaddling with his left hand to hide the dagger that he drew with his right. Xaragitte jerked away from him, and Claye began to bawl.

"Hey there, don't hurt her," the puppy barked, stepping in to disentangle them.

Yvon spun, seized the young knight by his throat, and stabbed. The knight caught Yvon's wrist as it flicked in, deflecting the blade. He clawed at Yvon's choke hold.

The baby howled, a piercing scream.

The two men swayed for a second, deadlocked. Yvon spit in the other man's eye. The puppy shoved him off balance. As they fell, Yvon twisted the dagger around, and drove the iron knob of the hilt into the young man's face. It cracked against the hard bone at the corner of the eye. Yvon lost his grip on the throat, but smashed the hilt down another time.

"Ouch! Stop that, you little nuisance."

Yvon glanced up at the trembling voice. Xaragitte had unlaced her blouse and offered her breast to the baby, who clutched a tiny fistful of her flesh as he sucked. The young knight writhed on the ground, groping at his ruined face. Yvon flipped the dagger in his hand and thrust the sharp end into the smashed socket. The legs kicked out, fell still. Yvon kicked the body but it didn't move again. He quickly scanned their surroundings as he cleaned the dagger on the dead man's shirt and sheathed it.

"Can you walk while he feeds?" he asked Xaragitte.

She looked at him and shuddered. "Yes."

"Let's go then." He located their bag and shouldered it. His whole body ached. "You did good," he said. "Kept calm, quieted the baby."

An acrid haze of smoke settled around them, causing the tears he saw in her eyes. "Whatever I have to do for Claye," she said, "I'll do it."

He nodded once to her, then led her quickly past the ring of tents and into the outer darkness. Twenty leagues of wilderness lay between them and the sanctuary of Lady Ambit's castle. Yvon would have at least two days alone with Xaragitte, something he could never have hoped for while they remained in the castle.

His socks sloshed in soaked boots, his legs chafed in his wet pants, and he stank like sewage. But when they crossed the last of the unplowed fields to the edge of the forest, he looked at Xaragitte, lovely even though night hid all her features from him, and grinned in spite of himself.

He whistled an airy little tune for luck.

The melody fell dull on his deafened ears.

laye bounced on the nursemaid's arm, intently trying to catch a beam of morning sunlight as it fell through the branches of the trees. He squealed in frustration as it slipped away between his fingers.

Xaragitte, her mouth wrinkled in a frown, stood too near to Yvon, who was squatting bare-bottomed yet again, this time by a fallen tree.

"You should have delivered me safely to Lady Ambit's by now," she said.

He let his head sag toward his knees, too sick and miserable to answer. It was the third sunrise they'd seen since escaping the castle. Either the sorcerer's magic, or the filthy moat, or the crackleberries- or all three-had turned his guts to slush and wrung out his bowels.

"Claye should be safe in his grandmother's care by now," she said, her comment punctuated by another squeal from the child.

"Soon," Yvon said weakly.

"Soon? It's only a two-day journey!"

He groaned, clutching his aching belly as he stood and tugged his pants up. His legs were shaking as much as his stomach. "I'm getting better," he said. "We'll make better time today. Perhaps we can steal a boat and let the river's current carry us quickly to Lord Ambit's castle."

"A boat?" She held the child with one hand, touching three fingers to forehead, chin, and chest, muttering two names, that of god and goddess. "What about the demons?"

"The water's cold with snowmelt, so they'll be sluggish and we'll be safe." He'd risk it for the sake of speed. The river demons weren't always deadly, and in any case Yvon preferred his chances with them over the Baron's men.

Xaragitte shuddered, with a look in her eyes as if she were momentarily transported somewhere else.

Before Yvon could ask her about it, she took a deep breath and steadied herself. "At least the wolves can't reach us on the river," she said.

"The wolves we heard last night were a fair far distance away," he said, shouldering their bag and neglecting to mention that the howls came from the direction they were headed.

Yvon went in front of Xaragitte, threading through the narrow woodland trail. His legs wobbled beneath him-another reason to risk a boat, despite the river demons.

The hills on either side of them flattened as they approached the river. The northern slopes still harbored a few patches of snow in shaded nooks, but the sun warmed the southern faces, and the branches of the trees there were tipped with coal-red buds. Yvon had been with Lord Gruethrist when he first explored this region. Even then, Gruethrist described the land as a woman on her back. Her two long legs were the plump lines of hills on either side of the river valley. Beyond the place where the hills came together, the land rose like the soft mound of a woman's belly. Go beyond that, and you found the mountains. Gruethrist had erected his Lady's castle right in the woman's crotch. Gruethrist was a vulgar man.

Yvon paused to lean for a second against a tree. He thought he could continue walking as long as they headed downhill; he only had to fall forward without falling down. But the journey across the river plain daunted him.

Soon they passed out of the forest and approached great expanses of grassy pasture that shimmered purple with spring's first tiny flowers. Gray smoke spiraled up from a distant house.

Xaragitte walked past him, Claye squirming in his sling, and stopped when she saw the smoke. "Won't we be seen?"

"Yes," Yvon admitted. "But we shouldn't be pursued. It's plowing time. The farmers will be loath to forsake their fields when all they see is a family walking north. They may wonder why we don't stop, but they shouldn't pursue us."

"What if the Baron's soldiers see us?"

He thought about that. "No reason they should notice us either. We're just a family. Always think of us that way."

She cradled Claye to her chest and didn't reply.

Pressing a fist tight into his stomach to still its churning, Yvon set off again. Their new path meandered less as the way became mostly clear and flat. Yvon would have described the valley as sparsely settled until he tried to find a way across it without meeting anyone. He saw more walled farmhouses along the riverbank than he remembered; the land was simply too fertile to pass up, despite the demons. Several farmers waved greetings from behind their teams of shaggy oxen, and Yvon always waved back and walked quickly away. Most, as much as Yvon could help it, never saw them at all. Xaragitte talked constantly to the baby. Yvon enjoyed the sound of her voice. It helped keep his legs moving; he feared that if they stopped, he wouldn't walk again.