Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic) (23 page)

A sorrowful chorus of howling cut through a particular part of the Lurr Forest known as Saint Elm’s Deep. The sound startled a flock of bloated scarlet blood-beaks up from the fairy girl’s corpse in a loud fluttering of wing beats and warning caws. Nearby, another scavenger, a prong-horned fox that had been sleeping off its own bellyful of fairy flesh, bolted away into the depths of the undergrowth. In an instant, a full-blown carrion feast turned into a lonely, grotesque sight. The half-eaten child-sized remains lay all alone on a bed of entrails in a trample of blood-stained snow.

There was no one type of animal howling out; in fact, there was no animal in Aserica Rime’s forest that was simply one type of animal. Most of her children felt the bond-link, and all of those who did felt the loss of Sloffon when he crashed into the ice and died. Even a few of the Lurr’s trees gave voice to their anguish over the loss, though their sorrowful rumble was more felt through the earth than heard.

Clytun roared out in a half-mooing growl that rattled the empty vials and beakers on the Hoar Witch’s brewery shelf. The containers that were not empty were full of green bear bile, or bright yellow fairy urine. There was a tub of deep blue-colored venom, and half a dozen other stoppered jugs and flasks full of fluids and parts. Clay pots of spider eyes, a blend of ground toad guts, and many other horrible-smelling concoctions with unthinkable ingredients lined the shelves as well. There was a small packet of unicorn lashes and even a jar full of fermented dwarf vomit. All of these, save for the thickest of her brews, rippled with the strength of the minotaur’s anguished roar.

Aserica Rime let out a high-pitched cackling peal herself. Anyone not sharing her tainted bond-link might have mistaken it for a manic laugh, but the creatures of her forest knew it was filled with pain. The Hoar Witch’s mourning cackle died into a snarl of anger, while the others, both inside her crystal palace and out, went on voicing their grief. She’d lost quite a few of her children over the years, and losing them never got easier. The pain of their deaths was intense at first, but unlike the earlier ones, she had calloused herself from the lingering effects of such a loss. She let the fact that Sloffon had taken out one of the warlock’s party form a scab over the open wound his death left inside her. Once that was done, she continued to scheme and plan.

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 defiant-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.