Through the Wildwood (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 1)

by M. R. Mathias

  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 o
f 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.”

  “’Tis true,” Prince Russet agreed. “You’ll hold your tongues or I’ll cut them out and let the half-breed heathen cook them for his supper.”

  Vanx met Prince Russet’s eyes for a heartbeat. In the silence of the moment, only the sound of the outspoken oarsman’s gulping swallow could be heard. That caused the whole boatload of men to burst out laughing.

  “I left Highlake on my way to Parydon to get my smith’s badge,” Darbon commented. “Now, here I am on my way to an island full of dragons.”

  “Just think, Darby,” Vanx said as he sat down beside his friend, “just last week, you were but a boy and none of us thought we’d make it through the Wildwood.”

  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

  By midday Dyntalla was but a brown smear on the horizon; otherwise, the sky was a blank canvas of bright blue save for one puffy cloud, which lazed seemingly in place even though the breeze was warm and brisk. A flock of gulls squawked and frolicked in the schooner’s wake and the bright sun glittered off the sea. The Sea Hawk slid over the slow-rolling swells and down through the valley-like troughs with grace and agility. The water was a deep cobalt blue, and all morning long, both Trevin and Darbon had been vomiting over the side rail.

  “It will get better,” the deckhand nearest the two said with a three-toothed grin. “About the time we hit Zyth you’ll just be getting used to her.”

  “How long is that?” Trevin managed to ask.

  “About two days, if this wind holds.” The sailor grunted as he hauled up a bucketful of seawater on the end of a rope. “But that’s only iffen we can avoid the tempests.” He sloshed the seawater from his bucket onto the deck between Darbon and the rail, washing away the small puddle of bile the boy had recently heaved forth. “If the tempest gets us,” the deckhand went on, “then we’ll be tossed about mightily, and if lightning don’t get our boom, or set our sails afire, then maybe we’ll not drift too far off course; might make Zyth in a week or two.”

  “Enough,” Captain Willington barked from somewhere. He was a barrel-chested, full-bearded seadog stuffed into the fancy uniform of a royal captain. “Quit scaring the poor landlubbers, Yandi, or I’ll let the heathen feed you to his kin when we get to Zyth.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n Willie,” the man responded over a snort and a few hoots of laughter from his mates.

  “He was just sportin’ with them, Cappy,” another hand said from above. This one had all of his teeth, but was missing the lower half of his left leg. It was no surprise that everyone called him Peg. True to his name, there was a thick wooden dowel booted in rusty iron strapped to his left thigh so that he could walk about.

  When he’d first seen the one-legged seaman, Trevin had wondered what good he’d be at sea. He couldn’t envision a man with a wooden leg being able to keep his balance on a continually moving vessel. He found out how wrong he was when they left Dyntalla Bay and Peg shot up into the rigging like a monkey. The man’s arms were powerful, and he went about pulling lines and unfurling sails better than any man in the rigging. Only moments after that, Trevin found the side rail. Now, several hours later, with Darbon still fatefully at his side, he was feeling no better at all. In fact, he was feeling worse. He couldn’t even manage to thank Captain Willie for calling the annoying deckhand away from them.

  Darbon started to say something, but only groaned into another heave. This time, not even stomach fluids came out of him.

  “Thank old Nepton himself,” Yandi said, trying desperately to contain his mirth. “The lad’s finally empty. The other emptied out half a bell ago.”

  “That means your shift of swabbin’s over, Yan.” The captain looked to be fighting his grin. “Take your bucket and brush down and clean out the prince’s privy. One of these two lost it there before making it to the rail.”

  Yandi let out a grumble of displeasure over his new order, but all that escaped his mouth as he tossed the bucket back overboard was, “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

  The captain leaned over the rail of his slightly elevated steerage deck and looked down at the two seasick men. “Let yourselves heave a time or two more to make sure you’re really out of juice, and then make your way down to your cabin. I’ll have Cookie draw you a cup of stout to help you sleep. When you wake up from that, the misery will be behind you.”

  Trevin tried to thank the captain but only managed to raise his head before the ship lurched. The bow went down sharply and sideways. Trevin gasped and went instantly into another fit of heaving. This time Captain Willie’s laugh wasn’t containable, nor were the hoots from the rigging.

