Dragon Isle (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 2)

by M. R. Mathias

  Zeezle was on his way back to Zyth, on the king’s ship no less. Captain Rosthuf refused to let the heathen on board for fear of his crew being eaten in the night, but the king ordered him to belay his superstition until the journey was over. Still, Zeezle was nervous the whole way, for the king wasn’t on board for the trip.

  Prince Russet and Captain Willie agreed to sail Vanx and Darbon to Orendyn by way of the Sea Spire. King Oakarm wanted to stay behind and oversee the rebuilding of Dyntalla while getting to know the daughter he’d been unaware of all this time.

  Trevin was still bedridden, but managed to tell Vanx that he appreciated all that he‘d done for Gallarael. He swore that one day he would try to repay him. Vanx told him to try to heal his body. Seeing him again would be thanks enough. The wounds Trevin took were deep, and possibly crippling, but Gallarael didn’t let that slow her plans for them. Already it was being whispered that the king might grant Trevin the title of Duke of Highlake. After all, the gossipers said, he couldn’t let the Princess of Parydon marry a common guardsman.

  At the urging of several of the stronghold children, Vanx’s pup was finally given a name. They giggled when Vanx drew the long, thin sword that had been returned to him, tapped it on the pup’s shoulder and dubbed him Sir Poopsalot Maximus. After having to clean up the little dog’s piles several times, the children all agreed the name was fitting.

  One evening after supper, Vanx and Darbon bade farewell to the king, then snuck down to the docks and rowed out to the Sea Hawk. Darbon had no one left to say goodbye to, and Vanx wanted to avoid the duchess before she found another way to get him to linger. Vanx wanted to say goodbye to Gallarael, but the fact that he had tricked the man who’d raised her kept him from it. He hoped she would understand. To his great surprise, she did, and was the lone person who stood on the torchlit harbor tower to watch the Sea Hawk glide out of the bay.

  Vanx stood at the ship’s rail and watched the shore and the city of Dyntalla shrink into the night.

  “All’s well that ends well, eh?” Peg asked from the ropes overhead.

  The pup, snug in his papoon at Vanx’s chest, yipped in reply.

  Before they were even out of the bay, Darbon took ill and was heaving his supper over the rail on the far side of the ship. Vanx couldn’t help but laugh at him.

  “All does seem to be well,” Vanx told the seaman. “But I doubt there is any real end in sight. Winds and currents can change in a heartbeat.”

  “Bah,” Yandi called from where he was hauling up a bucket full of seawater to wash away Darbon’s last spew. “’Tis not likely you’ll be doing less than well till we make land in Orendyn. Why do you think the prince gave you his cabin for the journey?”

  “What do you mean?” Vanx asked.

  The whole crew chuckled at him.

  “They’ve a surprise for you in your cabin. Two surprises actually,” Captain Willie called from the ship’s wheel. “She ordered us not to tell you she was there until we were out of the bay and well underway.”

  “She?” Vanx asked, a growing sense of dread taking root in his brain.

  Just then a window shutter opened on the side of the ship, spilling a shaft of lamp light out across the rolling cobalt swells. The untuned plucking of a stringed instrument, his own long forgotten lute by the sound of it, came to his sharp ears.

  He rushed down to the cabin Prince Russet had so generously offered him and threw open the door. There he saw Gallarain, lying in an inviting pose, dressed in only the sheerest of silk drapings. In her lap was the instrument the duke’s men had taken from him back in the Highlake tavern so long ago.

  “Did you think I’d let you escape me so easily, Vanx?” she purred. “After Humbrick died, all of his possessions, including his slaves, became mine.” She patted the bunk beside her. “Now come over here and show me how badly you want your freedom.”

  The End of Dragon Isle

  The following is a three chapter preview of:

  The Legend of Vanx Malic

  Book Three — Saint Elm’s Deep

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.

  All rights reserved

  Chapter One

  “So, is it Vanx Malic or Vanx Saint Elm?” Darbon asked with genuine curiosity showing on his claw-scarred face. A friend of theirs, the Princess of Parydon, had been poisoned, then potioned, and while under the influence of the substances had raked Darbon’s face. A quartet of gnarled lines ran from under his brown mop of hair across his mug to his jawline.

