Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic)

by M. R. Mathias

  Vanx saw a clump of cottages just before Chelda pointed them out. A tract of forest had been cleared away downhill of them, and naught but stumps remained. Not far off, another tract, nearly the same size and shape, was lined with two- or three-year-old saplings. Above and beyond the cabins, a herd of red-and-black-striped devil horns was searching the few exposed shrubs for food.

  The way the evil-looking goats leapt, all reckless and graceful, from foothold to foothold made Xavian grumble that he’d rather not ride such a creature. Vanx agreed with the mage, even though Chelda reassured them that the devil horns they were after wouldn’t take such risky leaps with their weight.

  “The ramma can’t be much better,” said Brody.

  “It will make our hiking that much easier if they carry the packs, though.” This came from Gallarael.

  “It will,” Vanx agreed. And for the first time, he felt a curious pride well up over the way the princess was carrying herself out here in the wild.

  “Other than a few short passes, there is not much worse than what we skirted yesterday,” Chelda said over her shoulder. She was currently leading them along what might have been an old hunting trail through a pass of cedar trees and taller evergreens.

  “Only the ice falls and the stretch of narrow ledges that cut across the cliff they tumble down,” Chelda went on. “Beyond that, we don’t have many more of these to manage. The forests are less hospitable and the passages rockier; the valleys are deeper, and some have full rivers we might have to ford or a swell we must skirt. This time of year, we might even have some snowmelt and flooding. Or worse, slush.”

  Poops let out a loud yelp, and Vanx felt a sharp pain. Heat stabbed through him like a pike-shaft. Chelda started screaming, and Xavian was suddenly doing his best to keep Brody from loosing his crossbow bolt.

  Gallarael was nowhere in sight.

  Two gargan men came charging over and down the crest, right behind Poops. The dog had an arrow sticking out of his furry vest.

  Chelda grew furious. If Poops had been lifeless, she would have surely killed the men by now.

  The dog came limping briskly up to Vanx. Fear, anger and confusion all intermingled with the weird sensations Poops was sending him through their link. The feelings weren’t animalistic, as Vanx had previously thought. ‘Pure’ was the word he decided described them best.

  The dog’s anger wasn’t projected toward the men who had mistaken him for a beast but at his nose for not smelling them out. The fear Poops felt was for the man who had saved him from the cave where his mother was eaten by a dragon. The confusion was that the pain had seemingly come from nowhere, and Vanx decided that, no matter how complex the dog’s thoughts were, Poops couldn’t grasp the concept or the mechanics of a crossbow, just the reality of it.

  Realizing Poops was fully shafted, Vanx fell to his knees to help his four-legged friend.

  He removed the furred vest he’d made. To the gargans the dog appeared to be something he wasn’t. Knowing about the Shangelak’s recent attack, Vanx found he couldn’t be too mad at them for their reaction. He was glad there were no vitals injured. The arrow had only pierced the upper portion of Poops’s hind end. The puncture had been worn open when the dog ran to him, though. Vanx broke the fletched end off of the shaft and quickly pulled it through. No sooner had the arrow left his body than Poops sent a cool feeling of relief washing over them both.

  “Was it poisoned?” Vanx asked Chelda.

  “No,” she answered without even slowing her tirade.

  “Ask them if they were poisoned!” Vanx yelled, and all eyes fell upon him.

  Chelda asked the one who loosed the arrow, and he responded with a negative shake of his head.

  “I told you no,” Chelda said hotly, her anger spilling over at him. “We don’t use such foul ways to hunt and kill. Using poisoned arrows is cowardly and despicable.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Gallarael said as she stepped back amongst the group.

  “I had to ask,” Vanx said. “And I will not hold this against them; I should have kept him closer.”

  Chelda gave a snort then returned her attention to the gargan who had shot the dog.

  Vanx made out a few of the words she was saying—“sorethatch”, “rammaton”, and “fool” among them—but not nearly all of them. Her tone was as chiding and condescending as usual. Vanx almost felt sorry for the men.

