The Prodigal Troll (10 page)

"Listen to me." Yvon leaned forward, talking to her the way he'd talked to too many soldiers on too many campaigns. "We swore to Lord Gruethrist that we would save his lady's son from the Baron, and I can't do it alone. You're tired, and you hurt because something bad has happened to someone you love. But you have to be strong."

Claye's large eyes watched Yvon intently.

"If anything happens to you," Yvon said, "then Claye doesn't eat. So you have to be strong."

Xaragitte stopped crying, exhaled. Absurdly, she laughed at Yvon, then yawned again. Her hand moved to cover her mouth, then sagged to the ground as she fell asleep.

Claye immediately crawled away from her.

"Hold on, now," Yvon whispered, and stuck out his arm to block the child's path. Claye pealed in laughter, twisted, and squirted off in the opposite direction.

Yvon moved to block him again, and Claye turned it into a game. Soon Yvon was crawling around on his hands and knees, constantly herding Claye back toward his slumbering nursemaid. When the child started to grow frustrated, Yvon reached in and tickled him. Shrieks of laughter rose from the hillside, and a mammut pealed back in reply across the nightfall.

Yvon glanced over at Xaragitte. Even that sound failed to wake her.

"Mahmah," Claye shouted, to catch Yvon's attention. When Yvon looked at him, he rolled over onto his pudgy knees again and giggled, looking over his shoulder.

"Oh, you can't escape from me," Yvon whispered, and they started all over again. This was good, Yvon thought. This was what he wanted. They could turn the baby over to Lady Eleuate, wait for Lord Gruethrist to settle things with the Baron, and then he and Xaragitte could start over on their own. He held on tight to that image.

After a while, Claye paused unsteadily on three little limbs, rubbed one tiny fist against his eye, and yawned. Then he scooted over to Xaragitte. He tugged at her bodice strings, shoved them in his mouth, and whined.

Yvon hesitated a moment, then untied the strings himself. He brushed the cloth back with his fingertips, then slowly, gently, cupped her breast to lift it free. Claye pushed past Yvon's hand, rooting around with his nose in the pale flesh until his mouth found her nipple. He sucked happily and soon dozed off cuddled to his nursemaid's bosom.

The sky's deep blue purpled into black. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin, so Yvon took his own blanket and covered Xaragitte and Claye with it. Then he sat there, cloak folded around his arms and legs, guarding.

His chin drooped toward his chest and stayed there.

He slept, and in his sleep he dreamed of Xaragitte. She was with him, and he with her, in the way of men and women, and it was good, balm on an old wound. She moaned in pleasure as he thrust against her, but the dream shifted toward something else, some shadow moving in the darkness, the sound of feet through grass, and his eyes snapped open. He was aroused, though he still sat apart, hunched over his knees.

Xaragitte groaned, like she had in his dream, and yet nothing like that either. It was so dark he could scarcely see her. But something was wrong.

"Knew you weren't no uncle," said a voice, fishing for a response that would let him pin their position.

Yvon hunkered motionless and silent. Slowly he slid his knife from its sheath and waited.

"Leave her door open for me when you're done, you dead man," the voice said again, a little louder. He stepped forward from the darkness and paused uncertainly, sword poised before him. A knight? No. From his size and the way he moved, Yvon recognized the soldier from this afternoon. Some knight must have lent his approval to the murder along with the sword. That happened sometimes. He took two more cautious steps toward Xaragitte, sword raised. "You hear me?"

Yvon pounced, hitting the man hard just below the ribs, wrapping up his arms, and slamming him to the ground. The air rushed out of the soldier with a "Whoof!" and his sword flew free. Yvon slipped his blade in quick and slit the throat. The man's face froze, and the expression poured right out of it along with the blood.

He stood up and checked to make sure that no one else approached. A few distant snores sounded in the night, but nothing more. He regarded the dead soldier. That was the way he should have handled that puppy of a knight at the castle. He felt angry, frustrated, and tired. He bent again, slashed the man's drawstring, and yanked his pants down to his knees.

He found the man's knife and thrust it into the pelvis, between his legs, so that it stood knob up into the air. "You cowardly little prick," he murmured.

After wiping his blade carefully on the dead man's clothes, he searched the pockets for valuables and found none. He turned to wake Xaragitte. They needed to escape before the Baron's soldiers woke.

