Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic) Page 16

  Other things were on her mind now, worrisome things that demanded her attention. Things like the warlock and his strange bear-dog. How had he bred such a thing? What else was he capable of? She wondered if he could soul-splice already, or if he could cast changing spells on himself, as well as others. And what of the barbarian bitch’s sword? It flashed out a considerable amount of ancient power when it bit into Sloffon’s flesh. She remembered such weapons from their days of battling for territory against the Trigon. For good reason, her brood feared the touch of that enchanted blue steel, but they would face it. They’d driven away entire bands of Trigon warriors in the past, all of them brandishing similarly ensorcelled weapons.

  Aserica decided that she would have to be more subtle, or maybe far less so, while thinning out the warlock’s party. She reached for a crystal shard dangling from a gut cord and cursed her sagging neck when it got in her way.

  With the crystal, she called Vrooch. He and his ferocious pack of wolven-breed reluctantly pulled away from their howling grief. She ordered them off to the valley that lay just this side of the ice falls. There, they would lie in wait for the warlock’s party and surprise them when Slither drove them from the cliffs.

  Vrooch and his pack relished the chance to gain vengeance and thanked the Hoar Witch for the honor by wasting no time. It would take days for the warlock to reach the frozen cliffs where Slither fed. Her great serpent had laid claim to the old tunnels hidden in that area, and once he drove them from the cliffs, Vrooch and his wolven-breed would finish them off.

  The wait was just as well, for Aserica Rime needed to learn more about this group. Her underestimation of them had already cost her one of her favorite creatures. She had just the pair of sneaks for the duty, too: Warble and Flitch. With those two spying for her, movements, camp talk, and even the smell of the group’s latrine would be privy to her. By the time they reached Slither and the ice fall cliffs, she’d know everything there was to know about them, including what they had to eat along the way.

  She let out another cackling peal after giving her children their orders. This time, it really was a laugh, and the keening wails that joined in from the forest around the crystal walls of Rimehold turned to snarls of encouragement and calls for vengeance. Soon, the combined voice of the Hoar Witch’s brood was no longer sorrowful but full of dark, angry menace. So much so, that what was left of the fairy girl’s corpse went untouched that day, for all of the carrion scavengers lay huddled in fear, afraid to leave whatever shelter they could find.

  “Is there anything I can do, Aserica?” Clytun growled.

  “Oh, there will be, my pet,” the Hoar Witch promised him. “When they get closer, you’ll get your share of their blood.” She nodded for the horn-headed beast to continue stirring the heavy black kettle over which he was standing.

  “Now, tell me…” Aserica Rime’s attention shifted away from the death of Sloffon completely. “Do you remember where that jug of troll semen is? Or the hornet juice?”

  “No,” the minotaur answered.

  “Well, keep stirring, Clytun,” she urged him. “I have to go find them, or we’ll never get our supper ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Across his sea we sail,

  to Nepton we hold true.

  For if you cross old Nepton,

  his sea will swallow you.

  — A sailor’s song

  In the morning, Vanx found Xavian sitting at a corner table in the common room of the inn to which they’d been allocated. It was called Ord’s Bed House, and it was a well-kept, well-run establishment. The mage had a few sheets of parchment spread out before him, and a pot of ink sat near a selection of quills. His hands were stained, and he had a weary, frustrated look about him. Apparently, he’d put his head in his hand at some point, for he also had an ink smudge on one of his cheeks. It looked like a bruise.

  “What is this?” Vanx asked softly. His head hurt, and by the look of Xavian’s red-rimmed eyes, the mage didn’t feel much better.

  “I’m trying to pen an account of our time with Brody.” He gave a weary sigh. “Something to go with the body, to let his loved ones know how, and where, he died.”

  “Have you eaten?” Vanx asked.

  “I have,” Xavian said. “Tossed it back up not long after. I’ve never been all that good at drinking. Especially the stuff these folks drink.”

