“Come on,” Zeezle ordered. He slung the pack Trevin offered him over his shoulder and started inland, swinging a wide short blade before him to clear a path. Taking loaded crossbows and hip quivers as they passed Sir Earlin, the seamen followed him. Darbon had the long bow so he didn’t take the more powerful, but less accurate weapon the knight offered him, but Trevin took one. Trevin also took the huge two-handed sword they had brought along. Vanx helped him get the over-the-shoulder scabbard rig on and indicated that he’d take up the rear. Vanx had selected a long narrow bladed sword earlier and it was already strapped at his waist. Like Darbon, he preferred the accuracy and range of the long bow over the crossbows power. He knew he could loose three arrows faster than a crossbow could be cocked and reloaded.
Sir Earlin, clad in gauntlets, steel shinned boots, and a knee-length shirt of chainmail took up one of the two huge battle axes. He already had a formable array of weapons strapped to him. Apparently the knight had no use for a bow. Vanx figured that in full armor it was next to impossible to manage one. As an afterthought, as he took up the rear behind the jangling knight, he snatched up the last quiver of arrows. Unlike a sword or an axe, a bow could become no more than a stick if the fighting got heavy and arrows ran short.
The further inland they went, the more hostile the environment became. Insects buzzed and whirred about them in great insistent clouds. More than once a fat reddish-brown spider the size of a man’s hand dropped out of the branches overhead at them. Zeezle said that the spiders were only mildly poisonous, that it was the green scaled snakes that fed on them that you really had to worry about.
The terrain grew denser. If Vanx couldn’t catch the occasional flash of sparkling blue from Zeezle’s gaudy jacket, or the silvery glint of Sir Earlin’s chainmail in front of him, he might have gone mad. The muted browns and tans of the rest of the companions garb was tinted to greenish hues by the suns rays. It all seemed to blend together in a blur. Even with his keener vision, Vanx knew something formable could be hiding right in front of him and he wouldn’t even know it. As if that thought were a warning from the Goddess herself, a roaring screech, like that of a wounded destrier erupted just to his right.
Vanx dove to the soft decaying mulch of the jungle floor just in time. Sir Earlin wasn’t as lucky though. A dark furred beast, roughly the shape and size of a large man swung down from the trees next to them and clubbed his head soundly. By the deep cracking thump of the impact and the way the leafy ground around him was splattered with bloody-gray goo, Vanx had no doubt that the thing had just brained the knight.
Look for:
The Legend of Vanx Malic
Book Two – Dragon Isle
Sometime Before Christmas 2012
Learn more at www.mrmathias.com
While you wait on The Legend of Vanx Malic – Book Two enjoy this short story from The Wardstone Trilogy
ROAR
A Wardstone Short
Copyright 2012 by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.
All rights reserved
The map of the Mainland Kingdoms can be viewed at www.mrmathias.com
Loudin Drake’s horse huffed and pawed at the side of the hard packed dirt road he was lingering beside. He was on the Wildermont side of the Leif Greyn River. It was almost Summer’s Day and the festival grounds, two days to the north, were populating quickly. There were scores and scores of travelers coming through Wildermont’s magnificent capital. People from Dakahn, Westland, and Valleya flooded Castlemont on their way to the annual competition and trade event. Loudin didn’t mind. The roads outside of Castlemont were ripe with opportunity all summer long. He didn’t have to try and find a mark, because there was a line of them slowly trundling past. He did have to keep an eye out for a certain Dakaneese Overlord that was undoubtedly going to be coming through to attend the festival, though.
“Debts unpaid, add up to naught but sleepless nights,” Loudin repeated the saying that one of his ship captains used to spout off to the men.
It was the truth.
This was Loudin’s third Summer’s Day Festival in a row. After several years of marching in Seaward, and a few hundred sea voyages, on a score of different ships, he’d tried to make a go as a gambler in the huge port city of O’Dakahn. He was skilled enough to keep from going hungry. And his tattoos, which covered his whole upper torso, including reaching over his bald head to form the sharp beak of a fierce predator bird at his brow, kept most all of the unsavory gamers at a distance. Tattoo covered Seawardsmen weren’t rare, but all of them, to a man, were fit, trained, and willing to fight. He was suited for a gambler’s life, but the crowded city just didn’t agree with his demeanor.
