Darbon watched Vanx go curiously then called for a round of ale and put his hand on the wizard’s shoulder. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spell that could help me learn to dance in the next few hours, would you?”
Only after Xavian realized that the boy had been serious, and was now blushing furiously, did he stop laughing and shake his head in the negative.
*
“You think he’ll burn us for the five?” Darbon asked Vanx a little later. He was standing before a full dressing mirror trying to work out how to tie the ruffled kerchief round his neck in a way that didn’t make him feel as if he were suffocating.
“Nah, nah, nah,” Vanx answered in an aggravated tone from the other side of the room. Apparently, he was struggling with his own clothes. “To the depths of Nepton’s bowels with this thing,” he cursed and tossed his own frilly necktie across the room. Poops darted off of one of the feather beds after it. A moment later, the dog was growling and shaking it violently.
“Good boy, Poops,” Darbon said, and threw his uncomfortable neck piece in that direction too.
Poops dropped Vanx’s tie and caught Darbon’s from the air, then attacked it with the same mock savagery. All the while, the thumb-sized nub of his tail was sticking up in the air, wiggling excitedly.
“What are those for anyway?” Vanx asked.
“I grew up as a smith’s apprentice, Vanx. How would I know?” Darbon chuckled. “Back in Highlake, my kind of people were lucky to have a clean, roughspun jerkin to pull over us for a festival.”
“Whatever it is, Poops saved us from it, and now we have an excuse to go without them.”
“I think we look better without them anyway.”
“Aye,” Vanx agreed. “Are you ready for this?”
Darbon knew Vanx’s question pertained to far more than just the moment, or even the coming evening. He wasn’t sure if he was ready or not, but he kept thinking back to something Vanx’s full-blooded Zythian friend Zeezle once said. “Sometimes you just have to let go and hope that the fall doesn’t kill you.”
Darbon was about to let go of something inside himself, and he was fairly certain he would survive the fall, but he knew it would be a rough landing, no matter what. Matty’s last words to him, her dying words, had been, “Love somebody, Dar.”
He wasn’t sure he was ready to love somebody else yet, but he was ready to crawl out of the hole in which he’d been. Salma’s cute, chubby-cheeked smile, and her straightforward openness, was a big part of why.
“I hope so,” Darbon finally answered. “At the moment, though, I’m more worried about tripping over my own feet and making an arse of myself out there on the hardwood floor they erected in the square.”
“Just dance beside me, Darby.” Vanx grinned. “You’ll look as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I’ve played a thousand jigs and ballads. I’ve watched ten times as many drunkards and couples dance in the bars and taverns of Parydon, but this will be the first time I’ve tried to dance myself.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.” Darbon gave each of his sleeve cuffs a yank in turn. “At least you’ve got a bit of rhythm about you.”
“You’ll be fine, Dar.” Vanx pulled the door and offered Darbon the opening with an exaggerated flourish. “After you.”
Darbon strolled out with a nervous look on his face, and Vanx had to hurry out to keep Poops from getting loose in the hall. He did stop and turn with the door opened just enough for Darbon to see in.
“Stay here and guard our things, Sir Poopsalot.”
The dog whined sadly.
Darbon saw that Vanx was about to change his mind about bringing Poops to the festival.
“I’ll have Fannie come up and get you after a bit,” Vanx finally said. “She’ll make sure you get a good slab of elk meat for supper.”
Either mollified or angry, Poops gave a short snort then went back to thrashing the frilly neckties on the floor.
*
Any awkwardness Darbon was feeling was quickly washed away by Salma in her beautiful ice-blue gown. The way it fit her generously curved body and highlighted her smoky gray eyes, and the way the tumble of ringlets her hair had been piled into cascaded down around her pink, rosy cheeks, captivated him. Darbon spent the evening lost in her smile. Amazingly, he kept his gaze on her eyes, instead of on the not-so-modest amount of cleavage her gown so cleverly left exposed.
They danced to the lively music and laughed and soon became lost in the wonder of the night. Multicolored orb lights, flittering silver ribbons, and huge bonfires had transformed the normally dirty, snowy, city square into a sparkling fairy world, where even the fog of one’s breath found a way to glow with the myriad colors.
