Vesian

The Maid of Spring

The Maid of Spring

Vesian VII

Vesian VII

"There's the bridge up ahead," said the youth. He stopped in the road, silently refusing to go further. "The troll lives underneath."

Behind him trailed two men and three horses. The lead man peered down the woodland path from the saddle of his white courser. He lifted a mailed hand to brush a mop of fair hair from his eyes. He lifted his mail coif over his head and slid from the saddle to set his feet in the dirt road.

"Take the horses," he said, handing his reins to the youth. "Thibault, get down and hand me a lance."

The second rider dismounted as well, expertly doing so one-handed while carrying two lances in his other hand. This man was shorter and stockier, with black hair and steely blue eyes. Like his master, he wore a mail hauberk beneath a surcoat, though while his master's was embroidered with the golden griffon of their knightly order, the squire's was a humble blue with no decoration. He shifted the lances from one shoulder to the other and handed the reins to youth.

"Wait here. We'll go ahead." Thibault handed the longer of the two lances to his master. "Do you think the troll is at home?"

The knight shrugged. The sunlight of the late afternoon played across his face between the shadows of the branches overhead. Old oaks arched high above the narrow dirt path, now bright and green in the light of day yet growing increasingly dark and sinister as the path neared the old stone bridge ahead.

It was worn and moss-covered, curving upward from the edge of a steep-banked stream to alight upon a single pylon on its way to the opposite bank, all in one graceful, unbroken curve. The knight and his squire began to approach, each readying a lance in their hands.

"Do you need anything more, Sir Vesian?" asked the youth with some trepidation. Sir Vesian turned to face him.

"No, Theudebert. Keep the horses out of the way. And yourself. We'll return once the monster is dealt with."

He lowered his helm over his face and turned back toward the bridge.

"Good luck, Sir Vesian!" called the youth from behind. Thibault the squire scowled.

"No good luck for me?" he muttered.

"You don't need luck," Vesian laughed. "It's usually me that gets into trouble."

"And me who has to dig you out of it. That's when I need the luck," muttered Thibault.

"Make your sacrifices to Fortune then and keep your mouth shut. The troll might hear you."

They reached the bridge and Vesian peered over the edge. Twenty feet below him, the stream seeped around the stone pylon in a lazy current. The water was green and dark, choked with reeds and plant life that sheltered fish, frogs, and whatever else dwelt in the world's waterways. A hundred yards downstream, the shallow gorge gave way to a spreading swamp.

"Where's the troll live?" wondered Thibault. "I expected a hut. Or a cave. But I see nothing."

It was true. Below the bridge was nothing that gave away the troll's presence, though a faint and foul scent lingered in the air.

"I don't see it," Vesian mused. "But I smell it."

"I wish I didn't," Thibault grumbled. "Swamps smell bad enough without a troll."

"We should go in."

Thibault groaned. "I should have known you would say that. Why don't we wait here instead? The troll must come out eventually."

"Do I hear cowardice?" Vesian asking with a mocking smile.

"I don't want to smell like a stable." Thibault scowled, but Vesian could tell he had already given up the fight. "I'm going to spend all day in the stream washing this off, I can already tell."

"Then let's not waste any more time. We're wasting daylight here."

He donned his helm and crossed to the far side of the bridge and began to make his way carefully along the gorge's edge toward the swamp. The ground sloped slowly away from the bridge, becoming softer and muddier as it did. The stench of the swamp grew stronger as the ground squelched beneath their feet. Soon enough, Vesian was wading ankle-deep in the murky water.

A frog hopped out of his path and Vesian started. He scowled at his own jumpiness. Behind him, he just knew Thibault was smirking. Ahead of them, the ground rose just high enough to be free of the water, and in the soft mud was a large footprint. Twice the size of Vesian's own, it showed clawed toes and was three inches deep. Whatever had left it must have weighed a ton.

"It's headed into the swamp," Thibault mused from behind him. "Is it recent?"

"I cannot tell. But hopefully this means it's still at home."

"Instead of creeping up behind us," Thibault said with a suspicious look around. Thick curtains of dark green moss were draped over the bent trees, providing ample cover for anything prowling the swamps that knew how to use the terrain. Yet Vesian was unconcerned.

"Something this big won't do much creeping. And we'll smell a troll before we see it."

