The Far Side of Creation (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 7)

by M. R. Mathias

  It could be years before Vanx came, but she could survive in this environment for that long, and since she knew she could, she was going to thrive.

  Chelda banged the bloody axe she held against her chest, and said plainly, “Single out all the ones with the madness and end them.” Chelda’s coldness surprised even her. “They’ve eaten the flesh of the dazed, and they must be killed.”

  Somewhere behind the two dozen faces she saw looking at her, from a safe distance away, a girl wailed, as if her mother or sister might be one of the infected.

  Chelda ignored the crying and kept the largest heap of stinking corpses at her back. She put a crude stool, made of bones and gut wrappings, in a position between it and the fire, so she could defend herself.

  Chelda had no choice but to shrug away her emotion. “You just better hope my friend Vanxy doesn't take too long.” She reached over and turned the spit a little more. “Or I’ll eat every fargin’ one of ya.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Somedays you are the wolf.

  Somedays you are the sheep.

  When you’re the wolf the night is wild.

  When you’re the sheep, it’s hard to sleep.

  Zeezle arrived in the hanging cage via teleportation. The three trigon soldiers escorting him pushed him out of the smaller cage they’d all appeared in, shut the gate, and then disappeared behind him.

  He jabbed his finger into the eye socket of the one filthy man who tried to stall him, and then kept about his business. He was inside the cage full of grubby, malnourished humans for only a few moments longer, for he was already off of the floor and climbing.

  It wasn’t hard to escape, not for one as agile as he. Using two separate bars to shimmy between, he climbed forty feet up and then slid through a slight gap in the containment, where every other bar had been left out to accommodate the narrowing of the cage’s top. The size of the grimy anchor chain that held the thing over the great triangular park below was amazing. Just the hole in each buzzard-shit-covered link was as tall and big around as he was. But it was the view from the top of the massive, cantilevered beam holding it all up that stole all his thoughts from him, once he’d climbed that far up.

  The Paragon’s citadel was just a small part of the huge continent of Harthgar, though he knew there were other Trigon strongholds spread across the land. Port Harthgar was where Zeezle figured they were now. Out in all that crowded, chaotic mass of structures and beings, there were guilds and secret societies that had kept the Trigon in check for eons. It was all about supply and demand, he understood. That is why the Trigon wanted Orendyn, Dyntalla and Zyth. The resources would feed this monstrosity of human filth until—Zeezle shook his head. He didn’t hate humans. In fact, he knew a few for which he cared deeply. But the majority of them were just all farked up.

  The harbor, a place of great infamy, and the backdrop of many a ballad, was cut deep into the land. After studying it for a while, he knew beyond doubt they were near Port Harthgar. Zeezle could make out the docks, and ships in the far distance, and knew that all that space between was filled with dwellings, cattle pens, and fair-like merchant markets. There was enough filth down there to kill a forest, and the only time there was fresh air, he’d heard, was when the wind whipped in off of the sea. The way the land slowly fell toward the water was like a finger pushing into a soft pillow. There were ripples of land that forced ships to traverse a course of snaking, river-like channels to get inside the bay, but once a ship was in, it would be safe from all but the most powerful storms. Not even the shelter of Port Lavern in Zyth could offer more protection from the wrath of Nepton.

  Zeezle wondered if there really was a giant octerror out in that calm water, controlled by a ring the Harbor Master wore. The pirates who came to Flotsam, and the Zythians who had been here before him, had said there was, but none had ever seen it firsthand.

  He shook his head, for someone down in the market had pointed him out standing atop the beam, and now there was a crowd gathering and calling up. He scanned the area for any sign of Kelse, but only after he reached out to her in the ethereal did he figure out where he should be looking.

  He saw her then, roped and staked down before the Paragon’s magically relocatable court throne. There were winged things coming his way now, too, having been alerted by the idiots below. Zeezle, being full-blooded Zythian, was spellwise, and had earned his name creeping around the scariest places the other side of the world had to offer.

  He’d spent three years living on Dragon Isle, and that was before Vanx had charmed Pyra. If he could survive on an island full of dragons, he could survive anything. At least, that was what he was trying to make himself believe as he followed his instinct. He took three steps back, then ran and leapt headlong off his perch into a dive. He only hoped he had gained enough momentum to keep from hitting the side of the cage as he went past it.

