Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic) (17 page)

“Captain, or the leader of the herd,” she explained. “Rammatee is the second in command. The group is called a ramma rabble. They are all here patrolling the borders and trying to make a name for themselves with their deeds.”

“They’ve named themselves after mountain sheep?” Gallarael laughed.

“In its own territory, on the sheer mountainside, the ramma is the most formidable of creatures,” Chelda said. It was obvious by the way she spoke that she was a bit taken by Rammaton Tytak and his ramma rabble. She didn’t seem to know them personally, but her tone, and the reverent way she interacted with the gargan men spoke volumes about how much she admired and respected them. “A ramma can run across an open cliff face and battle an encroaching ramma with speed and dexterity. And after one of them is beaten into submission by the powerful head-butting horns of its opponent, it will still not fall to its death.” Chelda made an elaborate openhanded gesture, only wincing at her healing arm as she did so. “I’m talking about cliff faces that even the greatest climbers would have trouble scaling. I’m talking heights that are unthinkable.”

“The problem with the ramma,” Vanx said quietly to Chelda, “is that they are sometimes too hardheaded and proud to know when to submit.” Vanx’s voice was troubled, but full of determination. “Like I said, Chel, I don’t want to have to kill someone just to cross through these parts, but if it comes down to my life or his, I will survive. He will not.” The conviction in his voice was chilling, even to him, and a line of worry crossed Chelda’s brow.

“If you get the better of him, he will submit,” she said, but the surety in her voice was gone. “What will you fight with?”

“I have no axe, and he’s no doubt bigger and stronger than me, so grappling with short blades would lend greatly to his advantage.” Vanx shrugged. “Swords is my choice.”

“Do you even have a sword?” Chelda asked. “You can use mine, if you need it.” She indicated the ancient Trigon weapon belted around her coat.

“I have a sword,” Vanx said. “And it makes that one you wear seem newly forged.”

Vanx’s sword was wrapped in an oilcloth and hidden in his instrument case under his xuitar. It had been given to him by his mother’s father a few years before they both died of the same wasting disease on the Isle of Zyth. It was a long blade of chromatic spell-forged steel that had been passed down for generations upon generations, and for the long-lived Zythians a single generation could be up to three or four centuries. Vanx used to carry the weapon openly, but after losing it for a short while to the Duke of Highlake, he’d since decided it was wiser to keep the gold-chased, moderately jeweled weapon out of sight unless it was needed. Otherwise, it drew the attention of too many of the wrong sort of people.

When they finally got to the clearing, Vanx shed his pack and his heavy shrew-skin coat. He overheard one of the gargan men commenting on the garment in an awed, respectful sort of way, and it made him smile. His smile faded when he saw Rammaton Tytak’s huge blade. It was as big as Vanx was tall and as wide as his open hand.

The gargan seemed pleased by the sudden look of concern that had come over Vanx.

The other gargans and Vanx’s companions spread out around the clearing’s edge. It was at least twenty paces across and relatively level. A single, low-cut ironwood stump, which had been hollowed out and used as a fire pit, stood near the center of the clearing. It was the only obstacle Vanx could see.

Xavian squatted near where Vanx was opening his instrument case and held Poops as still as he could manage. Gallarael stayed close, too.

“What do we do if you are wounded?” Xavian asked.

“Be ready to fight for your life,” Gallarael whispered. “If a drop of his blood so much as touches the snow, I’ll not be able to contain myself.”

Vanx heard Xavian begin reciting the words to a powerful blasting spell under his breath. “Don’t worry.” He grinned as he produced a long, carefully wrapped bundle. “I’ll not be bleeding today, unless our rammaton is a master bladesman, which, judging by his choice of swords, I’d wager he is not.”

“Don’t be a hero,” Brody called over to Vanx. “Fight a while then submit, and we’ll move on.” Brody couldn’t have heard what Vanx just said, but with his keen Zythian ears Vanx now heard his friend whispering doubts to Chelda.

The big gargan said something aloud and in a mocking tone. Whatever it was caused his men and Chelda to have a good laugh.

“He asked if you’re going to lull him to sleep with a song or come test his skill?”

Vanx thought back to a time when he had been just as overconfident with his fighting ability as this gargan was. A frail old master came in one morning and handily battered and bruised his body, and his pride, with naught but a plain walking stick.

Vanx remembered that lesson well.

He stood and turned to face his huge opponent and pulled the oilcloth free of the sword. The blade was still sheathed, but the jeweled hilt sparkled in the blustery daylight, as if it were illuminated from within.

“Tell him that I will play him a song later.” Vanx’s voice was as loud and full of bravado as the gargan’s had been. “Right now, I’m going to give him a lesson in swordplay that he would be wise to never forget.”

As soon as Chelda translated the words, Vanx unsheathed his blade. Its gleam was like quicksilver, and it drew a gasp from everyone in the clearing, Rammaton Tytak included.

“Tell him, Chel. Tell him that I’ve forgotten more about this kind of thing than he has ever known, and that if he wishes to survive this day, he should remember why the older, wiser ramma keeps his harem, while the young upstart usually wobbles off of the mountainside with naught but wounded pride.”

Tytak let out an angry growl after Chelda translated those words, and then the two men began to circle and close in on each other.

Chapter Eighteen

I cast this wreath into the sea
-to satisfy Nepton.
Shelter well into the depths
those souls you’ve taken on.
-- a prayer to the god of the sea.