  “It depends,” Vanx said thoughtfully. “On the Isle of Zyth we have only our name and then our village designation. Vanx Malic means Vanx from the village Malic. Here in the human lands family names have a greater importance.” Vanx finished the cup of ale in his hand with a gulp and then banged it on the top of the dagger-marred table where they were seated.

  “Hold your mud,” the barmaid yelled over the noise of the tavern room. Seeing that it was Vanx, her voice softened. “Oh, it’s you two. I’ll be right over.”

  The room was starting to fill up for supper. The great central hearth fire at the Iceberg Inn and Tavern was the biggest, warmest, and most hospitable in all of Orendyn. The tables were not too close together and the floor was kept clean. The log and timber structure was cozy and produced a homey feeling. It was also far enough away from the docks to keep the troublesome sailors from walking over. The hard coin from the trappers and caravan traders who worked outside the city’s protective ice wall, however, did find its way in. Lem, the owner, had just purchased a fat elk from one of the local hunters, and tonight the sign out front read: “Fannie’s elk stew, eat until you spew.” Under that, in smaller letters, there was another line scrawled on the board. “Vanx the bard, most nights after dinner.”

  Fannie, the cook, could make grizzled snow turtle taste like frosted cake. Her elk stew alone would pack the place.

  “I suppose here it is Vanx Saint Elm,” Vanx finally answered the question. He reached down to the floor and gave the middling puppy there a scratch behind the ears. He’d carried the pup in a chest-pouch called a papoon for a long time, but Sir Poopsalot Maximus, as the dog was affectionately named, had outgrown the rig. Poop could keep up on his own now. At the moment, the dog was perfectly content on the floor gnawing the elk bone Fannie had slipped him.

  Fannie had grown fond of the dog after she’d shooed him out of the kitchen and slammed the door a little too quickly, accidentally shearing off most of his tail. After a few choice bones, and a few healthy bowls of cuttings, Poop forgave her. The two were now fast friends. Poop spent most of his days guarding the kitchen service door while Vanx and Darbon roamed the frozen northern city.

  Vanx, Darbon, and Poop had been staying at the inn for nearly half a year. Darbon’s facial wounds had been fresh when the ship arrived. His emotional wounds were far more tender, though. His first love, Matty, had been killed by an ogre’s spear, right before his eyes.

  Vanx was half-Zythian and might live to be three or four hundred years old, if he didn’t get himself killed first. He was in no real hurry to move on. He was a bard, and the custom at the Iceberg was pleasant and appreciative. The owner wasn’t too demanding, either. Vanx and Darbon spent enough coins on their rooms that Lem couldn’t complain if Vanx only performed on the busier nights. After all, he just played for his supper. Everything else he paid for.

  During his roaming, Vanx had met an old sailor who’d sailed with his infamous father on the Foamfollower. He spent a lot of his days buying the crusty seadog drinks down at the Mighty Mackerel while listening to tales of the great trader captain, Marin Saint Elm and his heathen ship witch.

  Vanx had learned a lot. He was content to wait out Darbon’s grief, which finally seemed to be subsiding. For what Vanx intended to undertake in the summer, he needed Darbon clearheaded and healthy. It didn’t hurt that Poop would be almost fully grown by then, too.

  “A warm spring meadow,” the barmaid said as she put down two fresh mugs o
f ale and took away Vanx and Darbon’s empties.

  “Last time you said a field of summer grass,” Darbon snorted. “They are nearly one and the same.”

  “No.” The barmaid, a cute round-faced girl named Salma, touched his nose with a finger, causing him to blush. “They are not the same.”

  Vanx shook his head. He thought Darbon was too young to have suffered so much already. The boy couldn’t even tell Salma liked him despite his scars. Vanx wasn’t sure, but he doubted the boy had seen seventeen summers. Either way, Darbon wasn’t over Matty enough to move along just yet.