  To the disappointment of the crowd below, he didn’t go straight down. Through a spell, one he’d only cast once before, he took on the traits of a forest creature he was familiar with. He was lucky he was naked. There were no clothes to restrict the spell’s sudden forming of a magically fortified webbing. It grew out of his armpits, ribs, and along his arms and legs. It grew between his legs, too, and up behind his ears, stretching to his shoulders. As he forced himself to look into the rushing air, he reached his appendages out wide and used his new skin to guide his streaking fall.

  A moment later, he found himself flashing right past a few of the pruned wyrms. He felt he looked like some mannish, flying squirrel, launched like a spear at the unsuspecting Paragon Dracus and the mighty green dragon he’d come to love.

  Kelse had been spelled so that she couldn’t defend herself. She’d been prodded, zapped, scorched, and poked for long hours, the entirety of the time she’d been there. Her wings had been twisted to the point of breaking, but no farther, yet. She refused to give in to the nasty, powerful thing before her. She’d been alive for several hundred years, and had been wary of the Trigon’s power all of her life, but none of the dragons from her side of the world had really known that a being had been torturing teardrops, and the great power of dragon dour that came with them, out of wyrms he was breeding.

  At least not until Vanx exposed him as the singular force behind the Trigon. If Kelse survived, all of dragonkind would know of this atrocity.

  It had to end.

  Now she was before the Paragon Dracus, on the wide-open expanse between the populace and the Trigon citadel’s outer wall, and she knew he wouldn’t be as easy on her as his underlings had been. They were only making her sore, so that what was about to come would hurt all the worse.

  “You’ve not broken.” When the Paragon Dracus stepped from the throne dais, he shifted from a giant kingish looking man into his most dragonly form, reared his spike-maned head back, and roared.

  There were hundreds of winged Trigon beasts, some with riders, others without, hovering in the air around them. People on the ground, the dazed and undazed alike, all stopped what they were doing. More were braving the open apron of firebrick to get a look. A few taller tree elves and their escort even pushed some commoners aside to get a better view.

  There was nothing Kelse could do but muster the courage to keep from shedding a tear while the Paragon Dracus tortured and killed her before them all.

  His clawed foot found the side of her head. “I know what it will take to make your ducts yield, you stupid winged snake, for this is what I do.”

  Neversss, Kelse voiced her response into the ethereal, for her snout was forced shut by his weight.

  “Oh, I disagree,” the Paragon chuckled. “Your Phenzythian companion is here now.”

  The massive blue thing turned and jumped, using Kelse’s snout to push off with. The terrible creature grabbed Zeezle right out of his streaking dive, as if he were a sparrow, or a thrown ball.

  “You will shed a tear when you see what I do to him.” The Paragon opened his grip and reached his hand d
own so that Kelse could see.

  Zeezle coughed and wheezed, for the breath had been squeezed out of him. There was blood dripping from his ears, and he looked to her to be badly wounded.

  Kelse could do nothing, not even stop the pooling dour in her eyelids, when that fist full of claws closed back over him, and Zeezle started to scream.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There is a place of total peace,

  so pleasant and divine.

  But it’s no destination,

  it’s in the depths of your own mind.

  When Vanx learned that Gallarael was alive, he broke down in tears. It turned out that the terrible howl Moonsy had let loose wasn’t because Gallarael had been killed. When she saw Gal, after the Paragon had crushed her in his grasp, she was mangled, not dead, but she’d known Gal was pregnant, and after she jabbed her with the glaive, the child’s life blood had spilled from her thighs. Vanx had heard Moonsy as he was pulling the Paragon Dracus into the Octron tower, or just before. And he’d assumed the worst.

  To know Gal was in Orendyn visiting Darbon and Salma, far away from this nightmare, gave him hope. He was overcome with a sense of relief like no other he’d ever felt. He’d thought her dead, and Pyra hadn’t really brought up this side of creation, even though she’d had to have read his concern when she’d read his thoughts. He couldn’t be mad at Pyra for leaving his personal life out of their conversations. Maybe she’d stayed out of the emotional parts of his mind.