  Below deck, in Prince Russet’s royal cabin, Vanx, Prince Russet, and Sir Earlin were discussing several subjects while sipping fine wine.

  “A dragon killed his brother when we were boys,” Vanx was saying about Zeezle Croyle. “Since then, the study of wyrms has been his passion. He is the only person I know who has ventured to Dragon’s Isle.” Vanx shrugged. “He might be able to help us. I doubt we’ll be able to just walk up and prick a vial of blood from a mature fire wyrm. But you never know, this might not be as hard a quest as it seems.”

  “Good, Vanx,” Prince Russet nodded.

  “I’ll tell you where the big dragons sleep,” Sir Earlin said jovially. He was more than a little drunk. The other two waited, but it became clear that the knight wanted to be prompted before finishing. Finally Prince Russet asked, “Where do those big dragons sleep, then?”

  “Why anywhere they fargin’ well please!” The knight slapped his knee and bellowed out a deep, contagious laugh.

  “Sir Earlin, is this really the time for such jests?” Prince Russet asked after his fit had subsided. “My half-sister’s life hangs in the balance of this endeavor.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” The knight’s smile faded. “But if ever there is a time to make light of life, it’s when you are on the way to an island full of dragons.”

  “Or an island full of man-eating heathens,” Vanx added dryly.

  Prince Russet caught his eye and smiled. “Sorry about that. I was trying to scare the oarsmen.” He shrugged. “I meant no offense.”

  “I took no offense, Majesty, or Highness, or whatever it is I’m supposed to call you.” Vanx returned the somber grin. “The look you put on his face was worth it.”

  “You can call me Russ if the setting is casual, for you are not from Parydon. But in public, Prince, or Prince Russet will suffice.”

  “Do you treat all your slaves with this much consideration?”

  “You’re the first slave who’s ever been in my service, Vanx.” The prince took a sip of wine. “If it were up to me, sir, you would be knighted for the way you selflessly braved into that horde of ogres so that my men might have a chance to break away. And the simple fact that you had no idea that I was the Crown Prince at that time makes the deed all the more extraordinary. Not very many men,” he shook his head apologetically, “or Zythians for that matter, would have done half as much.”

  “Most folk not sworn to protect a liege would have flat-out bolted away,” Sir Earlin said with a look of deep respect. “Only a lunatic or a baresark, or maybe a half-crazed man-eating heathen would have waded in so deep with not a scrap of armor to protect his body.”

  Prince Russet raised his heavy pewter goblet in toast. “To man-eating heathens.”

  “Aye, and to dragon’s blood easily obtained,” Sir Earlin ad
ded.

  Vanx touched cups with them and found himself feeling a little more pride.

  He’d considered leaving this tangled human melodrama behind him back in the Wildwood. He’d survived the slave shackles twice now, and had somehow gotten through the treacherous, ogre-filled forest. Though he could find a hundred reasons to abandon this affair, he hadn’t. He was proud of that, too.

  His moment of self-congratulations was blunted when Prince Russet returned to the table and unrolled an old sheepskin map of the area. The map was centered on the strange spire that Vanx still longed to see. To the far north, the tip of the bitter lands dipped down into the picture. To the west, the Isle of Parydon sat next to the coast of the huge continent the humans had claimed. The northern half of Zyth could be seen at the bottom of the page, but what drew the eye was the ferocious-looking dragon drawn over the landmass east of the spire. Below the artist’s menacing sketch were the words, “Dragons Be Here”, and reading them caused Vanx to reconsider the idea that going there for any reason might be a mistake. Sir Earlin had just described his actions on the edge of the Wildwood as something done by a lunatic. Vanx was starting to wonder if the old knight wasn’t right.

  The Legend of Vanx Malic continues with: Book II – Dragon Isle

  Enjoy this sneak preview of what’s to come.

  The Legend of Vanx Malic

  Book Two — Dragon Isle

  Copyright 2012 © by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.

  All rights reserved

  Chapter One

  Amakra Malic passed away when Vanx was thirty-six years old. She was taken by a merciless wasting disease that was exclusive to those of Zythian blood. It was a sudden thing. One year, she was glowing and full of life; the next she was a withered husk, empty of all but love for her only son. She was young by Zythian standards—barely a hundred years old. Her life had caused a hurricane of emotion to assail the hearts and minds of the Zythian elders, and not just because of her choice of a human mate.