The Prodigal Troll Part 7

Xaragitte sat down and fed the child while Yvon went to refill their water flasks at a brook a hundred feet away. When he returned, she was curled on her side, arms stretched out protectively around Claye. He too slept, a little trail of milk dripping from the corner of his open mouth. Yvon propped himself against a tree beside them and remembered the dream he'd had of her the night before. It would be good if it could be like that between them.

The next thing he noticed was Xaragitte's shriek.

He leapt up, drawing his sword as he awoke. Spinning in a circle, his heart pounding, looking for the soldiers or for peasant warriors and not seeing them, he shouted, "We're fine, we're fine-there's no enemy! We're fine!"

"We don't matter," she screamed at him. "Where's Claye?"

He was nowhere around. Sword in hand, Yvon rushed frantically through the grove, shouting the child's name. Xaragitte's voice rose from the other direction, and in between their combined cries, Yvon thought he heard a click. Following the sound, he spotted the baby near the brook, pounding two stones, then making a splash in the water.

A little dark-haired, dark-eyed peasant boy crouched beside him.

"Here!" Yvon shouted. "He's over here! Hey!"

The last was directed at the little peasant boy, who'd picked up a stick and raised it over his head. But the sound startled Claye, who flopped over backward and began to wail.

As Yvon leapt forward to grab him before he could roll into the stream, another voice sounded.

"Sinnglas!"

A peasant woman, hugely pregnant, wobbled along the stream's bank. She wore a deerskin dress, decorated with gla.s.s beads, silver, and pieces of fabric, her l.u.s.trous black hair held up with a comb of carved bone. A second boy a few years older ran along beside her. Yvon stopped, lifting his eyes to scan the landscape for any men.

Xaragitte arrived, running to s.n.a.t.c.h up Claye, crooning soothing words that calmed no one.

The peasant woman frowned at Yvon, and asked Xaragitte something in a sharp tone.

"What's she saying?" Xaragitte asked, rocking Claye.

"I don't know," Yvon said, dropping his sword's point. He saw no one else nearby.

The two little boys were maybe three and five years old. The older one directed the younger one around. The little one still held onto his stick. He looked over at his mother, then hit his brother. The bigger child grabbed the stick away and tried to break it over his knee, but without any luck.

The peasant woman said something else to Xaragitte, then, with both hands resting on her belly, called to her boys again. "Damaqua, Sinnglas!"

She toddled off without another glance at either Yvon or Xaragitte, her boys running after her.

Xaragitte jogged Claye in her arms, still trying to cheer him. Yvon paced beside her. He saw no sign of any other peasants. Overhead, black slashes spiralled in slow arcs. Vultures. Seven, eight. "Nothing happened," he said firmly. "We're all fine."

"We need shelter," Xaragitte snapped. Her eyes had dark circles around them, and looked haunted. "You must find us shelter before nightfall."

Yvon met her gaze and nodded.

"You must."

"I will," he said, sheathing his sword.

They heard the goat bleating as they returned to the plum grove. Claye stopped crying and twisted his head around curiously at the noise. Yvon didn't mention the vultures. If there was carrion, that likely meant lions or wolves. He hoped that it was wolves.

After gathering their few belongings, they set off again. Meadows that had once been cleared for farming were now overgrown with small trees, still leafless. They startled a small herd of deer in one of the abandoned fields they pa.s.sed through, and Yvon wished for a bow. Food would be scarce to come by until after the plants bloomed. At least they had the goat. One way or another, that would help them get by.

He expected to find numerous houses, but they had vanished like the families who'd built them. The two of them simply trudged on, forcing one foot past the other league after league, long into the afternoon without a break, until Xaragitte spotted a dark square on the lip of a small hill ahead of them. She raised her hand, and Yvon said, "Maybe."

He walked faster, but as they came close he saw it was only a pile of charred, decaying timber.

Xaragitte stared at it, frowning. Thinking perhaps of the more recent fire at the castle. "It has walls, at least," she suggested. "Perhaps we should stay here tonight."

"No," Yvon said. He had a bad feeling about the place. Those broken walls were no protection from determined man or beast. "We'll head that way, checking the hollows back in the hills, like Banya suggested. There's bound to be something better close by."