  Vanx was over fifty years old, but didn’t look more than a few years older than Darbon. No one but Darbon knew of his heritage, though. He’d had to tell Skully, the old man who’d sailed with his father, that he was Captain Saint Elm’s grandson, not his son. The old salt had dismissed the relation as doubtful, but as long as Vanx was buying the ale, the stories kept coming.

  “A spring meadow is a livelier and lighter shade of green,” Salma was explaining. “Summer grass is dark and thick.” She turned her gaze from Darbon to Vanx. “He is starting to lighten up, I think. It’s as if he’s come to a great decision and the weight of making it suddenly lifted.”

  Vanx lifted his brows in surprise and took a long swallow from his fresh mug of ale. “You might be right.” He nodded. “As soon as my friend here says he’s ready to move on, I think we will be on our way.”

  Salma looked disturbed by this news, and her eyes shot back and forth between the two men. The smile never left her face, but it changed a bit. It went from genuine and hopeful to forced and unsure. Darbon didn’t notice, but Vanx saw it plainly.

  “You’re not leaving for good, are you?” she asked.

  “Where are we going?” Darbon turned to face his companion, oblivious of the girl’s reaction.

  “Not too far, and not for too long.” Vanx gave her a knowing look that seemed to ease her worry.

  “Where?” Darbon asked again.

  Vanx was pleased to see eager curiosity in his friend’s countenance. It was a far better sight than the empty pools of grief that had haunted him the last few months.

  “We’re going on a hunt.”

  “Snow leapers, elk, grizzlies?” Salma asked.

  “No, no, no.” Vanx’s smile grew even wider. “We’re going to hunt and kill a shagmarian saber shrew and have a tailor make us garments from its fur.”

  Darbon was smiling ear to ear, causing his scars to lose their pinkish color. For a moment they looked as if they’d been handed down from nature, as if he were some half-beast.

  “You’re jesting, right?” Salma asked dubiously. “Even if you find one of the mammoth drift moles, you will never be able to survive its wrath.”

  “That’s what makes it such a fitting prey,” Vanx said, feeling his own blood begin to tingle with excitement. “Anyone can kill an elk or snow leaper.”

  “Never underestimate the wiles of a guy with eyes the color of iced jade,” Darbon told her.

  “Oooh, that’s a good one,” Salma smirked. “But you’d better invite me to the spring dance before you go.” She touched Darbon on the nose again. “I doubt whether you two will be coming back if you run across a real saber shrew.” With that she whirled away to attend another customer.

  “Was she talking to me?” Darbon asked.

  For a moment Vanx thought that the memory of Matty had struck, that the boy would slip back into his grief. The idea of another woman might be a bit too much for him just yet. Still, Vanx had to try to coax him out of the slump.

  “She was talking to you, Dar. She’s sweet on you, you know?”

  “Ya think? Then why is she always talking about your eyes?”

  “Yours are usually pointed at your toes, or at the bottom of your cup, and mine… Well, it’s not really a fair thing.” Vanx patted his friend on the shoulder. “Either way, it’s you she’s after. I’d hate it if you to break her heart and not take her to the spring dance.”

  “That’s over a week away. What about the hunt?”

  “We have preparations to make, supplies to gather, and a party to round up. The way I see it, it will take seven, maybe ten, men to bring a saber shrew down, and there’s only one man around here who can possibly put us on the track of one.” Vanx shrugged. “I’ve yet to secure Rendell’s help, but I think he’ll do it for a fair share of the meat and a few of those golden Parydon falcons we have left.”

  “’Tis true,” Darbon agreed with a chuckle. “He’ll do it for the coin, if he can stay sober long enough to lead us out of the city. You said we are doing this so that we can make coats out of the hide. Where are we going after this?”

  Vanx had to admire Darbon’s perceptiveness. “I’ll let you know when the time comes, Dar. You may decide you don’t want to go on the greater journey. I might, too, after this trek into the frozen wild. Let’s just say this hunt is sort of a training run, an exploration to see just how inhospitable the land beyond the ice wall really is.”

  “It can’t be worse than the Wildwood or Dragon Isle,” Darbon said with a chuckle.

  “Never say it can’t be worse, Darbon,” Vanx scolded. “As soon as you do, it usually gets that way.”