Even when Loudin won twenty pieces of gold from a merchant in the slave fighting pits, enough to live healthy for half a year, he found he couldn’t stand the crowds and the filth. He’d been squatting at a hidden camp in the Reyhall Forest, just across the river, since the snow melted. He’d been hunting bark skin lizards around the Swell and trading their prized skins in Lokar, and Castlemont, but he’d just been warned that some Westland Lord, or Warden, called Fairchild, had started looking for poachers over there. He wasn’t too concerned about it, but it was one more thing for him to worry about. He didn’t plan on staying in the Reyhall forever, just until after this year’s annual Brawl.
Loudin always had a knack for picking fighters. After seeing this year’s contestant from Valleya destroy a veteran Blacksword Soldier from Xwarda in an exposition bout last night, he was sure the man would win. They called him the Valleyan Stallion. If he bet on the Valleyan to win the whole competition before it even started, he could get three, four, maybe even five coins to one. He had to get to the festival and make his bet before everyone there heard about the big bastard though. The Valleyan fighter was supposedly staying in Castlemont for another five days, so Loudin wasn’t feeling rushed. He still had to come up with some coins to gamble.
Loudin figured that they had to keep the huge man away from the festival, lest the other contestants back out. Once the big Valleyan started pounding his way through the preliminary fights, Loudin knew the wagering would all but stop. Brave men would make excuses, or place wagers against themselves and take the beating. It was the way of things. Luckily for Loudin, he saw exactly what he’d hoped to see. Even better, his mark was already being harassed by some ill kept young sword who had the same sort of idea, but not the where withal to pull it off.
“You’ll be sorry, ya haughty old snoot,” the lad said up to the elderly man and woman riding the bench atop their huge, garishly-painted trade wagon. “There be thieves, bandits, filchers, and worse around here. And that’s just on the road to Summer’s Day. Once you get there, you got the same kind of scavengers from Highwander, and Westland, and Seawa--”
“That’s enough, lad,” Loudin said as his dagger tip found the young man’s throat. In his other hand he’d gathered up the reins of his horse. They were close enough that Loudin smelled radishes mixed with the steamy fear on the young man’s breath. “I won’t have you talking bad about us Seawardsmen like that. If you’d find a wash tub, people might quit thinking you’re a beggar. Now get along.”
One look into Loudin’s cold eyes stole any defiance the would-be camp guard had. He turned swiftly, pulling his juggler out of harm’s way, and dashed his mount south down the road.
“Thank ye, kind sir,” the tinker trader called down. He looked as though he was no more comfortable talking to a trained Seawardsman. “He was a sniffin’ at us all the way in from Low Crossing.”
“He just wants to make a few coins.” Loudin shrugged, showing a bit of distaste in his expression. He was no gentleman, or lord, nor did he desire to be. He’d learned a long time ago, though, that good clean clothes, and a hot bath every now and then can sometimes get you places. He was hoping to get somewhere now, though in a roundabout way.
“He may have been a cretin, but he wasn’t wrong about the festival.” Loudin could tell that these people were se
asoned traders. They were from Dakahn, he decided, from the cut of their clothes, and the size of their wagon full of goods. They knew the Red Wolf guards patrolled the road, and the festival grounds.
“Tis’ true,” the trader nodded. “Last year we had a whole crate full of honey jars snatched right out from under our noses. I could ‘ave made two pieces of gold or traded ‘em for thrice that in wares.”
“’It’s a shame,” Loudin nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’m heading to the festival grounds on the morrow. If you are laying over in Castlemont, maybe we could travel together?”
“Not that a real fighting man wouldn’t be a welcome companion,” the trader’s woman said, “but can I ask why you would bother?” She was old and wrinkled and had a wavy mop of wind riddled red hair.
“My employer has entrusted me with a package to deliver, the sort of parcel that makes a man not eager to travel alone.” Loudin looked left, and then right, making sure that none of the passersby was within earshot. “It’s a sack of coins, for a wager he wants me to place for him. His brother knows a few Lords, and they seem to have the fix in on the Brawl. Folks like you, who earn their living, don’t worry me. And again, to be honest, I can tell by the size of that kettle dangling on the back of your rig, that if I camped alongside at the festival, I wouldn’t be eating jerked meat every night.”