  Turning his attention back to Poops, Vanx found Xavian was beside the dog, struggling fruitlessly to keep him from licking his wounds.

  “Brody! Gal!” Vanx called them. When they were in earshot he said, “I need to work a quick healing here. I’m not sure how Chelda’s people will—”

  “Got it,” Gallarael cut him off. “Brody, you and Xavian huddle ‘round close. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  So sure were Gallarael’s words that Vanx half-expected her to disrobe, or maybe change into her black-skinned other self. Instead, she went to Chelda’s side, reached up and put her hands on one of the fangs that jutted up out of her backpack and got Chelda talking about the shrew hunt. Within minutes, the gargan men talked the girls into letting them have a better look.

  “Don’t do too much at once,” Xavian warned Vanx.

  Brody shivered and turned away; he’d told them all before that magic unsettled him, as it was doing now.

  The healing was over with before Chelda had gotten to the good parts of her retelling of the shrew hunt. Gallarael interrupted, suggesting they finish the story around a campfire. The gargan men did them one better by taking them into the lodge.

  “These are rim riders,” Chelda told them. “They are an official ramma rabble of sorts. There are manned outposts along the ridge. They house all the men.”

  They followed the rim riders over the crest of the ridge, and the sight that spread out below them was as surprising as it was amazing.

  A deep valley full of life and activity was split by a wide, silvery river. There were several torch-lined bridges and a dam at the far end, and the whole place seemed to glow yellow in the dusky light. The illumination was from the hundreds of lamplit windows and the gauzy radiance from the smoke of a few hundred hearth fires. The symmetrical layout of the roads was far more sophisticated than Vanx imagined it would be and the fact that Chelda always referred to the place as her “home village” may have been the reason why.

  Great Vale looked like it had a villagey feel to it, but it was easily twenty times the size of any Zythian village. There was no way to judge how many people lived there, but there were a lot of them.

  More gargan men joined their procession as they went downslope into Great Vale. Vanx supposed it would take half a day to get down to the river, so he brought his attention back to Chelda’s translation of what one of the gargan men, a commander called Riggaton Manix, was saying.

  He was telling them of the Shangelak sightings, and how his men were told to kill it first and worry later. He said that, for a turn of the moon, nearly every day there was a new sighting or a new attack on the people. But for a few days, no one had seen hide nor hair of the creature. Chelda then told them of Vanx’s sighting the night before. The idea that the creature had wings was not a new one to the rim riders. One girl, Manix told them, had seen it take to the air.

  The sky had darkened considerably. A torch suddenly flared to life ahead of them and another behind. Vanx lost the advantage of his Zythian vision because of this. It didn’t matter, though, as not even his keen eyes could have spotted the beast circling high above them, but he still felt it was there.

  Inside the roomy lodge, the companions were treated to hot, succulent venison stew and warm bread that was a bit stale. While they ate, Chelda had the rim riders tell tales of saber shrews, giant frost grizzlies, and other glamorous hunts from gargan history. The meal was good and relaxing, and all the group’s members were filled with a healthy sense of accomplishment for coming this far.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In that land across t
he sea,

  a dragon queen did rise.

  But in the end the great High King

  relieved her of her life.

  -- The Ballad of Ornspike

  The gargan men spent a long time admiring Chelda’s fangs, and after some prodding from Gallarael and Brody, Vanx took out his xuitar and played a few songs. Before long, a few other rim riders came in from their ranging. They all seemed to enjoy the performance a great deal. Reluctantly, others left to take up watch posts and do their various duties, until eventually the lodge’s common room, turned tavern hall, was cleared.

  Riggaton Manix had the pine plank tables moved aside and the floor swept so that the group would have a place to lay out their bedrolls for the night. He apologized to Chelda for the crude lodgings, and Chelda relayed back to the group that all of the bunk houses and private rooms had been filled with men since the sightings started.

