Saint Elm's Deep (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 3)

by M. R. Mathias

  “You’re going for saber shrew, no?”

  “We are,” Vanx answered.

  “We are going with you. I am Inda, and this…” he backhanded his brother’s chest smartly, drawing his attention back from Chelda, “…is Anda. We want enough of the pelt to make dungaloons and some meat for our clan. No gold.”

  “I like them,” said Chelda immediately. “That means more gold for me.”

  “Not necessarily,” Vanx told her. “If they… What are dungaloons?”

  “Britches,” she said.

  “If they take the fur to make the britches, won’t it detract from the value of the carcass? Darbon and I are planning on having long coats made from it.”

  “Not like you think; the fangs and claws are the real value.”

  “One claw each,” Anda said with a stiff return smack across his brother’s chest.

  “Yes,” Inda agreed. “Fur for dungaloons, the meat we can carry, and one claw each. No gold.”

  “If we are piecing the thing out, I want the saber fangs,” Chelda said. “That leaves fourteen claws and over half of the hide. Not to mention the majority of the meat. You’ll be able to pay fifty more hunters out of that, with coin to spare.”

  “Do you know any others who want to go with us?” Vanx asked the Skmoes. He’d asked Chelda the same question, but she hadn’t bothered to answer.

  The twins looked at each other stupidly then nodded, as if one were a reflection of the other.

  Inda answered. “We know Skog. A good grizzly sticker. He’s brave but stupid. He likes gold and stout.”

  A skog, Vanx knew, was a person of mixed blood, part giant, part Skmoe. They tended to take the physical influence of both blood lines and were mostly city dwellers or caravan workers. The tribes and clans outside the ice wall were only tolerant to a point. Skogs were not accepted.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Skog,” Inda said simply.

  Vanx waited a long moment, hoping that one of the two would elaborate. Neither of them did.

  “Will Skog be ready to set out the morning after the spring dance?”

  “He’ll be drunk, but he’ll be ready.”

  Vanx nodded that he agreed with their terms. “Make a list of the supplies you’ll need, and meet us here for supper tomorrow. We’ll go over the lists and look at the maps with Endell, Chelda, and Darbon all together.”

  “Bring Skog tomorrow?” Inda asked.

  “Why not?” Vanx chuckled at the strange twin’s continual seriousness.

  Just then, Poops came trotting out from the kitchen with a fresh elk bone that was half as big as he was. One end of it dragged as he came. He dropped the bone beside Vanx and nuzzled his muzzle in Vanx’s hand for a moment before lying down and returning to his prize.

  Anda was leaning out from his seat, looking under the table. “Dog looks healthy,” he said. “Get ’em fat and they make a better stew.”

  Vanx looked at him sharply then. No one was making a stew out of Poops. A long heartbeat passed, and everything was still and tense. Finally, Anda broke into a playful grin and backhanded his twin brother across the chest. Inda only grunted in response and downed his mug of ale.

  “I told you they were off in the head,” Chelda said before downing her own mug.

  Chapter Three

  Don’t pass through the frigid gate,

  there is nothing North to see.

  Stick to the docks and mind your cocks,

  or frozen you will be.

  -- a sailors song

  Apparently, in the night a ship came in, for the next afternoon two Parydonians separately joined the group. The first was named Brody. He was at that mature age for humans where knowledge and experience combined with grit and muscle to elevate a man to his best. Vanx mused on this because this was also the time just before life slowly started taking it all back from men. Brody had the short-cropped hair of a serviceman. It had turned gray over his ears and gone completely from the top of his head. He said he’d put in twenty years with the Parydon Isle Archer Corps and could handle a great-bow all by himself.

  Vanx liked his confidence immediately. Brody reminded him of an older version of another Parydonian he knew named Trevin. Trevin was soon to marry Princess Gallarael and assume the title Duke of Highlake. He would probably relish the opportunity to get away from all the pomp and ceremony to which he must now be subjected. Too far away, Vanx mused. If Brody was only half as loyal and brave as Trevin, he would serve the party well. Vanx was pleased by the way he inserted himself into the group and started sizing up the others.

  The other Parydonian called himself Smythe, but Vanx was certain it wasn’t his real name. Smythe had shifty eyes and a suspicious air about him, as if he were an escaped slave or an untried criminal. Vanx could relate to both situations well enough. He tried not to pass judgment. Smythe just wanted enough gold to buy himself passage to Harthgar. Vanx assured him that as long as he did the work given him on the hunt, he would help him get to Harthgar, even if they didn’t succeed in killing a shrew.