“The fix is in you say?” the trader asked. By the almost desperate hope Loudin heard in the man’s voice, he knew he could set the hook.
“I’m to get my employer no less than two coins to one when I place the wager. I’m hoping to get three to one, so I can have a share.”
“We’ll make High Crossing by dark fall, and camp there,” the trader said, with eyes glazed and glittering with the sparkle of promise. “It would be fine if you shared our stew. In fact, I insist.”
“Oh, no sir,” Loudin answered. “I will catch up to you on the road about midday on the morrow though.”
The trader’s face suddenly looked stricken. He clearly wanted to ask who the wager was to be placed on. Loudin knew this and added to the man’s distress. “I swore an oath to keep my employer’s wager private, so there is no use asking about it.”
For an instant the trader’s face darkened, as if he were trying to reason out whether or not he was the butt of some jest. Loudin relieved his concerns like an old friend.
“Well, even though I can’t tell you, maybe you could watch me. Well... No, I swore not to reveal who the wager is on, so letting you watch me is breaking my word too. I’m no oath breaker.”
“But if I watched you without you knowing?” the trader grinned.
“Bah, Bolly Heath, just have the man place a wager for us,” the woman said as if the both of them were daft. “You’d bet a few coins for us wouldn’t you, sir?”
Loudin couldn’t believe his luck. Not the good luck he was having with these traders, but the bad luck being carried up the road toward him. If he stayed where he was, he’d probably be killed right there. At the very least, these good folk would want no more of him, not after Overlord Perrywyne reminded him of the sizable debt he still owed. If he could just avoid a conflict right here and now he might be able to make enough to clear his debt with Perrywyne, and settle the rest of what he owed as well.
He decided that he needed to go, and excused himself, almost rudely. “I’m late, it just slipped my mind,” Loudin feigned worry over displeasing someone as he turned his horse and shook his head. “I just have to tell her it slipped my mind. I’ll catch up to you on the morrow, Bolly Heath, I will.” He heeled his horse a heartbeat too late to avoid being seen by the large, opulently clad lord. Fortunately, one of the eight slaves carrying his divan stumbled, causing the fat slaver to whip his head around before he could recognize Loudin.
“We’ll be lookin’ for ya,’” the woman called as Bolly urged his horses back underway.
Loudin gave a wave and hurried to get across the road.
***
Overlord Perrywyne didn’t see Loudin Drake, but one of his men did. Loudin, didn’t run, but he did get himself, and the coming confrontation well away from the tinker trader’s wagon.
“STOP!” the Underlord called. Loudin didn’t feel he had a choice. The Underlord had two ornately decorated guards with him. They were wearing cleverly braided leather armor, and holding loaded crossbows. “I’ll have you shafted in the street, man.”
“I was hoping to run into M’Lord Perrywyne at the festival,” Loudin said, turning his horse and grinning. He gave the man a confident, knowing look. “After the Brawl,” he added.
“Ahhh, you’re betting on Ungol then? Who do you favor?” The Underlord was as eager as any wagering man to know what another thought on the Brawl.
“Ungol?” Loudin asked. “From O’Dakahn?” He’d seen the brute bash a few men in the pits there. He was a scrapper, but nothing like the Valleyan Stallion. Not even close.
“In fact, no,” Loudin chuckled as if betting on the pit fighter would be absurd. “I’d bet all I owe Perrywyne, against thrice that amount, that Ungol doesn’t even get to the actual Brawl.”
“Ungol doesn’t have to win the Brawl, just get there, to win your coin?” the Underlord asked.
“Yup,” Loudin regretted agreeing, because this man was about to make the bet for his lord, and Ungol had a fair chance of meeting the Valleyan in the final fighting event. The words were said though, and even though he had no idea where he would come up with four hundred gold pieces if he lost, he felt it was a good wager. It wasn’t like he could come up with the hundred he owed already.
“If you lose, and do not pay, Overlord Perrywyne will pay whatever it takes to have you captured. After that, we will work the full amount, plus the cost of your collection, and interest out of you in the pits. Is that clear?”