  Logs were heaped on the hearth fire and the lamps snuffed. When the group finally found themselves alone, Vanx gave Brody a look and a gesture, indicating that he would take the first watch. Brody acknowledged that he understood and went quickly to sleep. The others were already in their bedrolls and drifting off.

  Vanx stared into the flames while absently scratching the scruff of Poops’s neck and enjoyed the rich, woodsy smell of all the worked cedar, pine and range oak around him. Chelda’s soft, rhythmic snores filled what silence the crackling fire didn’t. Poops had his bone about worried through, but it still held his full attention. The dog only stopped gnawing when Vanx probed the sore spot on his rump. Then the soft glow of Vanx’s healing magic filled the room for a short time. After that, Poops gave Vanx a wet slurp then curled up in the blankets next to him and drifted off.

  There had been a new quality to the pull inside Vanx most of the day. A warning maybe, or a sense of proximity that he didn’t understand. Of course, it had been forgotten entirely when Sir Poopsalot’s painful emotions had come flooding into him, but now, as he watched over his friends, he tried to recall the feeling so he might mull it over. Oddly, though, he found this new aspect had vanished. The insistent draw toward their deep mountain destination was still there. It was strong and constant and a somewhat desperate feeling now, but it wasn’t quite enough to worry over anymore this night. Other concerns found a place in his mind soon enough, and they did their best to take root.

  The idea that the very friends he was watching over were following him blindly into the unknown made him marvel a bit. He didn’t want to imagine anything terrible happening to them, but his dreams were usually full of such notions, and in stark, vivid clarity. He was beginning to fear sleep, lest the dreams come and terrorize him. The first night in the forest had been his last good rest. Exhaustion was beginning to take its toll. He reminded himself that his companions had chosen to come on this quest, not so much for him, but for the glory of finding the fabled palace of Rimehold.

  What they planned to do after they found the place hadn’t really been part of the conversation. Vanx wasn’t even sure what he was going to do, or what awaited them there. All he knew was that he had to get there, if only to quell the gnawing feeling inside.

  His mind drifted to Gallarael. She was a different matter. She was running from something more than seeking anything. She had proven herself over the last harsh weeks, but even though he didn’t doubt her abilities, or her other self’s ability, to defend herself, he doubted she had the knowledge or experience to survive the Bitterpeaks on her own. She didn’t know the first bit of woods lore, and he’d noticed that her sense of direction wasn’t all that honed. Under sunny skies, she might be able to tell north from south and east from west, but out here there was seldom a time when the sky wasn’t low and cloudy and the air full of confusing flurries and driving winds. He had a responsibility to his friends, King Oakarm and Prince Russet, to look out for her. He didn’t like to admit it, but he had a responsibility to the Duchess of Highlake as well. It was only due to this duty that he finally decided to wake Brody so that he might try to get a few hours’ sleep. He couldn’t look out for Gallarael with his head full of cobwebs.

  Maybe it was the warmth of the hearth fire, or possibly the potency of the comforting tree smells that filled his nose. Whatever it was, he slept well that night, and the only dreams that were forced upon him were those he was unknowingly sharing with Sir Poopsalot: the fear of a fleeing rabbit through a snowy forest, baying in a half-moon sky and the feeling of nuzzling in slumber with the pack. He found the smell of a salty sea island there in those dreams, and busy wispwhites, all sparkly and frolicking around a tree that was growing out of a pool of quicksilver.

  These sleepy visions were shattered when a blast of cold air hit him. Gargan men came bursting in, yelling commands at the men who slept in the bunk rooms around them. They were excited and concerned, and in such a rush that they narrowly avoided tripping over the rousing group on the floor. Then, from somewhere outside, a loud bell began to clang.

  Brody stepped into the group’s startled midst and assured them that all was well, at least in the immediate sense. He’d been outside and was radiating the chill he’d brought back in with him.

  “Another village was attacked,” he told them. “Not far from here, to the south.”