It wasn’t hard for them to feel as if it had all been laid out for them, as if they were the king and queen of some frigid yet spectacular kingdom full of nothing but pastel merriment and lighthearted glee.
Vanx did some squatting, leg-kicking dance, where he flapped his arms like a duck and seemed on the verge of falling over every other move. Everyone thought it was funny. After laughing so hard that they both nearly burst the seams of their fancy attire, Salma finally dragged Darbon off of the huge planked-wood platform.
Darbon followed her like an obedient whelp, lagging only to snatch a pair of tin snifters full of brandy from a passing servant’s platter. Salma let loose of him long enough for him to drop two coppers in the angry woman’s outstretched hand. After they each downed their drink, she took his tin, tossed them both, and yanked him back on their way.
They left the crowded area of the city square and made several turns and twists through the unfamiliar orb-lit streets. Darbon couldn’t believe a place that by daylight seemed so filthy and dank, because every open space was more or less covered by grime-packed snow, could be so completely transformed. A few colored orbs hanging from the lamp poles and upper balconies, and all the glittering silver streamers floating everywhere else, had done the trick, though. It was bewildering, and Darbon suddenly realized that he had no idea where in Orendyn he was. He didn’t grow alarmed, though. Salma knew where they were going, and Darbon had a strong feeling that he wouldn’t be displeased when they got there.
Suddenly, Salma shrieked out and slung Darbon into the darkened opening of some sort of stable house. Before Darbon could react, she tackled him. He felt a soft pile of straw cushion his tumble and momentarily smelled the musky, but not unpleasant, smell of some sort of livestock. Then, Salma was in his face, her lips, her apple blossom scent, and those hungry gray eyes. She began kissing him insistently and murmuring into his ear while fumbling at her bodice to free her breasts.
Darbon was overwhelmed, and he allowed himself to stay that way. Only for one fleeting moment did Matty cross his mind. He didn’t even pause, though, for the image of her that he saw in his mind’s eye was Matty looking down upon them with an approving smile on her face.
After that, Darbon began to return the passion Salma was pouring over him. Ultimately, these new feelings washed away the sorrow and grief. Darbon found that this torrential downpour of hot, sweet emotion could only be described by one word: bliss.
Chapter Five
That white haired witch,
in her icy northern hole
is the reason there’s no warmth,
in the Bitterland Holds.
-- Frosted Soul
It was the third night of the grand saber shrew expedition, and all the members not native to the Bitterlands, or used to the tundra, were learning a completely new definition of the word cold.
The sun had just gone down, taking its warmth with it. The horizon was still afire with color, as if some godly artist had poured all of his oranges, pinks and reds into a smear over a deep blue canvas. Everything else was a blur of grays, lighter grays and white, save for the faces huddled at the fire, which were chapped cherry pink.
“It’s-it’s-it’s so co-cold,” Darbon chattered from a blanket-formed shrou
d, where he was huddled near the three-legged iron pot that served as the camp’s fire pit. “My-my piss froze on th-the way da-down to the snow and broke into pa-pa-pieces when it ha-hit.”
Chelda snorted out a laugh. “By cycle and berg, boy, its spring. If you want cold, come out here in the heart of winter, when the days are shorter than a four-legged knight’s tail.”
“She’s right, Darbon,” Endell said. He seemed to be quite intelligent and capable out here. At least it appeared that all the liquor he’d drunk over the last few months was working its way out of his system. He still looked the part of a struggling Orendyn drunkard, with matted hair, unkempt clothing, and an unshaven face. His tattered buckskin coat and his worn, elk-hide britches looked to be as thin as silken nightclothes in some places, but he was confident and sure with his decisions. “It’s not even blow’n yet,” he went on. “Some of the winds I seen is full of ice, and it blows so hard it’ll scour your skin like barrel-sand does chain mail.” He gestured to where the Skmoes had erected their sealskin tent at the edge of the fire’s light. “Look at Skog.”
