Through the Wildwood (22 page)

Duke Martin was under the influence of something greater than Coll, though. The two of them had been speaking of the Blood Stone’s power and how to obtain it before the commander had come into the room. The coldness of the way the two men had spoken, and the utter lack of compassion for the lives of those who serve them in their dark bidding, had held Quazar to the peephole. Quazar could tell that Coll was trying to use the duke’s ripe emotion, the shame of his wife’s escapades, to tempt him further down the path of pain and hate. The imminent death of his daughter, and the collapse of his plan to worm his way into the high nobility by marrying off Gallarael, had him seething to regain control of the world around him. What Coll couldn’t see was that there was already a deep emptiness in the duke’s heart. Duke Martin had crossed the point of no return long, long ago. Quazar considered that it might actually be Coll who was being led, not the other way around.

“… can’t believe he so rudely fell asleep like that,” Coll commented softly as he and the duke exited the sitting room.

“The dungeon is available for us to visit, is it not?” the duke asked the guard assigned to him. The man nodded with no change of expression that Quazar could see. “Good. I think I need a word or two with that thieving whore.”

Quazar fidgeted as Commander Aldine’s shadow guard peeked into the room. When the door to the sitting room finally closed, the wizard let out a sigh of relief. With a flourish of his hand and a spoken word, he disappeared from the cubby behind the wall and reappeared in the sitting room. He wasted no time starting what needed to be done. He just feared it was being done too late to save the commander from death.

A dragon hoards its treasure.

A dragon guards its haunts.

Where does a dragon lay its head?

Why anywhere it wants.

– Dragon’s song

T
hey rolled through another gate, this one set into a wall so hidden by the structures built off of its face that it was barely discernible for what it was. The farmsteads and dirt-packed roads had become more frequent and gave way to stable yards, inns, and eventually a shabby, cobbled mercantile district. The glowing windows of the one- and two-story dwellings cast beams of steady yellow lantern light, making it hard for Vanx to see into the shadows. But it didn’t matter. This was where the poor and less fortunate lived, those who toiled for what little coin they had. The hawkers sold plums and apples that Vanx knew were on the verge of rotting. The tavern sold ale so watered that it barely had a scent at all, and the whores, he was certain, were dirty and pocked with sores.

Just as Vanx expected, the world on the other side of the city gate wasn’t much different. People wore plain, roughspun garments just like the farmhands and plowmen at the city’s fringes. But there were others wearing imitation finery, the stuff the wealthier classes expected their servants to wear. Sweat-stained doublets belted over ill-fitting hose. Gowns with hems that were tattered and frayed. There was an occasional well-dressed merchant or land owner conversing with the more respectable whores on lamp-lit corners.

The buildings here were more closely packed. The streets were cobbled and clean and nearly closed in overhead by the jutting balconies on the third and fourth levels.

A well-lit balcony full of lace-pressed cleavage and multi-colored locks held women who giggled and called down to the guardsmen of the escort. Vanx saw that their faces were painted gaudily. These were the whores who didn’t walk the street. A few of the men called back promises, some in lewd detail, of what they would do later when they were free of duty. The other people on the streets averted their eyes and ignored the group as they passed. Their reaction, or lack of it, caused Vanx to wonder if carts full of people in chains were a common sight here.

The road wound around a bend and the old Dyntalla Stronghold rose up before them. The dwellings and the spaces between them became wrought-iron fences with evenly spaced lantern-topped brick posts, probably the homes of minor nobility and the wealthier of the area’s families.

The mercantile district here was free of hawkers. Uniformed men were posted so that one was always within sight. The fineries worn here were not imitation. The tavern rooms boasted minstrels and dancing, and by the smells and sounds spilling forth from their doors, they were serving more wine than ale.