They followed the tracks as best they could, losing them and finding them again three times as the trail passed through water. Vesian pushed aside a hanging sheet of moss and found himself before a crude hut. It was a ramshackle construction of bone, raw wood, and mud. The gaping entrance was masked by a torn and bloody hide masquerading as a door.

"It stinks here," Thibault complained softly. "Do you think it's home?"

"That might be usual," Vesian replied. His eyes wandered to a refuse heap by the side of the hut that was crowded with the remains of the troll's past hunts. Two human skulls grinned at him from atop a pile of the indescribable. Vesian curled his lip. "Let us slay this thing and leave. This place turns my stomach."

He waded into the water, finding to his disgust that the already unpleasant swamp water was further fouled by the troll's waste that seeped off its little island in ugly rivulets. He splashed painfully loudly in water up to his thighs, holding the lance at ready with both hands. No sound emanated from the hut and all that could be heard were the croaking of frogs and the chirping of birds. He gently lifted the rotting hide to peer inside.

The troll was not inside. There was only a pile of rags that Vesian assumed passed for a bed and the half-eaten corpse of a deer hanging from the ceiling. With no further interest in the grisly contents of the hut, Vesian let the hide door fall back into place.

"What now?" asked Thibault. "It will come back eventually."

"It may come back with another villager to eat," Vesian countered. "We must deal with it before it claims someone else."

"Let's deal with it somewhere else. Before I start retching."

"And our horses are out there as well. I don't trust that lad to keep them safe with a troll prowling around. Let's head back to the horses."

Thibault turned back the way they had come.

"Wait." Vesian caught him by the shoulder. The birds had stopped chirping. "Get ready."

Vesian stepped in front of Thibault, the latter's lance projecting over his shoulder as they dropped into a familiar fighting stance. Together they turned toward the west side of the swamp, where the frogs had now fallen silent. They stood still, staring out from under their helms at the trees and moss slowly swaying in the wind.

"It must be close," Thibault whispered. "I can smell it."

"It's approaching from upwind. It must have been hunting."

"It should approach faster. I hate waiting."

Obligingly, there came a low growl from the trees, and a curtain of moss parted to reveal their quarry. The troll lumbered into view, dragging the limp and bloody carcass of a boar behind it in one massive, gnarled hand. It was pot-bellied and thick in the legs. Vesian had never seen a live troll before but was struck at its corpulence. It must have eaten all the pigs in the forest. At the sight of them, it casually cast aside the carcass and growled again, louder this time. Two yellow tusks, stained with fresh blood, jutted from its wide mouth. It beat its knobby hide with both fists, bellowing a challenge.

The troll splashed into the swamp water surrounding its hut, coming on in a rising rage. With both hands it snatched up a boulder lying in the water and hurled it at Vesian. He threw himself aside, splatting indignantly into the blood-stained mud before the hut as the boulder whistled past overhead. Thibault landed beside him, splattering him in yet more mud and he suppressed a noise of utter disgust.

The troll was bearing down on them, a mass of mottled gray and green muscle and fury. It snatched up another, smaller boulder as it closed, hefting it as if it meant to batter Vesian to pieces with it.

Knight and squire scrambled to their feet, fumbling around for their lances as the monster closed. Vesian came up with his and thrust it immediately at the troll. He hoped to skewer the troll on the energy of its own charge, but the brutish monster was too quick. The lance head was batted away and the boulder swung down on him. Vesian began to raise his shield--out of instinct--but overruled himself and scrambled out of the way instead. The rock streaked through the air where he had just stood--and where it would have surely crushed him and his shield in one mighty blow. Vesian had dodged aside but was on poor footing in the mud. He staggered, off-balance and struggling to bring his shield and lance in line.

He was saved by Thibault, who stabbed the troll in the flank with his own lance. The troll wheeled on Thibault. It seized the lance in one huge hand and held it fast. The other hand hurled the stone it held at Thibault, who caught it on his shield. There was a loud crack followed by Thibault's grunt of pain. The squire was hurt, Vesian could tell even before the upper corner of the shield fell away. The troll pulled the lance closer and reached for Thibault's head with its empty hand.

