Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic)
Read Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic) Online
Authors: M. R. Mathias
The Legend of Vanx Malic – Book Three - Saint Elm’s Deep
Copyright © 2013 by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.
All rights reserved.
Contents
Don’t get lost out in the cold,
or the old hoar witch will have your soul.
-- Frosted Soul
“So, is it Vanx Malic or Vanx Saint Elm?” Darbon asked with genuine curiosity showing on his claw-scarred face.
A friend of theirs, the Princess of Parydon, had been poisoned, then potioned, and while under the influence of the substances had raked Darbon’s face. A quartet of gnarled lines ran from under his brown mop of hair across his mug to his jawline.
“It depends,” Vanx said thoughtfully. “On the Isle of Zyth we have only our name, then our village designation. Vanx Malic means ‘Vanx from the village Malic’. Here, in the human lands, family names have a greater importance.” Vanx finished the cup of ale in his hand with a gulp and then banged it on the dagger-marred table for more.
“Hold your mud,” the barmaid yelled over the noise of the tavern. Seeing that it was Vanx, her voice softened. “Oh, it’s you two. I’ll be right over.”
The room was starting to fill for supper. The great central hearth fire at the Iceberg Inn and Tavern was the biggest, warmest, and most hospitable in all of Orendyn. The tables were not too close together, and the floor was kept clean. The log structure was cozy and homey. It was also far enough away from the docks to keep the troublesome sailors from walking over. The hard coin from the trappers and caravan traders who worked outside the city’s protective ice wall, however, did find its way in. Lem, the owner, had just purchased a fat elk from one of the local hunters, and tonight the sign out front read: “Fannie’s elk stew, eat until you spew.” Under that, in smaller letters, there was another line scrawled on the board: “Vanx the bard, most nights after supper.”
Fannie, the cook, could make grizzled snow turtle taste like frosted cake. Her elk stew alone would pack the place.
“I suppose here it is Vanx Saint Elm,” Vanx finally answered the question. He reached down to the floor and gave the middling puppy there a scratch behind the ears. He’d carried the pup in a chest-pouch called a papoon for a long time, but Sir Poopsalot Maximus, as the dog was affectionately named, had outgrown the rig. Poops could keep up on his own now. At the moment, the dog was perfectly content on the floor gnawing the elk bone Fannie had slipped him.
Fannie had grown fond of the dog after she’d shooed him out of the kitchen and slammed the door a little too quickly, accidentally shearing off most of his tail. After a few choice bones, and a few healthy bowls of cuttings, Poops forgave her. The two were now fast friends. Poops spent most of his days guarding the kitchen service door, while Vanx and Darbon roamed the frozen northern city.
Vanx, Darbon and Poops had been staying at the inn for nearly half a year. Darbon’s facial wounds had been fresh when the ship arrived. His emotional wounds were far more tender, though. His first love, Matty, had been killed by an ogre’s spear, right before his eyes.
Vanx was half-Zythian and might live to be three or four hundred years old, if he didn’t get himself killed first. He was in no real hurry to move on. He was a bard, and the custom at the Iceberg was pleasant and appreciative. The owner wasn’t too demanding, either. Vanx and Darbon spent enough coin on their rooms that Lem couldn’t complain if Vanx only performed on the busier nights. After all, he just played for his supper. Everything else, he paid for.
During his roaming, Vanx had met an old sailor who’d sailed with his infamous father on the
Foamfollower
. He spent a lot of his days buying the crusty seadog drinks down at the Mighty Mackerel while listening to tales of the great trader captain, Marin Saint Elm, and his heathen ship witch.
Vanx had learned a lot. He was content to wait out Darbon’s grief, which finally seemed to be subsiding. For what Vanx intended to undertake in the summer, he needed Darbon clearheaded and healthy. It didn’t hurt that Poops would be almost fully grown by then, too.
“A warm, spring meadow,” the barmaid said as she put down two fresh mugs of ale and took away Vanx and Darbon’s empties.
“Last time you said a field of summer grass,” Darbon snorted. “They are nearly one and the same.”
“No.” The barmaid, a cute, round-faced girl named Salma, touched his nose with a finger, causing him to blush. “They are not the same.”