Then he led them on a weaving trail, checking every cleft in the hills for some sign of former habitation. But though they pa.s.sed more orchards, bits of fence, and, once, a plowframe shorn of its blade and perched upon a rock, he found no place that could shelter them. Worse, they'd had little to eat since dinner in the soldiers' camp the night before, and though they drank from clear streams that flowed out of the mountains, the cold water in Yvon's stomach only fed his hunger. Xaragitte did not complain, but she began to lag, shuffling her feet blindly forward. They had come at least ten leagues since Banya's house. Yvon doubted she had ever walked as far in a week as she had the past two days.

Long shadows stretched from the trees like fingers reaching out to grab them. Yvon walked beside Xaragitte, to catch her if she stumbled, wondering at first how much farther she could push herself, then marveling again at how pretty she seemed to him, even footsore and exhausted.

She noticed him staring at her. "Sir?"

He quickly shifted his eyes away. "Yes?"

"Would you mind carrying Claye for a bit?"

His throat tightened. "Not at all."

"I can carry the bag instead."

"It's a feather on my back."

The sling was awkward, and Claye squirmed and squealed, so that Yvon had a hard time arranging everything to his comfort. The knot in the sling dug into his collarbone every time Claye straightened his legs, so, after a few times of this, Yvon reached in to tickle Claye's ribs. Claye giggled and curled up, making Xaragitte smile, so Yvon tickled him for that reason too. Claye grabbed a fistful of Yvon's beard and tugged.

"Hey," Yvon said, prying the baby's fingers loose and smoothing his beard across his chin.

Xaragitte laughed at him. Then she sang: Yvon glanced at her sideways to see if she meant anything with that innocent old rhyme. But he couldn't tell. The sun squatted low in the western sky and Xaragitte lifted her eyes to it, her smile fading along with the light. "I don't think I can go on much farther."

A wind out of the southwest rustled the treetops. The raggedtoothed edge of a dark cloud chased after it. Rain was coming. Yvon pointed to a cleft between two hills ahead of them, a darker shadow in the gloam. "If we don't find someplace there, I'll build a bower to shelter us for the night."

"I know you'll do your best."

He could go one more night without sleep to sit guard. As they climbed over the last rolling hill, he steeled himself to the work of cutting branches. By Verlogh's justice, he- "Bwnte's harvest." Xaragitte's hands covered her mouth.

They were both thinking of G.o.ds, and by the mercy of two G.o.ds, it was a house. Surrounded by trees, set back in the deep shadow at the top of a long slope. They stumbled toward it, Yvon slowly, enc.u.mbered by the baby on his chest and the goat, who dug in its heels and refused to go any farther. As Xaragitte surged ahead, he shouted.

"Careful-something may be inside!"

She tripped to a stop. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that."

"Here, you take the boy." He handed over Claye and tethered the goat to a tree-it promptly knelt down, its tongue hanging out its mouth. Then he drew his knife. "I'll have a look around."

The house appeared to have been abandoned but never attacked. It had been a prosperous little dwelling. The door had iron hinges, and rust flaked off, metal squeaking, as he pushed it open. Two dark shapes flew at his head, and he ducked out of the way as they shot off into the trees.

"What's that?" Xaragitte called, panic in her voice.

"Doves," he answered, peering inside. "It appears that's all that's in here. But let me finish searching."

There was just the one large room, with a half loft for sleeping over the rafters. One very rickety table was propped up against a wall in the corner, but there was no other furniture. Thistles sprouted from the piles of bird droppings on the floor, and the ashes in the fireplace had turned to dirt. He looked up and saw dark blue sky through the roof, but when he leaned his shoulders against the walls, they didn't budge. He wrinkled his nose. There was an odd smell, sharp, but he couldn't place it. He went to call Xaragitte and saw her silhouette blocking the doorway.

"Are we going to stay?" she asked.

"There's only a roof over the one corner here, but the walls are sound. It'll do. I'll start fixing the roof tomor-"

"Come back out. Let's do this properly."

He ducked his head to her as she stepped aside. Once outside, he turned to face her. "Lady, I give you this abode, a place to put down roots, a tree to shelter and to comfort you."

She stood at the crooked threshold, right arm across her waist, under Claye, and extended her left hand inside. "Sir," she said. "Welcome to my home. Though it is your nature to roam, know that you are welcome at this hearth and table. May chance often bring you here."

He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he ducked his head a second time. "M'lady."

The wind rushed and shook the trees above them.