  “You should eat again,” Vanx told him. “Even if most of it comes back up, some of it will stick to your ribs.”

  “More came up than went down, I assure you.”

  “Water and bread,” Chelda said as she and Gallarael padded down the gently-curving, open-sided stairway into the common room. “No greasy butter, no greasy meat, just bread and fruit, and drink a lot of water. That stuff won’t come back up.”

  “So much for the bacon and gravy trencher I was craving,” Vanx said.

  None of them laughed.

  The morning passed slowly, but the afternoon brought a flurry of activity that not only kept Vanx busy, but for the most part, kept their minds off the loss of their friend. Vanx found that he could distance himself from the acute pain of loss because he’d already been alive for most of a human lifetime and had been taught from his childhood to avoid getting attached to humans. He tended to the particulars of having Brody’s body preserved and shipped to Orendyn, so that the others wouldn’t have to. He also borrowed Xavian’s writing supplies and penned a note to Darbon telling him to gather all of Brody’s possessions and ship them to Master Quazar. The Royal Mage of Dyntalla would be able to find Brody’s brother and handle the rest. He would also be able to assure Prince Russet and King Oakarm that Gallarael was alive. Vanx didn’t elaborate on the subject of the princess any further. He couldn’t without violating the trust she’d given him, but he had no problem stretching that trust to its limit to ease her family’s worry.

  *

  Riggaton Manix joined them for dinner. He had made sure that the expense of the group’s food and lodging was put on the rim riders’ accounts. He explained in carefully spoken words that they had saved a lot of trouble and lives by killing the beast for them. He said that there was nothing to argue over when Vanx spoke against it, and then Chelda explained that they should take the generosity and enjoy it, for it was a high honor.

  “She is a hero to all of us, especially the womenfolk,” Manix told Vanx. “They’ve long fought and hunted beside our men, but their deeds mostly go unrecognized.”

  Vanx noticed that the riggaton smiled at her a little longer than necessary and then let his eyes linger on her as he went on. “To step up and meet the attack of the swooping beast… That is a show of bravery that no man can question. To make the killing stroke under such conditions is quite a remarkable feat. Only the fiercest and most skilled of warriors could have managed it.”

  “You’re very kind, sir,” Gallarael said with a smile and batted her lashes at him until his gaze shifted from Chelda to her.

  He suddenly looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat, as if to get his thoughts back on track. “I have gathered that you are going deeper into the mountains, and that you will be needing mounts to pack your gear.” He turned his attention deliberately on Vanx. He was clearly taken with Chelda, but something in Gallarael’s liquid eyes had unnerved him. “The beasts in Shepherd Springs are caravan animals,” he went on. “They will balk on the steeper passages. I’ve ordered Kegger and another man, an expert ramma handler named Darl, to help you select animals from our herd. The rim riders’ ramma are far more capable than the old inbred stock you’ll find elsewhere. Of course, Kegger and Darl will—”

  The door to Ord’s common room burst open then. A drunken man, cursing and mocking the guard he’d just managed to slip with slurred and incomprehensible words, came stumbling in with a blast of icy cold air.

  “—lend their experience and skill on your quest into the Lurr.” This last, Riggaton Manix spoke a little more quickly, before he stood and glared at the d
efiant-looking drunkard.

  Vanx immediately felt bad for Chelda. It was her father, and the look he was boring into her was full of as much vehemence as it was disgust. He’d managed to come in just as Gallarael and Chelda were whispering, and the sight of their proximity appeared to compound his fury. Vanx could almost see the gargan’s blood rising to a boil beneath his skin.

  The night went to shambles quickly. Chelda’s father blurted out some accusations that caused both Chelda and Riggaton Manix’s pale skin to flush brightly. Then Manix shot back a series of commanding orders that had the pumpkin-vested rim rider guards scrabbling to snatch up Chelda’s father’s arms and hold him still. He was a big man, even for a gargan, and Vanx didn’t envy the rim riders who were closest to him. He stood near to seven feet tall and, had the desire to resist them won out, he most likely would have done a great deal of damage with his fists alone.