The stronghold itself loomed up before them, looking like so many of Parydon’s castles, all blocky and square at the lower levels, but surrounded by steeply pitched tile roofs and copper-sheeted tower peaks. It wasn’t gloriously illuminated like the palaces Vanx had seen on the Isle of Parydon, but then again this wasn’t another castle down the lane competing for vanity among its rivals. In Dyntalla, there was only one castle, and its iron-bound gates cranked open loudly for them like some hungry, mechanical maw.

The smell of the ocean was strong. The sea breeze was rushing steadily inland. Even as they were taken down into the dungeon, the scent of brine found Vanx’s nose.

Vanx ate ravenously from a dirty wooden platter full of cheese and stale bread. He washed it down with tepid, but clean, water. After that, his chains were removed and he was led to a plain stone room barely four paces long and half as wide. A torch held in the jailor’s hand revealed a semi-clean floor with a dark, dry stain in the middle of it that might have been old blood. Then the door banged closed and a latch was set. The torchlight was reduced to two beams: one that spread through a head-high peep hole, the other a thin, wide, plank—like beam just below waist level.

“Two bells after,” the jailor grumbled. “Rest until then.”

Vanx hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but slumber found him as soon as he settled against the wall. It was a sound, dreamless sleep. Then he was rudely awakened by the loud rasping of his door’s lock being slammed open.

The same torch-bearing man came into the cell.

“Follow me,” the man grunted a chuckle before turning and stalking off.

Vanx was relieved to see Quazar standing with both Darbon and Matty at a rough-hewn archway. They began to descend down a wide, well-worn stairwell that took them, to Vanx’s best estimate, about fifty feet below the level of the streets. They stopped at a landing.

The torch-bearing dungeon guard left them and went back up the stairs. Quazar cast a bright white orb into existence. As they hurried to follow the wizard down a wide tunnel, Vanx wondered how much farther down those stairs went. Neither the torchlight nor the wizard’s bright orb was able to penetrate the depths. The tunnel they were traversing twisted and turned its way through the rock into which it had been hewn. Occasionally, brackish water puddled on the floor for them to splash through. White streaks of salt and mineral deposits marked where seawater trickled in through the crevices. Vanx had the unnerving feeling that they were moving under the sea. He didn’t like the thought and fought to keep his worry at bay. Luckily his concern disappeared when Quazar led them into an open cavern.

A million surfaces caked with salt crystal reflected the wizard’s magical light in a spectacular manner. The whole cavern sparkled and twinkled. Every surface reflected, refracted, or glimmered. Vanx figured it was like being trapped inside a diamond.

“Here is where we part ways,” Quazar said as Trevin stepped out of a side tunnel brandishing a torch, the orange light of which was nearly negated by the sparkling spectacle around them.

“Vanx.” Trevin nodded his greeting with a grim smile. His torch was like a single candle trying to shine in the heart of a roaring bonfire.

“How is Gallarael?” Vanx asked.

“She’s dying, but conscious for the moment,” Trevin answered. “Quazar says he can maybe keep her alive until we return with the fire wyrm’s blood.” He paused. “Gal said thank you for helping get her through the Wildwood. She will tell the archbishop what you and Matty did.” He paused to choke back his grief. “You’ll come with me to fetch the stuff, won’t you, Vanx? I doubt we have enough time.”

Vanx forced a grin. “I will, but there will be more than just one dragon to deal with. I’ve heard from someone who has been there that the island is full of the dangerous bastards.”

“I have heard the same,” added Quazar.

“Let us hurry from here,” Darbon said, taking Matty’s hand and starting toward Trevin. “I want away from the dungeon. This dark place is not right.” He was clearly startled when Matty pulled her hand from his. She hadn’t moved to join them. “What is it?” Darbon turned to her in confusion.

“I’m not going, Darby,” she said plainly. Then she looked to Quazar. “You can keep me hidden for a time?”

“I can try,” Quazar nodded. “I will try.”

She gave the young smith’s apprentice a hug and kiss, then found the shadows behind Quazar to hide her tears. From the darkness she spoke again. “Vanx Malic, you keep him safe. The Goddess commands it.”

