Dragon Isle (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 2) Page 8

  “Shhh.” Zeezle covered Trevin’s mouth and pressed down roughly. In a voice so quiet that Trevin wasn’t sure he really heard it, the Zythian said, “She is still down there.”

  Trevin blinked the cobwebs from his brain and peered down through a crack at the valley below. She was there sniffing and romping around at the far end of the valley, crushing whole trees for no apparent reason as if they were merely blades of grass. It was then that Trevin realized the field of low, thorny growth close to the cavern opening and around the many dung piles wasn’t plant growth at all, at least not live growth. It was the trunks and branches of those twisted skeleton trees after being crushed beneath Pyra’s huge claws. At the moment she was smashing down the small glade near where the other wyrm’s recently laid pile sat.

  Trevin felt his mind clear, and he noted that Aur was directly overhead. He had passed out for a good while. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The putrid smell from below coated his lungs with oily film and he started to retch. He tried his best to keep from it, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His guts clenched and he curled into a fetal ball making a loud, repetitive heaving sound that cut over the crunching of limbs like a struck bell.

  He saw Zeezle grimace and then stiffen, and knew that Pyra had heard him too, but still he couldn’t stop heaving.

  In one bounding motion the dragon was on their side of the valley. With another, her huge body was clinging to the rocky valley slope a dozen yards below them like some massive garden lizard on a trellis. Trevin looked up from his fetal ball to see the moon disappear, only to be replaced by two glowing eyes. He smelled hot steel and brimstone and felt as if he were lying far too close to a raging hearth fire.

  Zeezle was frozen in shock, his wild Zythian eyes glowing only a few shades lighter than the dragon’s. He was mouthing something, probably a prayer, and when Trevin saw the Zythian’s silvery hair begin fluttering out toward Pyra’s nostrils he realized she was drawing in a breath. He couldn’t make himself stop convulsing, even though he knew they were about to be roasted. The fear was totally debilitating.

  Old Master Wiggins

  was dancing at the fair.

  He did a flip, but then he slipped,

  upon his homemade hair.

  – a Parydon street ditty

  Vanx woke to two male voices speaking but couldn’t quite understand what they were saying. After listening to a few exchanges, he figured out that the language being spoken was a mixture of old Zythian and some other that was foreign to his ears. He was sore, aching in places he didn’t even know he had. He wanted more than anything to stretch himself out and work his joints, but he knew better. He didn’t move, but lay perfectly still, trying to piece together what they were talking about.

  “Ootlin, un secran shant’ve slumbered un mannish,” one voice, a deep authoritative growl, spoke.

  “Inna sterin mannish,” the younger-sounding voice responded.

  “Mannish behim,” the first voice barked.

  “Inna pears wellin.”

  Vanx decided there were only two of them. If there were more, they had to have been standing perfectly still for a good while. He hadn’t heard the telltale boot scuff or so much as a sigh or sniffle, only the two male voices conversing about what he believed to be his heritage.

  A sudden whimpering wiggle against his body caused him to jerk in reflex. Something was nestled up close to him.

  “Livin, livin behim,” the younger voice called out in startled warning.

  “Inna, Ootlin, don timbed goaf,” the other voice barked an uneasy laugh. “Certain livin be him, uncertain mannish be him.”

  There was no more need for subterfuge, Vanx decided, as he took in the soft warmth that was snuggled beside him. It was a pup, barely weaned, all black and white and scared, with liquid eyes that looked up at him. Vanx couldn’t pay much attention to it at the moment, though, as the others were now standing right there discussing his mannishness as if he were a chunk of ham hanging in the meat market.

  “Who are…?” Vanx rolled over and asked in his best old Zythian. His words caught in his throat when he saw what he was speaking to.

  They were short folk with the wide, stocky build of the dwarven races; only these stout little men had green, glowing eyes and pointed ears like the legendary Welves of old. What was more surprising was their milky skin and snow-white hair and beards. A long streak of gravy, or maybe old blood, stained the whiskers of the older one. The younger of them stepped back and raised the gnarled root staff he was holding into a defensive position.