  “What village?” Chelda asked sharply. “What did they call it?”

  All around them, men and a few women, in various stages of wakefulness and dress, prepared to go fulfill their duties.

  “Auchard? Orchard, maybe?”

  Chelda closed her eyes. “Orchard is the way you’d say it down in Orendyn. It’s not so much a village as a remote part of Great Vale. My mother was born there. I’ve got kin there.” She stopped talking, took in a deep breath and sighed. “How bad was it?”

  “The rider who came was a relay, I think. I could barely make out what was being said. There were rim riders on watch, and they engaged the beast. You were right, Vanx. It came from the sky. I only understood that part because the rider was holding up his arms and flapping them to explain what he was reporting.”

  “I’d better go and ask someone.” Chelda didn’t even bother to put her furs on before bursting out into the cold, predawn air to gather information.

  “Do they have to keep running in and out?” Xavian asked. He shivered and pulled the thick, wool hat that had taken the place of his polished steel skullcap over his stubble-haired head.

  “Go over by the fire and warm yourself,” Gallarael said. “Once you get your blood flowing and your belly full, you’ll feel better.”

  “Oh, I forgot, there is a huge pot of hot, honeyed oats hanging over a fire by the other bunk house,” Brody said. “I guess it makes it easier to get up and face the weather if your morning meal is served outside in it.”

  Chelda returned but didn’t have much more to offer. She said that they should get up, get a bowl of the offered food, and start on down into the village. “The sun is breaking the horizon as we speak.” She didn’t seem to be disturbed by the bitter air she’d just been out in.

  Vanx reminded himself that her father, who blamed his wife’s death on Chelda, still lived down there. Her sharp mood seemed almost gentle, considering that.

  Riggaton Manix ordered a pair of his younger men to escort the party down into the village. Chelda told them that it was a high honor to be escorted anywhere by the rim riders.

  The way was clearer going down. The heavily used path was worn, and all the steeper portions of the slope were worked into wide switchbacks to lessen the gradient.

  For the first time, they saw the gargans up close on their mounts, for their escorts rode curl-horned ramma. The beasts carried the riders with sure-hoofed ease but seemed to have a bit of disdain for all but their kind. The riders wore uniforms of tan cloaks over pumpkin-colored vests. Neither of the two spoke as they rode; Vanx could tell that was only because they were young and shy.

  They passed a shepherd who was tending a flock of strange-looking, furred animals. The herd was busy ea
ting fallen pine needles and bright canary berries from a bushy growth that pushed up through the snow. All of them, save for Chelda and the rim riders, ogled the creatures as they passed. They were pig-like but covered in curly wool, like a sheep, and they had startlingly intelligent-looking eyes. The shepherd, in turn, ogled Poops in his thick fur vest. He shook his staff when the dog got too close to his herd and earned a shout from the rim rider escorting them. The shepherd went muttering and cursing his way farther off the road.

  It was a road now, Vanx decided. All but the slightest bit of slope was behind them. They were in the bottom of the valley. Houses and fenced plots of snow-blanketed land bordered by drystone boundary walls and crude wooden railings were scattered about them. The smell of wood smoke and bacon fat was in the air. Two men were arguing in the distance, and a woman’s cackling laugh cut over them. All of this, along with the chirping, buzzing and cawing of a dozen different forms of wildlife, found Vanx’s ears from the world beyond the road.

  Above, the sky wasn’t clear, but it wasn’t all gray and blustery yet, either. It was as if the day were deciding which way to go with itself.

  A lopsided triangle formation of piebald geese came flapping by, and Vanx watched them shift and reposition in the air as they went.

  Up ahead, a commotion of pounding hooves and worried shouts erupted. Just before Vanx pulled his eyes from above, the flock scattered across the sky in all directions, like grain-bin roaches under sudden torchlight. The feeling that filled him in that moment was the same he’d felt yesterday. Something was near, and it was dangerous and evil.