  No matter how glad he was that Gal was alive and well, he still wasn’t feeling great about the situation at hand. Zeezle, Chelda and the mighty green wyrm Kelse were the Paragon’s prisoners, or worse, and all Vanx had was a dragon and a plan.

  Moonsy was raging, over in a rocky field, taking her anger out on the Troika Sven, the seven elder elves who made the decisions for the fae until their baby king, Chervil Longroot, matured. The Troika was not visible to those gathered on Dragon Isle, and Moonsy was throwing her hands around as she argued, with seemingly nothing but the air around her.

  More than once, Vanx had to fight back a laugh.

  Moonsy wanted to go back through with him. Chelda was her lover, but of course the Troika Sven wouldn’t allow it. Moonsy was also General Gloryvine Moonseed, Chief Protector of the King, and she had to follow orders. She had more duties than anyone Vanx knew.

  Her skill, and the healing power of her blade, the Glaive of Gladiolus, was a welcome addition to any party, but this time Vanx agreed with the elves. He deemed it best that she stay behind, and hold her post, just as General Foxwise Posey-Thorn would have done. Though he’d have hated it, too. Moonsy had ignored Vanx’s decision a while ago, and started the argument with the Troika Sven that was still going on.

  Two Parydon archers, heavily loaded with tied bundles of silver-dipped Heart Tree arrows, accompanied a Zythian warrior named Pexicon Croyle. “Pex,” he said was his nickname, had come to guard Master Ruuk, one of the younger, craftier, Zythian wizards. Master Ruuk was the one who’d teleported them all to the island from Saint Elm’s Deep, with Moonsy and a handful of elves and fae.

  Vanx’s notion, with Pyra’s help, had become a real plan, but Vanx was little help when it came to digging through her hoard looking for one particular item. Eventually she found it, and gingerly handed it to Vanx with one of her claws. It was heavy and he had to admit that the few symbols etched into the jewel-encrusted sides of the hammerhead, that he recognized, were of an arcane nature he didn’t understand. Vanx didn’t test it in his grip, though. The belt hook was attached to the handle, so he clipped it right to his sword belt, and let it hang.

  Many of the dragons, now fully aware of what was happening to their kindred, were more than happy to lend their might. A few were Pyra’s suitors, others just curious, intelligent wyrms, tired of clinging to Dragon Isle, and finally enraged enough, by the treatment of their kind, to try to do something about it. More than a few of the smaller wyrms joining them, however, were just so afraid of the fire queen that they blindly did as she bade.

  It was time to go, but Moonsy was still going at it with her leaders through the ethereal. She looked like a ranting loon, but she finally threw up her hands and heaved away her argument. She then turned and faced Vanx. She was just over waist-high to his man-sized frame, and she had to make more strides to get there, so her stalking, almost comical, approach made her appear to be charging him, which she might have been. When she was right there in front of him, she craned her head back, glaring daggers up into his eyes. Then she snarled. She was beautiful, despite her anger, and Vanx saw something he’d never noticed before. He saw a bit of Foxwise Posey-Thorn in her.

  “You either bring my Chelda back home, or stay gone for good.” The force with which her sheathed sword hit his chest was enough to make him take a step back.

  It was the Glaive of Gladiolus.

  She’d just given him the most powerful tool the fae had. Even though it looked more like a dagger than a sword in his hand, he welcomed the gift.

  “I’ll be bringing her back, Moonsy,” Vanx promised. “No matter how it goes.” He fixed the elven blade to his belt, right beside the clip dangling the heavy war hammer. “I love her, too.”

  Moonsy’s angry glare lightened a bit, but the frustrated elf just stomped away, stopping only to give orders to the few elves and fae that were coming with them.

  “Are we really riding those things?” one of the kingdom archers asked Vanx dubiously, his eyes betraying more than a little fear.

  “It will be okay.” Vanx showed him, on the thirty-pace-long, deep blue, wyrm that was nearest them, where he would sit. “It is a privilege to fly with the great wyrms, friend. They will keep you in range, and defend you with their magic, and even tooth and claw, if need be. And the ride is far smoother than the best trained horse.”