Vanx shook his head. He thought Darbon was too young to have suffered so much already. The boy couldn’t even tell Salma liked him, despite his scars. Vanx wasn’t sure, but he doubted the boy had seen seventeen summers. Either way, Darbon wasn’t over Matty enough to move along just yet.
Vanx was over fifty years old but didn’t look more than a few years older than Darbon. No one but Darbon knew of his heritage, though. He’d had to tell Skully, the old man who’d sailed with his father, that he was Captain Saint Elm’s grandson, not his son. The old salt had dismissed the relation as doubtful, but as long as Vanx was buying the ale, the stories kept coming.
“A spring meadow is a livelier and lighter shade of green,” Salma was explaining. “Summer grass is dark and thick.” She turned her gaze from Darbon to Vanx. “He is starting to lighten up, I think. It’s as if he’s come to a great decision and the weight of making it suddenly lifted.”
Vanx lifted his brows in surprise and took a long swallow from his fresh mug of ale. “You might be right.” He nodded. “As soon as my friend here says he’s ready to move on, I think we will be on our way.”
Salma looked disturbed by this news, and her eyes shot back and forth between the two men. The smile never left her face, but it changed a bit. It went from genuine and hopeful to forced and unsure. Darbon didn’t notice, but Vanx saw it plainly.
“You’re not leaving for good, are you?” she asked.
“Where are we going?” Darbon turned to face his companion, oblivious of the girl’s reaction.
“Not too far, and not for too long.” Vanx gave her a knowing look that seemed to ease her worry.
“Where?” Darbon asked again.
Vanx was pleased to see eager curiosity in his friend’s countenance. It was a far better sight than the empty pools of grief that had haunted him the last few months.
“We’re going on a hunt.”
“Snow leapers, elk, grizzlies?” Salma asked.
“No, no, no.” Vanx’s smile grew even wider. “We’re going to hunt and kill a shagmarian saber shrew and have a tailor make us garments from its fur.”
Darbon was smiling ear to ear, causing his scars to lose their pinkish color. For a moment, they looked as if they’d been handed down from nature, as if he were some half-beast.
“You’re jesting, right?” Salma asked dubiously. “Even if you find one of the mammoth drift moles, you will never be able to survive its wrath.”
“That’s what makes it such a fitting prey,” Vanx said, feeling his blood begin to tingle with excitement. “Anyone can kill an elk or snow leaper.”
“Never underestimate the wiles of a guy with eyes the color of iced jade,” Darbon told her.
“Oooh, that’s a good one.” Salma smirked. “But you’d better invite me to the spring dance before you go.” She touched Darbon on the nose again. “I doubt you two will be coming back if you run across a real saber shrew.” With that, she whirled away to attend another customer.
“Was she talking to me?” Darbon asked.
For a moment, Vanx thought that the memory of Matty had struck, that the boy would slip back into his grief. The idea of another woman might be a bit much for him just yet. Still, Vanx had to try to coax him out of the slump.
“She was talking to you, Dar. She’s sweet on you, you know?”
“Ya think? Then why is she always talking about your eyes?”
“Yours are usually pointed at your toes, or at the bottom of your cup, and mine… Well, it’s not really a fair thing.” Vanx patted his friend on the shoulder. “Either way, it’s you she’s after. I’d hate for you to break her heart and not take her to the spring dance.”
“That’s over a week away. What about the hunt?”
“We have preparations to make, supplies to gather, and a party to round up. The way I see it, it will take seven, maybe ten men to bring a saber shrew down, and there’s only one man around here who can possibly put us on the track of one.” Vanx shrugged. “I’ve yet to secure Endell’s help, but I think he’ll do it for a fair share of the meat and a few of those golden Parydonian falcons we have left.”
“’Tis true,” Darbon agreed with a chuckle. “He’ll do it for the coin, if he can stay sober long enough to lead us out of the city. You said we are doing this so that we can make coats out of the hide. Where are we going that we’ll need them?”
Vanx had to admire Darbon’s perceptiveness. “I’ll let you know when the time comes, Dar. You may decide you don’t want to go on the greater journey. I might, too, after this trek into the frozen wild. Let’s just say this hunt is sort of a training run, an exploration to see just how inhospitable the land beyond the ice wall really is.”
“It can’t be worse than the Wildwood or Dragon Isle,” Darbon said with a chuckle.
“Never say it can’t be worse, Darbon,” Vanx said. “As soon as you do, it usually gets that way.”