Vesian attacked. He did not even remember drawing his sword, for the lance was now too cumbersome to wield up close, but he rushed the troll from its side and stabbed the sword into its leg. His blade bit deep, drawing forth a fountain of dark red blood. The troll roared in pain. Thibault's lance bent in its tightening grasp, then snapped in half. Its free hand swatted at Vesian, who ducked beneath it and yanked his sword free.

He and Thibault both scampered back from the troll as it sagged to one knee in the mud. It knelt there, staring hatred at them through sickly yellow eyes. Vesian drew back and exchanged his sword for the lance.

"Are you alright?" he asked his squire as he hefted the lance in two hands. "Are you wounded?"

Thibault grimaced. He held the ruined shield close to his body in much the same position he had it when he was struck by the hurled stone and Vesian realized he was too pained to move it. Yet Thibault had dropped the broken lance shaft in favor of his sword and looked ready to continue the fight.

"Only a scratch. Let's finish this fat fucker. Gods, the stench of this place." He gagged slightly on the stench. Vesian circled around the troll to put himself opposite his squire, then stepped close to the monster and readied his lance. The troll turned its gaze toward him, then lunged at him with its long arms reaching out to crush him. Vesian hopped back to a safe distance but took the lesson that his foe was not dead yet.

The troll now sagged lower in the dirt, more blood running down its hairy, warty leg from the wound. Thibault crept closer, forcing the troll to guard against attacks from opposite directions. From his stance Vesian could tell that he was still in great pain. He stepped toward the troll again and feinted with the lance. The troll dodged back, groaning in pain on its injury knee, then tried to come after him again only to find him just beyond reach. Vesian felt it tiring. He lured it into another furious charge and avoided the sweep of its crushing hands, though this time he slashed its wrist with the lance head as it passed by.

Yellow eyes smoldered with fury from beneath its craggy brow. The troll knelt in the mud, looking paler as its breath came heavily. Its hands clenched and unclenched by its sides. Over its shoulder, Vesian saw Thibault approaching. Yet the flicker of his gaze over the troll's shoulder was detected even from underneath his helm. The troll whirled on Thibault, those massive hands reaching for the wounded squire. Thibault lifted his shield and cried out in pain, yet his warrior instincts kept his sword arm swinging and he hacked those warty hands, drawing blood.

Thibault then lost his footing and fell into the mud again, spraying it to either side. The troll grunted, its predator's mind seeing a quarry in distress. Despite its wounds it was determined to fall upon Thibault and tear him apart.

Vesian was not about to let that happen. As the troll staggered forward, he plunged his lance through its other knee. The troll howled and fell forward, flat on its face in a great spray of mud that covered the unfortunate Thibault. The troll flailed about in agony, its fists beating at the soft, squelching mud in futile fury.

"Get clear!" he cried and Thibault lost no time in scrambling to his feet to avoid the flailing fists. Vesian's lance head was still buried in the troll's thigh, so he twisted and levered it side to side. Blood gushed from the wound and the troll's flailing intensified, then slowed. It lay nearly motionless yet still breathing in the mud, and Vesian plunged his lance through the base of its skull to end its threat at last.

With a sigh of relief, he turned to Thibault. The squire sagged against the macabre hut, his sword lying in the mud. He held his shoulder, grimacing.

"Let me see that," Vesian said, planting his lance in the dirt. He helped Thibault remove his armor until they could see the wounded shoulder, already turning blue. Vesian explored the bruising flesh with his fingers, searching for a break in the bone. "That doesn't seem too bad. A little rest and some unguent and you'll mend up in a week or two."

"So I'll live?" Thibault asked with feigned disappointment.

"Aye, I'll not get a new squire after all. I was hoping for someone prettier."

"Prettier than me? Good luck." Vesian produced a healer's unguent from his pack and rubbed it liberally on the wound. It had not long to set in before Thibault was noticeably less pained.

"That healer has earned his money," he said with relief. "We should buy all he has the next time we pass by his home."

"Indeed. But first we need to get back to our horses."

"Hopefully that featherbrain Theudebert hasn't killed them by now."

They made their way back through the swamp, more hastily this time for they feared no troll. Yet the sucking, squelching mud and the thick moss was no friend of theirs and they were both feeling the ache of fatigue by the time they came back over the bridge to find Theudebert sitting by the side of the road with their horses. The peasant lad sprang up at the sight of them, a smile on his face.