  “Let’s be doing this, then.” The man stepped ahead, and took a moment to look the wyrm in the eye, mastering his fear as he did so. He ran his hand down the dragon’s neck, then used the offered foreclaw as a step to get himself seated. He situated himself so that he could use his bow, just as his Parydonian companion was doing on a slightly smaller red-scaled wyrm.

  A pair of small, fluttering fairies flew close, then they split and eased up to each of the men. Vanx had to laugh, because the humans looked just as afraid of the foot-tall fairies, and finger sized sprites, as they did the huge dragons.

  “These little guys will be able to turn that blue phlegm into fluff before it gets you.” Vanx raised his arm, showing his silver-dipped Heart Tree bracelet. “You have your Heart Tree clippings? It will save you from the daze. DO NOT lose your Heart Tree cutting.”

  “They’ve all been fighting in Orendyn, or Flotsam, Master Vanx. They know the routine,” Pex said from the side of a sky-blue wyrm. He was helping Master Ruuk get situated on the anxious dragon. “They speak of you as a legend at home now.”

  “Why?” Vanx saw that the two Zythians were going to be on the same wyrm and had a tiny sprite coming to help keep the muck off of them.

  “I guess because you’ve done legendary things,” the Zythian finally answered.

  “It is because he is one of a kind,” Master Ruuk said flatly. “There is not one single other being alive who is half Zythian and half human.”

  “I don’t even know my own true name,” Vanx shrugged.

  “Oh, I bet you know it deep down inside,” the Zythian wizard gave him a nod of confidence. Vanx remembered a time, years ago, when Ruuk had remarked on him being “of mucked blood.” The fact that the man was now about to face death on the other side of the world with him wasn’t lost, so the nod meant a little more. So did the grin of camaraderie they shared.

  Vanx chuckled. Those boys from the village Croyle used to taunt and threaten him all the time. At least until he called Zeezle and his brother Dorlan to the circle during a heavily attended festival.

  “They treat me like a legend back home because I whipped the shit out of a few older Croyles, Pex.
And don’t you ever forget it.”

  Vanx climbed onto Pyra’s back then, grinning back at them. While he waited for Pyra to command the other gathering dragons, he chanced a glance in the Mirror of Portent.

  He saw Zeezle being killed, and he somehow knew it wasn’t happening that far into the future.

  For a few long moments, he studied what he was seeing, and was deeply disturbed over it. It threw a hitch in their plan.

  Once he told Pyra, she adjusted the orders for the other wyrms, and an intentional sense of urgency was spread through their numbers.

  Each of the two groups going through the tower would now lend a wyrm and rider to Vanx. One of the human archers, the one who’d mounted the deep blue wyrm, and one of Master Ruuk’s students, would now go with Vanx.

  Master Ruuk would play the part of Vanx when that group went through, hoping to hold the Paragon Dracus and his minions’ attention, while another group went through to a different Octron.

  Vanx’s new companions moved over to Pyra’s side, because the dragons they were riding did so. After the confusion slid from their faces, Vanx was glad to see they were eager to be going with him.

  “It’s time,” Vanx said.

  Pyra instructed the smartest dragon in the first group how to travel to the tower near the Zwarvy hole and the sharply-peaked mountains. Pex and Master Ruuk went with this group, and the second they were all sucked into the tower portal, Vanx’s blood began to burn with battle lust. It was a mixture of his, Poops, and Pyra’s angst, and it felt good to be on the way to end this.

  The next wyrm that went through was instructed on how to appear at the tower nearest to the Trigon citadel, which was still a quarter day’s flight from Port Harthgar, but by far the fastest route to Chelda and the others.

  It was amazing watching them all get siphoned into a tiny stream and sucked into the tower’s top. Unnerved, Vanx decided, was a better word to describe how seeing it made him feel. The same thing was about to happen to him. Having used the towers before, he knew they would all survive it, but that didn’t ease his discomfort as much as he figured it should. That was probably because he knew that there were Trigon warriors, and possibly the Paragon Dracus himself, waiting for them on the other side of either Octron.