Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic) (24 page)

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 survived 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.

Chelda might have argued with them but instead moved over to the fire and sat down cross-legged before Eldritch Veritole, just as she’d done a hundred times before. The eldritch motioned for the others to come closer as well and then told his boy to go fetch him a mug of Ord’s dark.

The boy argued, suggesting tea or wine instead, but the look in the old man’s eyes made him give in. The eldritch’s ancient gaze then settled on Chelda, and a warm, pink smile split across his ever-thinning beard.

“Chelda Flar,” he said. “Daughter of Riggaton Murl Flar and Janeva Tynerly. You’ve grown up tall and beautiful, and now you’ve made me feel my age, girl.”

The old man reached out his walking stick and tapped Chelda on the shoulder kindly. “Riggaton Manix told me you went and faced down our Shangelak and that you need a tale from me.” He looked around and harrumphed. He waited until Vanx moved a chair over for Gallarael, and for Xavian to get himself comfortable as well.

The old gargan eyed Vanx and squinted, hiding most of what was in the depths of those sea-blue orbs. He cocked his head curiously and then asked, “Which story do you want to hear?”

“Only the whole one.” Vanx let the old man see into his own well-seasoned visage. “Particularly those parts of it that pertain to the Hoar Witch and the child she left in Orendyn.”

“Well, there is the elaborate version, and then there’s the sum of all the half-truths that I’ve pieced together over the years.”

The old man paused and gave a kindly nod to Chelda. He looked back at Vanx, then continued. “The truth of it isn’t much of a storyteller’s tale, but I’ll tell it.”

The boy returned, and the eldritch took a wooden mug from him. After taking a deep pull, he winced at the bite of the drink and then got right to it.

“Where she came from or why she is still here, none of us can say,” he started. “She’s been around longer than texts and scrolls have been kept, and she has eluded most of those quite well. Before the rise of the Black King and his wizards of the Trigon, she was here. In those days, she was just a fireside tale for our ancestors, but it was a potent one. She opposed the Black King’s rising, and in a way saved this part of the world from falling completely under that particular evil influence. Some say the Parydonians drove the Trigon off, but the truth of it is that it was the Hoar Witch and her ill-formed beasts that caused the Trigon to seek power elsewhere.” He paused and sipped, wincing again before continuing.

“The story of the witch-born captain starts at the very end of all that, I suppose, maybe even a while after. It starts when the priests of Arbor came over to try to spread the seeds and lore of their gods. The forest that they had loved and called home for generations was being timbered for planks and ships’ masts, lodges, and the like, not to mention the war machines the Black King was amassing.

“One particular priest stumbled upon a deep valley in the Lurr. It is a strange place, this valley, because it is always alive and thriving like a normal forest in the spring. There is snow and rain and all of that, but no matter the season out here in the unenchanted world we live in, be it harsh frozen winter or the sticky summer wet, there, it stays in a perpetual state of lush budding growth.

“I think this phenomenon is what drew both our witch and our priest to its depths. It’s hard to say what happened for certain after that. Some would say that Saint Elm claimed the forest as a sanctuary, that he gave his soul to protect it, and that the Hoar Witch imprisoned him and took it. Others would say that she tricked and trapped him by changing herself into a beautiful young woman. And even others would say that she used his heart and stole the lore of Arbor from his mind, so that she could start adding the living trees into the mix of her grotesque creativity.

“She makes her beasts, you know, from a hodgepodge of butchery and dark magic. You’ve only to venture down to the tannery where your Shangelak was skinned this afternoon to see one of them.”

“That was one of her beasts?” Gallarael gasped.

“Of course it was. You don’t think something that heinous could be a creation of Ard or Bone or any of the other gods, do you? That thing had a scaled hide stretched over a large, wolfish torso, and the wings of a white wyvern. No, that was no natural thing. It was born of cruel manipulation and ruthless desire, using potions and the darkest sort of magic. It must have been after one of you, since it braved the relatively populated valley to attack.” His eyes settled on Vanx, but only for a beat or two.