She was sitting up, staring at Yvon. She cradled the sleeping baby in one arm, retying her bodice with the other hand. In the darkness, Yvon had no indication of how long she'd been watching or what she'd seen.

"The bond is broken," she said. "Lady Gruethrist's lifespark has been fully extinguished."

Jaye dangled like a dead weight at Xaragitte's breast, little nouth agape, one arm dangling toward the ground.

Yvon shoved their blankets into the pack. "We have to go now," he whispered. He said nothing about the soldier he had killed or Lady Gruethrist.

Xaragitte nodded and stood. Her shoulders sagged as soon as she slipped Claye into the sling.

"I could carry him," Yvon offered.

"I'll carry him. You lead us to safety. That's what you promised to do."

"I will." Although he didn't know how. They needed to cross the bridge at the castle to take the trail to Lady Eleuate's keep, but they would surely be stopped there and likely recognized. If they took the longer way around, crossing the river nearer its source in the mountains, by the time they circled back, the Baron's men would already have taken it.

Yvon led them quietly away from the army and followed the trail along the high slope beside the river. He went as quickly as Xaragitte could walk, paying more attention to her than the path, and thinking about how to cross the bridge, so that he didn't see they were surrounded until the first shadowy forms stepped out of the trees around them.

A woman stepped forward, one of the army's camp followers. The other shadows resolved into old men and adolescent boys bearing staffs and short knives. Yvon's hand slipped to his sword. If he hurt one or two, the rest would scatter.

"Hold," the woman said. She approached Xaragitte, stroking Claye's cheek with the back of her hand. "Boy or girl?"

"Boy," Xaragitte replied.

The woman made the kind of murmur that hinted condolences at this misfortune. "What's his name?"

It was a gesture of politeness, acting as though they were two women in one of their homes, already introduced. Xaragitte lifted her chin a little. "Cl-Kady."

Yvon's throat dried and knotted. More than ever, he wanted to be on the move away from the camp and the dead soldier.

"Klady?" the woman asked.

"Kady," Xaragitte corrected.

"You're from this valley?"

Xaragitte hesitated a second. "Yes."

"We're going to reach the castle tonight. Will we be better off claiming land on this side or the far side of the river?"

Yvon understood now. Baron Culufre was bringing the stragglers to be settlers so he could set up a second village of people loyal to himself. This group meant to get a jump on the others and claim the best land for themselves. It meant that Culufre intended to stay in the valley a long time, then. Lord Gruethrist would need to know.

Xaragitte seemed unsure how to answer the question. Yvon couldn't see her features, but her voice came haltingly. "There are lions-"

"Most of the good farming land on this side of the river is claimed already," Yvon said. "There are hills just across the bridge where one may do well enough."

The woman stepped back, her eyes glinting as she looked at Yvon. "That is what we'd already heard. Do you wish to travel with us? You could claim land also, in Sebius's name."

That damned eunuch! Gruethrist would have to deal with Sebius eventually.

Claye stirred uneasily in Xaragitte's arms.

Yvon took a step forward. If he could get them to the bridge before dawn, he and Xaragitte could cross the bridge mixed in with the others. "I know the way here well."

The woman nodded, and Yvon passed through the circle of men.

A bald, old man with stooped shoulders came up and kept pace beside Yvon. "The hills are better for orchards," he said, patting the seed bags slung over his shoulder. "Old fellows like you and I may not live to see them, but our daughters and their children will."

"She's not my daughter," Yvon said.

"They'll still outlive us," the old man replied.

Yvon pushed on as fast as he could go, over trails he had helped to blaze, expecting the families to falter at some point. But the darkhaired woman kept all her people together, badgering the older boys and girls into carrying their younger siblings when they faltered. Still, the stars wheeled in the sky past midnight, edging toward dawn before they neared the castle.

The ruined beams of the castle hall jabbed against the lightening sky like a tree washed up in a flood, with the rooftops of the little town poking up like stepping stones across a dark river. The Baron's soldiers seemed to have word of their coming. A grumpy pair met them and escorted them to the bridge, where they crossed without question. The oak bridge creaked and sagged beneath their combined weight, and then they were across, and Yvon was standing next to Xaragitte and Claye.