Skog the skog was there struggling with some task or another. His slick bald head, and the balls of his shirtless shoulders, were glazed with sweat. A cloud of steam rose off his body, as if he were on fire.
“It’s not too ca-cold yet, Darbon,” Brody chimed in. “It’ll be cold on the morrow, when we round tha-that ridge and it is no longer a’tween us and the-the wind.”
“I can hardly wait,” Darbon grumbled. Unlike some of these people, he had a warm, soft body he could be curled up against back in Orendyn. How the Skmoes, Chelda, and the tracker could stand it, he couldn’t fathom. Skog the skog didn’t even have a shirt on.
At least Brody and Smythe had the decency to shiver and chatter the way normal humans should. The fact that Vanx hid his discomfort better than he did didn’t fool Darbon. No matter how well Vanx bundled, Darbon could tell his half-Zythian friend wasn’t at ease out here, either.
Poops, though, was like the Skmoes. The dog’s sealskin body vest and soft drawstring paw-boots seemed to keep him plenty warm. He spent the days hopping and leaping through the drifts alongside the sleds, seemingly oblivious to the climate. The dislike of the big, shaggy haulkattens that he displayed on the first day was gone. Maybe they’d come to some sort of animalistic agreement? Darbon couldn’t say, but now the worn-out young dog was nestled amongst the big cats and sleeping soundly.
At least Poops is warm. Darbon wiggled to fit the woolen blanket tighter around his shoulders.
The sound of footsteps crunching on snow came up from behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know that it was Vanx. Xavian wouldn’t leave the cozy confines of his magically heated tent unless they were on the move, and Vanx had gone in it a while ago. His return was expected.
“What does our esteemed warlock have to say about it?” Endell asked.
Chelda and Brody both looked up to hear Vanx’s reply.
“You are correct, my friend,” Vanx answered. “There is an old hollow under the foot of the ridge, but he says it’s empty, at least for the moment. He thinks that one or more of ‘em is using it for a reclusion, that it feeds elsewhere.”
“Hah!” Endell blurted out with a mystified grin of grudging respect. The steam from his breath caught the color of the flames and roiled into a flickering cloud all around his head. “He’s no fraud, that one. Though I’ve no idea what in the seven hells a reclusion is. This shre—”
“A place to rest, a den, or the like,” Chelda said.
Endell rubbed his unshaved chin and took that in before continuing. “Our shrew would likely hunt the open expanses beyond the ridge. We’re still sort of close to the settlements outside the ice wall here, though. Despite what people say, those fargin big moles would rather dine on a fat leaper or a grizzly than the lot of us. Its prey is too canny to linger. They do little more than pass swiftly through these often-hunted parts.”
“So what do you suggest?” Vanx asked.
“Go around the ridge in the morning and find us a niche where the snow is too shallow for something hungry to get under us. I’d like us to get there as quickly as possible and make a real camp.”
“What about the wind?” Brody asked.
Darbon pulled his head out from under his blanket to hear the answer.
“We make a wall of blocks of snow,” Chelda said, as if it were obvious. “After one night, it will look just like another drift from the tundra side, and I know how to use the ropes and tarps to close the top off without getting us buried in a collapse.”
“We’d b-b-be in a blo-block of ice our-ourselves,” Darbon protested.
“It’ll be far warmer than it is here or out in the open tundra, I assure you,” she told him with a little less cockiness in her voice. “Trust me, boss. You would rather be under a few feet of loose windblown than in the belly of a hungry frost-wing.”
Darbon nodded and sank back into his woolen shroud. She was right about that.
*
“So that’s the p-p-plan for the morrow, then?” Vanx asked. He had more to say but didn’t want to chatter on like Darbon and the others. It wasn’t that cold. He turned and made his way back to the tent he and Darbon shared. The warmth he absorbed while speaking to Xavian was seeping away. He wasn’t as comfortable out here after being in the exceptionally warm tent, but he knew he could manage it. There was something else bothering Vanx, some uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t explain. It was a sensation he had maybe dreamt about, or had felt in his earlier youth, and had long forgotten. It was as unsettling as it was familiar, and it had grown stronger the farther he went from Orendyn, or more likely, the closer he got to the thing of which the old sailor had told him.