Quazar stepped to Vanx’s side and whispered. “He doesn’t know she’s with child,” in a voice so soft Vanx nearly missed it. Then in a normal tone, “Remember to take the dragon’s blood during Aur’s alignment with her stars. It is imperative that this be the case. Samples taken at any other time simply won’t be pure enough.”

The distant sound of boots slapping the wet stone floor and shouting men echoed to their ears.

“We must go,” said Trevin, pulling Darbon along by the sleeve. “Word of your escape from the dungeon has reached the city guard. They’ll be down here looking soon.”

“Goodbye, my Darbon,” Matty called. “Watch over him, Vanx Malic.”

After that, Vanx was scrambling up through a winding tunnel behind Darbon as Trevin led them to their destination. The whole way Matty’s talk of the Goddess, and her commands, and the way her goodbye had sounded so cryptic, filled his thoughts. Before he realized it, they emerged into another cavern. It was far less spectacular than the last one, but no less surprising. This cavern opened up onto the sea, and waiting for them in a fully manned longboat was Prince Russet and a crew of rowers.

“Hurry now,” the prince ordered. “We have to reach the
Sea Hawk
and be out of the bay by dawn.”

“The
Sea Hawk
?” Vanx gave Trevin a questioning look.

“It’s the prince’s schooner.” He shrugged as if there were no way he could explain. “He’s taking us to Dragon’s Isle in it.”

“I usually show up in a place riding in the lap of luxury and leave in chains,” Vanx told the prince as he followed Darbon up the plank that had been set for them. “You’ll forgive me if I’m at a loss for words here.”

“Ha!” Russet Oakarm clapped Vanx on the back and booted the plank board away from the boat. “If you’d stop poking the wives of the lords in the lands you visit, you might leave those places as you came.”

Vanx chuckled but couldn’t say more because Darbon began questioning Trevin about what was going on, and what had transpired over the last few days.

While the seamen rowed them across the moonlit bay, Trevin answered as best as he could.

After reaching Dyntalla, Quazar had taken Gallarael into his tower. There he cast his staying spells on her, and some priests somewhat revived her. While that was going on, Trevin was introduced to Duke Ellmont, and then deposed by the Archbishop of Dyntalla and a flock of his scribes.

Trevin said that Duchess Gallarain had gotten word to Dyntalla through an Orphas. Trevin wasn’t sure if an Orphas was a person or something else. Either way, quite a few charges were being piled against Duke Martin. The duke still hadn’t figured out that he was an uncelled prisoner, now contained by the Dyntalla wall. Trevin had heard that some of the duke’s men were turning on him, and the prince added that his father might possibly be coming to Dyntalla to oversee the process of justice himself.

Matty and Vanx were still considered slaves, and would be until their tales came out and an unbiased ruling could be rendered. Just because the duke was cold-blooded and guilty of many a crime, it still didn’t change the status of those already judged.

“So whose slave am I?” Vanx asked.

“Lucky for you, I’m not married,” Prince Russet chuckled. “For that reason, you are considered to be in my service for the time being.”

“May I speak freely,
Master
?” asked Vanx in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

“I said the kingdom considers you in my service, Vanx. As far as I am concerned, you’re the man who saved half of my crew at the edge of the Wildwood.”

“What about me?” Darbon asked.

“You’ll be a free man once you’ve been questioned by the archbishop.”

“If you live to be questioned is what he means,” Vanx joked. “We have a stop to make on the way to Dragon’s Isle. There’s someone on Zyth that will be able to help us. It’s not out of the way.”

“Don’t fall for it, Highness,” one of the rowers said with conviction in his voice. “If it’s true, if he’s half heathen, he will just turn into a bird, or disappear once we dock.”

Vanx laughed at the absurdity of the sailor’s superstition, but his mirth was cut short by Trevin.

“Watch your tongue, man,” the young guardsman snapped. “This man has gone far and above the call of duty to a kingdom that isn’t even his own. He could have walked away a dozen times over, but hasn’t.”