“It’s clear,” Loudin growled. “Now I have business to tend so that we might avoid such an outcome. Good day.”
“See you at the festival, Mister Drake,” the Underlord said. “Make certain we do.”
***
Once at the festival grounds and settled, Bolly Heath and his wife Milvred, rounded up coins from a dozen other traders that trusted them. The old tinker handed Loudin a sack heavy with copper, silver, and more than a few gold coins. There was half a hundred gold pieces worth, in all. The problem was, people had already heard about the Valleyan Stallion. The current odds were barely two to one. After tonight’s preliminary bout, they would be even lower, for the Stallion was certain to pulverize the squat grappler from Xwarda he was supposed to fight.
“It’s not a lot then, is it?” Loudin asked, thinking just the opposite. He wasn’t out to rob these people. He was just brokering a wager for them after all. This was far more than he’d hoped to have to work with though. If he just kept betting on the Valleyan at even odds, he could win as much as the other way, but finding even odds would prove hard after this night.
“It’s a fair bit of coin if you ask me, sir Loudin,” Bolly said. “We’re hoping to get two coins to one in return, as you suggested.”
Loudin had faith that he could make enough to cover these folks investment, so he said he would get them their odds and was off. He found a reputable Wildermont gambling pavilion and placed all fifty gold pieces worth of coins, at even odds, on the Valleyan to beat the Xwardian in his first preliminary bought.
“Can’t you tell us who to be rootin’ for?” the trader asked when Loudin returned. Loudin chuckled, realizing these people though he just made a bet on the outcome of the entire competition and didn’t know who he’d taken.
“I can’t say,” Loudin smiled confidently, “But I wouldn’t be cheering for Willa the Witch’s man when the time comes.”
The trader was off then, spreading the word to those who’d trusted him with their earnings. They returned before long with new concerns.
It turned out that there were two Xwardian fighters in the preliminaries. Though the traders knew who not to cheer for, they still had no idea if
it was the Westland Lion, or the Valleyan Stallion who was their man. They knew it had to be one of them, for they were the only two men fighting Xwardians. Loudin, out of sheer meanness, wouldn’t tell them which.
There were two contestants from Westland, one from Wildermont, and a man from Salazar Island that carried ship timbers for a living. Ungol was the only fighter that worried him. If that bastard managed to get in the Brawl, it was all for nothing. Loudin would end up a slave, or have to run for the rest of his life. He could only hope that the second round of preliminaries would match Ungol with the Stallion, or that Ungol was beaten early.
The days passed and the festival grew crowded. There were hundreds of pavilion tents, fold-open wagon displays, and even a score of folk who just laid their wares out on blankets, or in the grass. There were hawkers everywhere. They were selling everything from fresh baked bread, to fantastical potions, to daggers that never needed sharpening. Loudin took it all in and even tried to enjoy himself while he waited on the competitions to commence.
He spent a long afternoon looking at the strange names carved into the base of the towering spike that rose triumphantly up out of the middle of the Leif Greyn Valley. It was a solid piece of black stone that was at least two hundred paces tall. The base had three sides, about twenty paces wide each. It was on those smooth, yet otherwise featureless faces that the names of the champions from the yearly competition had been carved for more years than Loudin cared to imagine. The whole thing tapered slightly as it reached up into the sky. It had to be solid. It didn’t budge and sway when the occasional gust came blasting down out of the mountains, but every banner pole in sight did.
Who could have stood such a monolith, Loudin wondered? The Gods maybe? Or that monstrous dragon they say lives out in the marshes. Whatever the Spire was, it drew the people in each summer. It marked the middle of the sacred Leif Greyn Valley, and the heart of the Summer’s Day Festival, too.
Loudin bought a meat pie and a tankard of ale. He then settled into the shadows not too far from Bolly’s camp. From the distance he watched a lute playing bard, and a pair of tumblers. Neither the catchy songs, nor the comical acrobatic antics could pull his mind from the morrow’s preliminary fights. The Stallion, and Ungol were both to battle, but not each other. Loudin was so concerned about losing his new wager with Overlord Perrywyne that he didn’t even think about the Valleyan’s fight.
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