The taunting had the effect Vanx intended it to. Not only had he angered and flustered the rammaton, but his confidence gave the bigger man pause. The seed of doubt Vanx had planted, he would now nurture, so that it would ripen, all in hopes of ending this before it got out of hand. Besides all of that, the gargans seemed to like his cockiness. He hoped that it would go far in earning their respect.

Rammaton Tytak came in first with a wide, but not entirely clumsy, swing that Vanx easily avoided. The big man’s blade was so heavy that Vanx had no trouble darting in behind it. He whacked the huge, bare-armed warrior across the biceps with the flat of his slim blade, hard. The resounding pop of metal on flesh made a sound resembling a breaking branch, but drew no blood. Vanx knew that it had to sting, though, and that the man would instinctively think he had been cut. He darted out of range of the rammaton’s sword, forcing his foe to find him again.

Vanx had a determined grin on his face, he knew. He was enjoying this now. He was getting a feel for the rammaton’s skill, or lack thereof. He sidestepped, lunged a jab in, and then kicked away a twisting backstroke. He dove through the rammaton’s legs, then, and rolled to his feet behind him. Half a heartbeat later he had his blade laid against the gargan’s neck from behind. He was hoping that his display of acrobatic dexterity would cause the other man to yield, but he had no such luck.

Rolling away from the edge of Vanx’s blade, the gargan came around and dropped to a knee. Vanx had been extended to keep his tip up along his taller foe’s neck. By the time he adjusted, the heavy sword was cutting at his legs low and surprisingly fast. He did the only thing he could do, which was jump up and hope to clear the cleaving steel. He only managed it by drawing his knees up to his chest, and it was a close thing. He couldn’t counter because he had to work on landing on his feet and keeping his balance.

He saw the angry bright pink stripe he’d put on the gargan’s arm as the man twisted with the momentum of his swing. Vanx nearly broke his ankles for that brief lapse of concentration. He had to drop and roll away to keep from injuring himself, and by the time he was back on his feet and ready, the gargan was already closing in.

Had he not been wearing thick furred britches, he would’ve earned more than the stripe he got across his thigh. It was far wider than the one he’d given the rammaton. As it was, the flat of the heavy blade hit him so hard that it knotted his muscle and nearly snapped the bone in two.

Poops barked savagely at the scene. Vanx saw that it was all Xavian could do to keep him in place. The wizard gave Gallarael a worried look. She had her face buried in Brody’s shoulder and thankfully wasn’t watching the battle. Vanx couldn’t afford the distraction, so he tried to will Poops to be calm and forced it all from his mind.

Vanx didn’t go off into some wild, blood-red rage or get lost in a frantic attack of desperation. Those sort of things only went well in stories, and maybe out on crowded battlefields, where one’s own death was imminent and glory was aplenty. No, Vanx withheld his rage and somersaulted backward, giving himself some space. Only then did he face off with the rammaton again.

Vanx didn’t wait for Rammaton Tytak. He went into a long series of lightning-quick stabbing, slicing, and thrusting attacks that had the bigger man dancing, dodging, and defending with all he had in him. Within a few moments, the gargan was heaving out great roiling clouds of breath, and when Rammaton Tytak saw that Vanx wasn’t even slightly winded, and was in fact grinning broadly and offering a wink of delight, the seeds of doubt Vanx had planted earlier began to grow.

A few quick moves later, Vanx had a lush garden blooming. He went flipping and tumbling around the slogging warrior, and when his blade found the rammaton again, he let the edge of it bite into the flesh. Not deeply, but enough to remind him that, if Vanx had wanted to, he could have taken off a good portion of the arm.

The rammaton, seeing his blood, and on the verge of exhaustion, went into the sort of panicked rage Vanx had avoided only moments ago.

Vanx knew he had to be careful here. One blow from the man’s weapon could cost him a limb or his life. Vanx didn’t try to counter the attack. He concentrated solely on avoiding the wild and savage blows that were coming fast and from every conceivable direction. The big man soon wore himself down, but not before earning Vanx’s full respect. Most well-trained Zythians could have survived that final barrage, but Vanx couldn’t think of a single human swordsman, not even the knights of the Parydon Royal Guard, who could have done as much.

Vanx retreated to the hollowed-out iron oak stump when Rammaton Tytak finally fell to his knees gasping for air. A full pillar of steam was rising from the gargan as he heaved volumes of icy cold air in and out of his lungs.

Vanx told Chelda to ask for his submission. Reluctantly, she did so. After a long, tense locking of eyes, the rammaton looked down at his bloody arm and then drove his blade into the snow-packed ground in front of him. He gave a grudging nod toward Vanx, drew his dagger from his belt, and then proceeded to cut off a lock of his white hair. When he was done, he held it out in offering.

“It’s called a sorethatch,” Chelda explained. “A token of your victory. Take it. I’ll show you how to secure it in a bead. If we come across another ramma rabble, it will keep us from having to prove our worthiness again. It will go far in helping to secure the stock we will buy near Shepherd Springs.”

Vanx came down off the stump and took the strands of hair. The other gargan men gathered round and congratulated him. Rammaton Tytak wasn’t angry, or if he was, he didn’t show it. He had his wind back, he cleaned the blood from his arm with a handful of snow and then ordered his men to build a cook fire in the iron oak stump.

It was still early in the day, and Brody, Gallarael, even Xavian, seemed to want to be moving on their way, but Chelda convinced Vanx that it was wiser to stay and listen to the men, who traveled the higher foothills every day. She wanted to learn the safest route to where they needed to go, and what passes and dangers they should avoid.