  Smythe appeared fit. He boasted no great skill as an archer or swordsman. He said he’d been hunting since his youth. He also said he could climb exceptionally well on rock. He’d never actually tried to scale an ice cliff, but was willing to try, if it was necessary.

  According to Endell, that only left them lacking one key member to complete the party.

  “Sure we could hire half a dozen more archers and an axe man or two, but what we really need is a mage,” Endell told them as he tilted his sixth mug of the afternoon.

  Vanx was counting.

  It was a lot for most men, but Endell’s eyes were as clear as his speech. “A mage can help us cross questionable expanses of loose snow, or warn us if a flock of frost-wings is near.”

  While staying in Orendyn, Vanx had learned that frost-wings ruled the sky out over the tundra. The great bluish-white birds were hard to spot, but since they had a bit of naturally occurring magic about them, a good mage could sense them from a great distance. Without enough warning to prepare, a flock of frost-wings could annihilate a small group in a matter of moments. Vanx wasn’t sure if his limited arcane ability would allow him to sense them, and he absolutely didn’t want to reveal his heritage. There were dozens of other reasons to bring a wizard along, so he told the others that he would take care of it.

  The next morning, as he was setting out to find their mage, Salma met him in the common room. She grabbed him up into an affectionate hug that threatened to snap his spine.

  “Oh, Vanx, thank you,” she said. “The gown is spectacular, and the tailor assures me it will go perfectly with Darbon’s attire.”

  “He’s been hurt, Salma,” Vanx said, holding her shoulders at arm’s length. “Take the time to consider his emotional wounds in all of this. Tact and caution will get you a lot further than using the attributes you’re used to using to attract a man.”

  “She died, didn’t she?” Salma asked. She didn’t get sad, though. It was clear that she was refusing to let the excitement and anticipation of the coming night get swallowed up by Vanx’s warnings or Darbon’s past.

  Vanx nodded. “She did. She died most brutally. She was older than him, and though she cared deeply for him, she knew that he was still mostly a boy.”

  Vanx lightened his expression and grinned. “What does Fannie have to eat, and where has that gluttonous dog of mine gotten off to?”

  “We’ve got boar sausage and yesterday’s bread, and don’t you worry about Darbon. I’ll not do anything to hurt him further, even at my own peril.” She kissed Vanx on the cheek and went into the kitchen.

  Vanx took a seat at the long, oval table his group had more or less taken over the last few evenings. When he looked up, he saw the other barmaid, the older one who’d been working while Salma was getting fitted. She was standing just up the stairwell, locked in an ardent kiss with the huntress, Chelda. Chelda’s hand squeezed her arse and then slid up her back to grab her hair.
She forced the barmaid’s face into her cleavage, where her blouse and vest were falling open. With her lips, the barmaid caused two soft moans to shiver forth. Then Chelda pulled her hair back and kissed the woman’s open mouth hungrily. It was only then that Chelda noticed they were being watched. When she saw Vanx, she blushed furiously and separated herself from the girl.

  Vanx understood now why Chelda hadn’t gotten caught up in his eyes like most human women did. He acted like he hadn’t seen them by feigning a big-mouthed yawn and was saved from having to start an awkward conversation when Salma and Sir Poopsalot came in from the kitchens.

  Salma had a tray of sausages, fruit and bread, and Poops was dragging his well-chewed elk bone.

  Chelda recovered from her embarrassment and took a seat across from Vanx. Like a striking viper, she deftly snatched one of the sausages and an apple slice from his tray while Vanx was greeting Poops.

  “Want to go wizard hunting?” he asked the dog, as he scratched him behind the ears. He’d seen Chelda’s thievery and couldn’t help but admire her boldness, as well as her taste in women.

  Poops responded with a sharp bark and was so excited that he dropped his bone and began prancing and wiggling his nub of a tail.

  “Got to have a mage,” Chelda said, after she swallowed her morsels. “You might try that herb shop on Navigator Row, or maybe that tavern called the Witch’s Tit up in Hightown.”

  “We will.” Vanx laughed in a way that told her he’d figured her out on more counts than just the petty theft of his morning meal. She blushed again, and he laughed, glad that she wasn’t trying to explain.

  He finished his plate, then put Poops’s padded leather harness on. Over the last few days, he’d spent the mornings getting the dog used to the rig and the idea of having someone tethered to him. Out on the tundra, Vanx intended to keep Poops fastened to him at all times lest the dog get too far from them and fall through the surface. Poops didn’t seem to mind the harness. In fact, he had an annoying habit of stretching the tether to its limit in order to sniff at every single thing, living or otherwise, that they came across.