He had to tell himself to quit being foolish. The Hoar Witch wasn’t real. It was just another of the dozens of tales that revolved around his father, Captain Saint Elm. He shivered as he walked away and found himself thankful for the frigid temperatures, for it made the worrisome feelings plaguing him that much easier to hide from the others.
He decided to speak to Darbon about it, but that could wait until they had a safe shelter and were settled. Tonight, he just wanted to rest. Hopefully he would wake and the feeling would be gone, but deep down inside he knew it wouldn’t be.
*
The next day started well. Camp broke quickly, and they were soon underway with bellies full of hot apple oats and cinnamon brew. Endell and Xavian rode the only big haulkat that wasn’t pulling a sled. They led the group, moving slowly and carefully, searching for hollows, tunnels and open fractures in the snow field with both the tracker’s experienced eyes and Xavian’s magic.
The Skmoes rode the heavily laden sled behind them, while Skog rode the haulkatten that was pulling it. The cat didn’t need anyone to steer it along. It would mindlessly follow whatever was in front of it, but the Skmoes insisted, saying something about Skog’s ripe scent.
Behind them, a riderless haulkatten pulled the next sled. Brody and Smythe sat on its lidded toolbox at the back, Brody with a loaded crossbow in his lap, Smythe huddled in a miserable heap beside him.
Bringing up the rear was the sled hauling Vanx, Darbon and Chelda. While Vanx and Darbon sat on the bench seat as if they were driving the thing, Chelda rode facing backward on a high, throne-like seat formed of packs and blankets. Like Brody, she also had a loaded crossbow resting on her lap. After first break, it would be Darbon’s time for rearguard duty.
The day was clear and comparatively mild, but it was still cold. Darbon and Smythe could attest to it in great lengths of incomprehensible chattering, but the sun’s rays made it bearable. The sky was open, an endless expanse. Other than the dark pockets of brown and gray, which marked the rocky base of the ridge they were about to skirt around, the rest of the world was the purest white.
It was just about time to stop for first break. The haulkattens had to be fed and rested twice during each hauling day. The big cats liv
ed on ground fish and oats. It was a dry, powdery stuff called fishmeal, and they burned it off quickly out here working in the cold. Nearly half of all the supplies they were carrying were forty-pound sacks of the stuff.
No one thought to be alarmed when Xavian raised his head high and called for a halt. They all figured they were stopping for the morning break. Darbon, though, figured it had to be more than that.
“Something is wrong,” he said to Vanx, throwing off his blanket and grabbing the long bow and quiver he had stashed there.
“He’s calling the break,” Vanx said.
“No. The wizard doesn’t have a clue about the cat’s needs.” Darbon slipped the bow string in place and nocked an arrow.
Just as Vanx realized that Darbon was right, both Xavian and Chelda yelled out over each other.
“I feel something ill,” called the wizard.
“Frost-wings!” Chelda yelled loud enough to mostly drown him out. “Three of them from the southeast.”
A mad scramble ensued, and if it weren’t for the cool and unruffled experience of the twin Skmoes, Skog, and Endell, the haulkattens would have bolted and scattered their supplies.
Inda, or maybe Anda—it was hard to say which—bolted to Vanx and Darbon’s cat; his brother went to the Parydonian’s. One of them grabbed the reins of their employer’s beast in hand, while Skog kept control of the one he was riding.
Poops caught the anxiety of his friends and began barking excitedly. Vanx and Darbon were both looking frantically for the approaching predator birds. Neither of them could figure out which direction was southeast, because the sun was almost directly overhead, and there were no real landmarks.
Finally, Vanx found them and pointed.
Following his finger, Darbon spotted them.
“Get the sleds closer together,” Brody ordered in a clear, yet clipped fashion. “Archers, form a circle around them.” Then a little quieter, he said, “Smythe, get my bow for me, and be certain to bring the shafts we sharpened first.”
Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 3) Page 3