  The other one smiled, or maybe snarled. Vanx wasn’t sure because, when his beard parted, all he saw were blue lips and a row of sharp animal teeth. In his hand, the older man-like creature held a shiny staff that was topped with an ornamental box. Vanx saw tiny curls of smoke rolling up through the seams of what was probably a closed shutter. The expression on the old creature’s face relaxed and he chuckled. Then he cautiously extended a hand down to help Vanx to his feet.

  Standing, Vanx felt a little better about the strange situation. Neither of the two stood taller than his belt, nor did they seem interested in subduing him, which was a relief. He doubted he could fight his way out of a bathtub at the moment. Remembering the pup, Vanx bent down and pulled it to his chest, and let his right arm fall to his side where it nonchalantly brushed past his dagger sheath. The blade was still there, and its presence reassured him further.

  If he was their prisoner, they would have at least disarmed him. A flicker of hope stirred in him as the pup reached up and licked his chin. Maybe these two could help him find a way to Pyra’s valley, or at least direct him back to the light of day.

  “Whan mannish speakun tha tunga o’ Zwarvy?” the older of the two asked.

  “Un mannish,” the younger one responded nervously. “Draconish behim.”

  Vanx’s gaze slid to the younger of the two for an instant. Did this thing actually think he had dragon blood in his veins? He dismissed the notion and looked to the older man. “Half mannish, half Zythian.”

  “Ah.” The pale little creature scratched a clump of stuff in his beard. A few flakes of it fell away.

  “Un fro islana gilden eyes,” the older thing said to his nervous companion.

  The little guy, a Zwarvy, his friend had called them, lowered his guard and squinted his tiny, glowing orbs at Vanx. “Inna eyes steren’t gilden.”

  “I am only half Zythian," Vanx repeated. "My father was a human."

  “Inna,” the older one nodded. He pointed to his suspicious companion and said, “Ootlin.” He then pounded a fist on his chest and said, “Olden Pak.”

  “Olden,” Vanx knew, meant elder. This only confirmed what Vanx had surmised from the valuable and most likely enchanted staff Olden Pak was carrying.

  The sound of scuffling feet and grunted effort came to Vanx’s ears from behind him. He turned and saw three more of the short albino Zwarvy dragging what was left of the devil goat carcass behind them. As it came into the glowing light of the cavern’s stalagma, Vanx realized that he didn’t smell musty almonds anymore, and the air that had been warm and venting outward earlier now seemed still and cool.

  He glanced at Olden Pak’s staff and remembered what the elder had said earlier: “The secrun, shant’ve slumbered the mannish.”

  Vanx nodded with respect to the cleverness of these creatures as it became clear to him. These little folk had used heat to vent the air out of the chambers below, and with the aid of some incensed herbs, and possibly a little magic, had put the dragon in the cavern outside to sleep. Then they stole its meal, or what was left of it. Apparently his Zythian blood caused the sleeping secrun to affect him. He understood now why they had accused him of having the blood of dragons in his veins. The notion triggered a memory from his music lessons.

  One song, a legendary ballad of old called “Forbidden”, said that a dragon had fallen in love and turned itself into a man with its magic. It mated with a Welven princes
s, thus creating the Zythian race; but that was just an ancient tale, a minstrel’s saga meant to entertain. At least Vanx thought it was. Maybe there was a bit of truth in this story.

  The puppy reached up and licked Vanx’s stubbly chin again. This time Vanx nuzzled it and began scratching it behind the ears. “Can you help me get to the great fire-breather’s valley?” he asked Pak, who was explaining his presence to the others.

  The old Zwarvy barked out some orders to the wide-eyed ones dragging the devil goat carcass and then looked at Vanx with stern, curious eyes. By the time Vanx realized he was being magicked it was too late to do anything about it. He was glad it had only been an unmasking, a spell cast to reveal his intentions and the motives behind them. It could have just as easily been a debilitating spell the strange elder cast on him.