  “Don’t heert hem,” Chelda yelled with her gargan accent, plainly enough for everyone to hear. “He’s a drunkeen feel, but he is me feether, even if he cares to deny it. And once upon a time, he was as great a riggateen as there ever was.”

  Vanx worked to ease Poops’s growls under the table. Luckily, the angry old gargan didn’t fight the rim riders when they held him back. Instead, he shouted something to Chelda that came out almost as plain to Vanx as Chelda’s words had.

  “Yeer noo datter to mee!” His voice was hard and cold, and his head looked to be about to explode as he hawked and spat a wad of phlegm. “Teeke me heme.” He whirled around, spinning the big rim riders off of his arms as if they were children.

  Manix’s eyes followed him out of Ord’s, then they followed Chelda, who was teary-eyed and sobbing with Gallarael as they hurried up the stairs to the room they shared. Vanx saw the confusion in the riggaton’s expression, and more than a little disappointment as well.

  Manix cleared the room, sat back down, then called for a round of dark to be brought to the table.

  “Is it true?” he asked both Vanx and Xavian in a voice that could only be heard by the two of them.

  “What’s that?” Xavian asked.

  “That our great warrioress prefers the mousy girl to a man?”

  “One…” Xavian leaned in close and spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s none of your concern. Two, the other lady’s name is Galra, and I’d wager you’d find her far from mousy if you got to know her better.”

  “I meant no offense.” Manix held up his arms, palms out. He was taken aback, and his expression showed nothing but confusion. The sincerity of his words, and the great effort he took to keep them clear, showed that he was trying to be respectful. “She is the first woman to come along in a great while who has stirred me. I lost my first wife and son at his birthing some years ago. Ah, here is our drink.”

  “How do you know that we are heading for the Lurr?” Vanx asked, just as soon as the barkeep had gone.

  The question caught Manix off guard, as Vanx had intended it to. For a long moment, the riggaton just stared at his wooden mug. Then he looked Vanx directly in the eyes.

  “I watched over Chelda’s shoulder as she studied her map at the outpost.” He didn’t sound apologetic, but he defended his actions anyway. “It is my duty to know what those who come through are about. Don’t think you’re not the first party searching after Rimehold. Charlatans and profiteers have been selling those maps for decades. Most who follow them end up at the bottom of the ice falls or in the belly of some savage beast long before they get that far. My men sometimes get to haul the pieces of their carcasses back, but only when we can find them.”

  “What of those that made it beyond the falls?” Xavian asked, his anger at the riggaton suddenly turning to frank curiosity.

  “Kegger has been beyond the falls a few times.” The effort of keeping his words understandable was becoming visible, but Vanx could tell that it was from the drink. Manix could speak trade common fairly well. The fact that he was still working at it made Vanx smile.

  “Kegger once went into the Lurr and dragged his brother back out, if his brother is to be believed.” Manix shrugged. “The poor man lost his arm, part of his other hand and several toes to the bite, but he swears a living tree chewed them from his body. He was a good and honest fur-trapper before his mishap. Of the group he guided into the Lurr, he is the only one that Kegger found.”

  “That is four we know of, then,” Xavian mused aloud.

  “Four what?” Manix asked.

  “Four men have been into the Lurr forest and made it back out again.”

  “There’s more than that who have made it out,” Manix said. “But none of them, save for Kegger, would willingly go back.” He finished off his mug and motioned for another round to be brought. “Most groups who try the Lurr are just glory-seeking fools. Your group seems a little more…” He rubbed at his cleanly shaved chin as if searching for a word. “More formidable,” he said at last. “And something about the script on Chelda’s map…” He cut his eyes to Xavian to be sure that the mage caught the honest and proper respect he intended there. “The script looked to be written on real skin, not flame-browned parchment or stained leaf. I still believe Rimehold is a fable, but either way, the Lurr is a place full of dangerous beasts. It matters not what else is in those woods. Kegger will get you there, and Darl will keep the animals in line. And if you don’t return, they can come tell me what happened.”