"Gods be praised! You're back!"

"The troll was not under the bridge," Vesian told him with mild annoyance.

"It wasn't?" Theudebert asked with a look of confusion.

"It lives in the swamp. Orlivedin the swamp."

"Oh. Well, the bridge is where it killed that peddler. I thought it lived there."

"Did you ever think it might move around?"

The lad shrugged. "I didn't think about it much."

"No wonder it was so fat," Thibault muttered. "These yokels must make easy prey."

"Never mind that." Vesian hoped that Theudebert had not overheard. "Let's get back to Droizy."

"Not too fast," Thibault said. "I don't like the thought of riding with my arm like this."

"Your horse has a good gait when he well-behaved. Try not to annoy him.

Thibault frowned, for the rouncey named Rascal has earned his moniker many times over. The two of them swung into the saddle and Vesian took their pack horse's reins. They turned down the road toward the village of Droizy and the expectant village elder who had sent them here.

"Wait," called Theudebert. "Is the troll dead?"

Thibault rolled his eyes. "Yes," Vesian said after a long pause. Theudebert breathed a sigh of relief. Then he shuffled on his feet and looked down at the road.

"Odo will ask for proof."

"He can see the bruise on my shoulder if he wants," Thibault grumbled.

"The road is clear," Vesian replied. "The truth will be seen as soon as the next peddler crosses that bridge without being eaten."

"Perhaps a horn of the troll as proof?" the peasant suggested.

"I'm not wading back through that swamp to carry a piece of the reeking monster back to your elder," Thibault growled. "My wound will have to be enough."

Theudebert gave up and fell in line behind them. They trotted down the road the way they had come and soon enough the leafy canopy overhead gave way to the open sky and they descended into the placid, fertile valley of the Vechanne River. The valley was not wide, but it was rich in tilth. Countless generations of farmers had carved endless furrows in its fields, running from the very banks of the river all the way to the hills and woods on the valley's edges. Two miles ahead of them, they could see the village of Droizy under its ancient oaks, and some miles beyond that, the eaves of the enchanted Dalamari Forest from which the Vechanne emanated.

Thibault scowled in the saddle.

"Damnable forest," he muttered. "We need not wonder from whence the troll came prowling. All that there is to wonder is how many more horrors will crawl from beneath its boughs before one of them kills us in the end."

"You are so morose, Thibault! The Dalamari Forest is not to be dreaded. Nay, it is a veritable fountain of opportunities to win glory! Think of all the beasts that have ventured forth from its borders and wound up on the walls of Chateau Valeur. Each one is an epic tale of victories won and a knightly legend forged in battle."

"If it's glory you want, you should have taken a trophy from the troll."

"And what, mount it in the chateau hall where we eat? The Order would starve before they would share a table with that stench."

"You expect these peasants to vouch for you?"

"I expect the tale will tell itself. Perhaps we'll meet a pretty minstrel again and have her sing the song."

"Perhaps the next thing that crawls out of the forest will be a dragon that eats you and frees me to follow another, more cowardly knight."

"Sir Grifo does not much but drink and wench. Perhaps you'd rather carry his lance?"

"Does his squire have a broken shoulder?"

Vesian smiled to himself. Thibault needed more unguent when they reached the village. They passed between Droizy's orchards soon enough, where the children sighted them and ran to find Odo, the village elder. Before they had reached the village's edge, the old man and three others had appeared. The elder and his firstborn Vesian knew, but there were two newcomers he did not recognize.

The first was a man of perhaps fifty, wearing a simple robe of emerald and a brown mantle. His brown hair was graying and his face wrinkled, but he had the gait and eyes of a much younger man. At his side was a lovely woman of no more than five and twenty, no older than Vesian himself. She was fair of face and blue-eyed, with long brown hair hanging loose about her shoulders. She too wore a green robe, but hers was cut low in the front to give a tantalizing look at her round breasts.

Vesian felt his squire perk up at the sight of her. He smiled to himself again, for he too entertained visions of some time alone with the woman, a dream encouraged by her pleasant, almost teasing, smile of greeting. But his daydreaming was interrupted by Odo, who anxiously spread his arms wide.

"Is the road clear?" he asked and Vesian nodded.

"The troll is dead. You will have no trouble on the north road."