  Using broad hand gestures and stunted speech, Pak told him that Pyra would defecate, then feed this night, and defecate again early the next. The old man had literally read Vanx’s mind and understood now why he was here. He seemed to respect the reasoning and determination that brought Vanx here, but he crudely conveyed that he thought the rest of Vanx’s group would be killed during this night of the full moon.

  He explained that the dragons would battle each other with tooth and claw, and even magic. The strongest of them would mate as the stars circled the moon. Ootlin moved over to the others to apparently oversee the skinning of the remaining goat meat. He returned with a small bit of gristle in a hand that looked black with blood in the strange greenish light. Vanx shied back at first when the Zwarvy reached his bloody hand toward his face, but the pup got a scent of the morsel and began squirming to reach out for it. Ootlin smiled, showing his own row of pointed teeth as the pup took the meat and began working at it.

  “Un efin doogle theren,” he said and then wiped his hand clean on the hem of his smock.

  “He,” Vanx wasn’t sure if the pup was a he yet. He thought that it was. “He was beside me when I woke.”

  “Choosen un didem,” Pak said, unable to contain a ghoulish smile at the dog.

  Vanx hadn’t thought about keeping the pup, at least not until Pak put the notion in his mind. He couldn’t just leave it to fend for itself, could he? It chose him. He considered the idea as he followed Ootlin and Olden Pak down the low tunnel that led away from the entrance. The way was mostly dark, but occasional chunks of the glowing stalagma had been placed every so often. They passed a few areas where the tunnel branched away. One of those shafts dove sharply downward and a palpable humidity seemed to be hovering around its opening. The shaft they were in also went downward, but not at such a stark angle. The descent was slight, almost imperceptible, but Vanx could feel it plainly. It was like some internal pull, just as when he went below the level of the sea in Dyntalla.

  Vanx was certain he could find his way back up if he had to, but he sensed it wouldn’t be necessary. He wasn’t nervous about following the strange folk through the depths of the island. He was curious, extremely curious, and a bit worried for his friends’ wellbeing, too. He knew that there wasn’t much he could do for them, and he could almost feel the full moon rising over them. Zeezle wouldn’t lead Trevin and the others into certain danger, though. They were all probably holed up in a cave somewhere eating lizard steaks or boiled nest eggs.

  His stomach growled at the thought of food. All of the supplies, save for his dagger and the flask of stout he had snugged in his boot, had been left at the top of the ledge. He was at the mercy of the Zwarvy as far as sustenance was concerned. The eerie creatures began to worry him as he followed along, absently petting the puppy in his arms. His worries evaporated, though, when they emerged into a massive cavern right out of a folk fable. He’d been led to an underground city that was easily the size of Dyntalla, and the fantastical sights and sounds that assailed his senses took his breath away.

  She poisoned all the fair-folk.

  Doomed them to their end.

  That heartless witch, a frigid bitch.

  Whats worse? She’ll come again!

  They say she’ll come again!

  – Frosted Soul

  The intake of Pyra’s breath became a sucking pull against Trevin’s entire being. Dirt and other particles whisked past his face toward her cavernous nostrils and his clothes pulled away from his body as if he were in a gale. He hadn’t opened his eyes. He didn’t dare. He was afraid he would die of fright. Over the whooshing of her breath, he heard Zeezle’s voice. The Zythian was speaking gibberish in a feeble yet rhythmic chant. Pyra’s drawing of breath stopped then and Trevin’s whole body clenched while he waited to be roasted alive.

  The heat came now, and a terrible roar with it, but a few seconds into the terrifying sensation Trevin realized he wasn’t being charred to a crisp. He chanced to open a lid and found Zeezle’s red-faced form crouched over him with his hands stretched out toward the dragon. Both of them were being bathed in orange fire, only it wasn’t hitting them directly. It was being diverted around them by some invisible shield that Zeezle seemed to be holding in place.

  Suddenly, Trevin felt pain, deep and severe in his left foot. He drew his leg further toward him and found that the tip of his boot, and parts of his toes, were little more than ash and smoke. He screamed out at the intense anguish, but otherwise held still.