As she entered first with Claye, Yvon grabbed loose branches from the ground and tossed them in a pile by the door. They could use them for firewood later. When he found a stout branch the right size, he followed her inside and used it to block the door. Xaragitte had already unpacked their blankets and sat nursing the child. She'd chosen the spot where the intact roof still sheltered her, leaving Yvon partly under the hole if he didn't mean to crowd her. He sniffed the air again. It smelled like coming rain, and he couldn't find the other scent at all.

In the total darkness, she said quietly, "Do you think we'll ever go back?"

"Yes," he answered, spreading his blanket. He removed his sword and knife, placing them beside him; then he pulled off his boots. "Certainly we will."

He lay down and closed his eyes at once.

Xaragitte whispered, "Whatever will we go back to?"

aaa!"

When Yvon first snapped awake, he thought that the sound came from Claye. But when he rolled over, he saw Xaragitte and the baby curled up under their blanket. Claye chuckled, then emitted a laugh, although his eyes were closed. Yvon smiled. What a happy baby he was who giggled when he dreamed.

Yvon rolled over and pressed his head into the crook of his arm. He was poised on the precipice of sleep- "Maaa! "

The goat. He'd left the goat outside. He listened for it again, but heard nothing for a while. He hadn't believed Banya when the wizard said the creature kept him awake all night, thought that was only an excuse to make them take it. Maybe it'd be fine until morning. He was nearly asleep- "Maaa! "

He couldn't even open his eyes. The leagues he had walked the past two days chased after him like a pack of wolves. Exhaustion was a predator-he'd seen it kill men before. The only weapon to fight it with was rest, and he needed rest. The goat fell silent. Yvon'd just rest a few more minutes, then- "Maaa "

He rolled over, his chin slick with drool.

"Maaa! Maaa!"

"Yvon?"

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Yvon, is everything aright?" He heard concern in Xaragitte's voice. "I've been talking to you, but you won't answer."

"Too tired." His head felt like a boulder his shoulders were incapable of stirring.

"The goat," she whispered. "Do you think it'll quiet down if I bring it in here with us? It's keeping me awake."

He pushed up on his elbows. "I'll fetch it."

"No, you stay right there," she said, standing up. "You've done enough the past two days."

"Are you sure?"

The goat bleated continuously now. Probably frightened by the storm that was blowing up.

"It will only take a moment," she said.

He flipped over on his side. He heard, as if far away, the branch sc.r.a.pe free of the door, and air stir as the wind blew through the open doorway.

"Maa-!" The goat stopped its noise.

Good. She'd gotten it, then. Yvon let go and sank back into sleep's deeper current.

Xaragitte screamed.

Heart kicking like a rabbit caught in a snare, he rolled over too fast and banged his head into the wall. He twisted the other direction, got on his feet, and staggered to the door before he realized he'd forgotten to grab his sword.

The blood in his veins turned to ice. His hands braced the door frame.

Crouching over the dead goat was a dagger-toothed lion.

He'd forgotten the vultures.

Xaragitte stood halfway between the house and the dead nanny. She took one trembling step backward, and the lion lifted its head to growl. Raw flesh plopped out of its mouth, fell slap on the ground.

Yvon tried to yell out to her not to turn her back on it, but his tongue cleaved to his mouth, and she spun around.

The lion leaned back on its squat legs- Xaragitte took a step and a half toward him, and Yvon's whole world shrunk to the terror compa.s.sed by the pale moon of her face.

-and pounced.

Yvon's hand fastened on a chunk of wood from the stack beside the door, and with a roar of his own, he hurled himself at the lion, landing one blow square across its flat snout as it hit Xaragitte between the shoulders, knocking her to the ground.

The lion crouched on Xaragitte's back-she was screaming-and barked at Yvon in surprise. He swung again, another blow on the bridge of the lion's nose. The dry wood cracked and fell to pieces. He reached down to pull Xaragitte to her feet, back to the safety of the house, when the lion swiped him with a paw.

Agony knifed through his arm and chest as he smashed into the ground. The lion leaned over Xaragitte, the twin daggers of its teeth angled to rip open her back.

Yvon surged to his feet, the shattered club still clutched in his fist, and charged the lion with a yell.

The lion sat back on its haunches and roared.

Yvon's yell shriveled in his throat, and his charge stumbled to a dead stop. The roar shivered through him just like the bell ward on the night they'd escaped the castle, turning his joints to jelly and his will to dust.

For a brief second, absolute silence.

Then the baby cried inside the cabin, Xaragitte sobbed, and Yvon gulped, staring down the cavernous jaws of the beast as its nauseating hot breath washed over his face. Yvon raised the stub of his club and started forward.