  Chapter Two

  Finding men willing to go after the notoriously treacherous shagmarian saber shrew proved a bit more difficult than manning a conventional elk or snow leaper hunt, but with the well-known tracker, Rendell, helping, they were managing to piece together a crew.

  The world outside of the ice wall was a frigid rolling plain of snow, dotted with copses, and small forests of pine trees. In the heat of the summer, a short span of about a month, the upper layers melted away leaving the trees look like giant spears with only branches on their extreme upper portions. The rest of the year, save for the deep of winter, when even the treetops were buried, the woods seemed typical. Only these needle-strewn, pinecone-littered floors were full of loose drifts and crags that could swallow a whole party.

  There were great ice falls and steep rocky hills out there as well, places where a man might be stricken speechless by the wondrous hues of a thousand foot tall cliff of compressed glacier just before a huge slab of the majestic stuff broke off and crushed him. The worst was the open tundra. Endless flats of white nothingness deceptively hiding the valleys and stream beds that are buried far below the surface.

  That was the domain of the mammoth saber shrew. The rat-like creatures hollowed voids beneath the snowfields and tunneled through the depths of the compacted glacial ice with scoop-shaped claws and ice crushing saber-fanged jaws. They ate elk, grizzlies, and even the occasional frost wing that nested too low on the cliffs. Anything that trod across the tundra was its prey. A party could be walking just yards over a saber shrew burrow and never even know it. Entire caravans had fallen into a tunnel or had been attacked from underneath with no warning. Over the years, hundreds had met similar ends.

  Getting men willing to risk their lives in the open tundra was hard. Quite a few came to the Iceberg Inn’s common room to speak to Vanx and Rendell about employment, but as soon as they heard that the party would not be traveling on the magically protected caravan routes they blanched. When they heard what the party was truly after most simply thanked Vanx for the offer and walked away. A few exceptionally brave, or maybe desperate, souls decided to sign on. After all, a share of the saber shrew carcass was comparable to a few years’ worth of wages.

  Chelda Flar, a big-boned huntress, had thrown in with them. She was gruff but likable. She had the typical ice-blue eyes and snowy blonde hair of the native Bitterland giant folk. She and her kind weren’t truly giants, Vanx had long since decided. They were a big people, but not nearly as big as the real giant Vanx had seen hiding in the granite crags off of the Highlake Mountain Road. The creature, had it stood erect, would have easily been sixteen or seventeen feet tall. Chelda was only a few fingers over six feet, which put her roughly eye to eye with Vanx when they stood. Vanx was pleased that sh
e hadn’t, as of yet, shown the normal female reaction to his appearance. So far, she’d been all business.

  The reason Chelda’s people were referred to as giants, Vanx surmised, was that the other sort of human folk that called the Bitterlands home were smaller with almond colored skin, dark hair, and usually dark brown or coal-black eyes. The Skmoes were hearty little folk who claimed to have dwelt in this frigid place since the dawning of time. They said the giants were not welcome, but they tolerated them. They said Chelda’s people had migrated from across the glacial mountains only a few thousand years before. To Vanx, that made them both natives to the land. If a people lived somewhere for a thousand years, they were native.

  Beyond Orendyn’s ice wall both races had villages, clans, territories, customs, and religions. It amazed Vanx that there had never been a war between them. It also irritated him because the big pale folk and the darker smaller people were both suspicious and spiteful toward the full-blooded Zythians that sometimes came to port. If they knew his true heritage they would no doubt feel the same about him.

  “The reason we’ve never fought the Skmoes,” Chelda was telling him, “is because it’s such a hard life out there trying to stay warm and fed, while fending off nature, that the idea of creating more ways to die never has time to manifest itself. I think that the people who squabble over coins, boundary lines, and gods have far too much time on their hands and too little to worry about otherwise.”

  “Yup,” Vanx agreed. He gestured for her to hold her next words and waved over a pair of Skmoes who were standing in the doorway of the inn, looking around as if they were searching for someone they were unsure of. Rendell was out gathering supplies and securing haulkatten sleds. Vanx thought he might have sent these two over.