  “Chelda said that your eldritch may have a tale about the Lurr, the Hoar Witch, or even the old priest of Arbor who fell under her spell,” Vanx said. “I’d like to hear them told.”

  Manix nodded. He motioned for them to stay seated as he went to the door and spoke commandingly to one of the men posted outside. Another blast of cold air swept through the cozy room while the door was open.

  “You might not be able to understand him,” the riggaton said when he returned to his seat. “I’ve sent for the best teller I know. It might be wise to see if Chelda can return and help translate.” He looked at his near-empty mug and frowned. “Already this way of speaking is wearing on me.”

  He finished off his drink in one swig, then slammed it on the table. “You can tell our lady warrior that I, nor anyone else, will disturb her or Eldritch Veritole this night. He will be the only one coming or going. You’ve my word on it.”

  With that, he rose, donned his studded vest and then left the common room.

  Save for Ord, his barkeeper, and the table girl, they had the entire place to themselves.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Deep in stormy meadow,

  as the lightning crashes down.

  I fight through all my sorrow,

  For deep in misery I’m found.

  – A Zythian bard’s song

  It took very little coaxing for Xavian to get Chelda to come back down to the common room. The moment she heard the name Eldritch Veritole, her anger and confusion vanished in the same way a sweet cake makes a child forget a bruised knee or a teasing sibling. She washed her face in the basin, then followed Gallarael and the mage down the stairs.

  It was a relief when she saw that the riggaton had left, but part of her had to admit that his blatant admiration for her had been pleasing to her ego. If she ever were to take a husband and have children, she decided, she’d want a strong and polite man like Manix, one who was in control and sure of himself, a man who was like her father had been before her mother’s death had destroyed him. She forced the unwanted thoughts from her mind and reminded herself that Eldritch Veritole was on his way. When she told Vanx and the others her elders knew the best tales of the Hoar Witch, she’d been thinking of this man explicitly. He was by far the best teller in all of Great Vale’s council of wise men.

  It was a good while before the old gargan showed up. While they waited, Vanx conferred with Xavian and the women about Riggaton Manix’s offer of animals and escorts. They decided that, with Brody gone, the extra hands and blades might be helpful, and if Kegger really had been into the Lurr and s
urvived it, his experience could prove priceless.

  They all agreed to get acquainted with the big, axe-wielding rim rider and the ramma handler on the morrow. Only then would they decide whether or not to take him up on the offer.

  Chelda told them that she would do her best to translate the eldritch’s words, but she thought he might be able to speak clearly enough for them to understand. She explained that many of the elders had traveled beyond the mountains to Orendyn, and across the Great Northern Slab. Some had gone as far over the sea as Harthgar, and even Dakahn and Port Seaward. “There’s no telling how many languages Eldritch Veritole can speak,” she finished.

  She was giddy and excited over the prospect of hearing the old stories again. She didn’t hesitate to tell them all of how he used to sit on a big stump in the traders’ square on the warmer days and enthrall her and the other youngsters with stories of fairy cities and of Bone’s golden stag herd. There were tales about Prince Dastardly and the Troll Wars that came long before the Trigon or the Black King ever existed. But most important were the stories he could tell about the Hoar Witch and her priest of Arbor.

  By the time Eldritch Veritole finally arrived, the companions had shared another couple of rounds and were feeling warm and fuzzy at the edges. Still, the excitement Chelda exuded was contagious and slightly sobering.

  A plump boy of maybe twelve years helped the aged man out of his heavy fur cloak and then moved a high-backed chair near the hearth fire. Using a gnarled stick as a cane, Eldritch Veritole hobbled, hunchbacked, over to it and sat down with a groan.

  “He has a natural charisma about him,” Vanx commented under his breath.

  “It’s not necessarily natural,” Xavian returned.