  Another sound, a roar similar to Pyra’s, but which seemed as if it were coming from under water, cut through the din. Then Pyra’s fiery spew disappeared. The roar became louder, and with it came a crackling, sizzling sound and a harsh flaring light that illuminated the entire valley as if it were midday.

  Pyra’s head craned away from them at an impossible speed as a swath of white-hot dragon’s breath raked across her side.

  The rocks around them were still glowing red-hot. Zeezle pulled Trevin up to his knees. The Zythian was trying not to topple over and was trembling and sweating profusely. Trevin grabbed him around the waist and held him steady. Then he looked back to see what was happening.

  A blue dragon, possibly the one that had been laying its pile earlier, for it was about that size, was blasting at Pyra with its crackling white-hot breath. It looked like a steady stream of lightning blasting from the beast’s deadly maw as it hovered over them on its huge, leathery wings. Pyra was nimble, though. She rotated her whole body on the rock face like some massive clock hand and got her bulk, for the most part, clear of the blast. Her tail lashed out like a gargantuan whip and cracked the smaller dragon, sending it into an awkward aerial tumble. But then she was gone, leaping from the wall of rock with such strength that it was a full three heartbeats later that her wings whooped full of air high over the corrupt valley.

  The big blue dragon chased after her, looking like a mad sparrow after a giant hawk. Trevin watched, fighting the agony in his foot as the two silhouettes sped up into the silvery moonlight like flying jewels. The stars were starting to twinkle at the fringes of the huge moon, but the dragons were there in the middle of it, locked in a savage battle.

  Pyra twisted and turned in flight. She lashed out a raking claw and the blue shrieked in pain. Simultaneously, a streaking blast of flaming orange fire lit up the sky. The blue’s lightning hit Pyra along her rump, but Pyra’s blast engulfed the whole of the blue’s head. It tried to dart away, but the bigger dragon’s tail wrapped around its middle. Pyra pulled the flailing beast close and they began tumbling down toward the earth. She scrabbled and thrashed and crunched at the other wyrm with all her might. A moment later the falling tangle parted into two separate forms. One threw out its massive wings and caught air. It was Pyra, Trevin knew, for when Aur’s light reflected across her scales she looked as if she were scaled in a million rubies.

  The blue dragon tried to recover, but it wasn’t to be. One of its wings was folded back and the other only served to send it into a violent spin. The beast impacted the island somewhere beyond the far ridge line. They couldn’t see it, but they heard it. The bone- crunching thud and the sound of hundreds of trees smashing
flat all at once shook the earth. There was utter silence for a very long time then, but the quiet was broken when Pyra swooped below the far ridge, presumably to feast on her kill. Her triumphant roar soon filled the night, letting all who could hear know that she had been the victor of this battle.

  The rocks around them had cooled, but Trevin’s foot was still enraged with pain. Zeezle fell to his knees and began helping Trevin out of his ruined boot. The sound of some huge creature coming over the opposite ridge, probably fleeing the commotion of the dragon’s impact, came to them. In the distance more dragons began roaring and fighting. Other wild and savage noises erupted as well. It was as if all the island’s predators had suddenly decided to wage war on one another.

  “The stars are dancing,” Zeezle said in explanation. He had to fight not to stare up at the moon above for he would lose himself in the rare stellar event that was now taking place. He tore a length of cloth from his sleeve and tied it tightly around Trevin’s ruined foot. Trevin looked up, but the awe-inspiring beauty of the dancing stars clearly didn’t relieve his pain.

  “We need to find a place to shelter,” Zeezle said. He chanced a look up. Above them the huge, pocked face of the moon shone golden, while at the edges of her circumference evenly spaced clusters of stars twinkled as if they were dancing.

  “Let’s get closer to the valley floor so that we might have a better chance of pricking the bitch when she returns,” said Trevin.

  “I was thinking more like the other side of this ridge,” Zeezle said with a look of frustration showing on his face. His eyes were blood red with burst veins, his hair a tangled, sweaty mess. He looked on the verge of collapse and appeared to have no interest in continuing with this quest.

  “Vanx wouldn’t give up,” Trevin grunted, hoping to sway the Zythian from abandoning the task.