  As they made their way down the dirty ice-packed street, Poops put his muzzle into piss pots, trash heaps, haulkat piles, and a huge mound of half-frozen muck that Vanx couldn’t identify. On several occasions, he had to yank him away before the young dog tried to taste the nasty stuff he was investigating. Then there was the pissing, or musking, as the haulkatten handlers called it when the big cats did the same sort of thing. Vanx couldn’t figure how a half-grown pup, barely the size of a fox, could manage to come up with so much piss.

  Before long, the dog led them to an alleyway and started dragging Vanx down it toward a man.

  “Oh. Oh no, please.” The man’s insistent voice held real fear.

  The sound of Poops’s thin, adolescent growling put Vanx in a state of full alert. Why was Poops being aggressive toward the stranger?

  “What is this?” the man asked. He was tall, slender and youngish, with a long goatee and a black leather skullcap. “Make him stop. Please.” The man’s fear, after sizing up Poops, was quickly turning into annoyance.

  Poops had a hold of the man’s fur-trimmed robe now and was yanking it while growling with almost comical savagery. Vanx looked at the man apologetically and gave Poops’s tether a sharper tug. Poops rolled his eyes toward Vanx but didn’t let go of his mouthful. When their eyes met, Vanx felt a tingle of fire thread down his spine. He looked back up at the man and was suddenly very curious.

  Black skullcap, long, bell-sleeved robe and deep, intelligent, if annoyed, eyes that returned his stare. Vanx couldn’t help but belt out a laugh before he extended a hand toward the mage in greeting.

  “I must apologize for my friend here,” Vanx said as the man reached out and shook his hand. “Poops took me a bit too seriously this morning when I told him we were going wizard hunting.”

  The wizard laughed uncertainly then looked beyond Vanx. Poops stopped barking, too. Vanx turned to see what had stifled them. He caught a glimpse of a familiar face when a hooded and heavily cloaked figure charged away. A strange feeling assailed him then. The girl had skin as black as pitch.

  Gal?

  Chapter Four

  They came on clever ships of wood,

  those that called themselves men.

  They spread like mice through fertile fields

  and overtook the land.

  -- Balladamned (a Zythian song)

  “Do you honestly know two wizards of the Royal Order of Parydon?” Xavian, the wizard, asked Darbon and Vanx for the third time since he’d met them. They were at the bar of the Iceberg Inn and Tavern. It was Spring Fest Day, and outside the inn the whole city was bustling with the preparations for the year’s most anticipated celebration.

  “Aye,” Darbon nodded again. “Orphas of Highlake started the healing of these wounds on my face his very self, and Duke Elmont’s wizard, Quazar, sort of owes us. Well, he owes Vanx his life.”

  “I dreamed of joining the Royal Order when I was a boy,” Xavian mused dreamily, but only for a moment. His attention quickly went back to the business at hand. “So, if I assist you on this quest, or hunt, or whatever you call it, you swear you’ll get me an introduction?”

  “I will,” Vanx nodded absently. “To King Oakarm himself, if need be.”

  Vanx was the only one of them not facing the bar. His eyes were on the common room as if he were waiting for someone.

  “He owes Vanx as well,” Darbon chimed in on cue.

  As preposterous of a sell job as it was, it was all true, as the mage was currently verifying.

  After he’d felt the tiny surge of magical energy that passed between Poops and Vanx, when they were accosting him in the alley, he’d been intrigued. The possibility of a dog possessing even the slightest bit of magical ability piqued his curiosity to no end. He was interested in joining them as soon as Vanx offered him a position, but he was twice as intelligent as he was poor, and was now bargaining for all the boons he could possibly squeeze out of these well-connected loons.

  They’ll probably get out there and muck around for a few days, and return with a tall tale and a few elk, Xavian told himself. They couldn’t really be interested in facing off with a saber shrew, could they?

  After Vanx brought up all the unlikely royal acquaintances, Xavian cast a spell of truth on him, but its power fractured and scattered away from the green-eyed man as if he were surrounded by some magic-proof bubble. This only intrigued Xavian further, but what was sealing the deal for him was that he’d just cast the same spell on Darbon and was learning that every bit of what they were telling him was the truth. Now he was rehashing the list of promises, payments and boons through Darbon to make sure that none of them were lies or exaggerations.

  To his great surprise and pleasure, he was finding that these were indeed two completely honest men. They were honest to the fault of holding back nothing when telling Xavian of the dangers and the risks involved in the undertaking. He dismissed these, though, because he was already anticipating getting lost in the scrolls and manuscripts of the Royal Parydon Order’s vast archives, not to mention the leisurely two-week journey he’d enjoy surrounded in opulence on one of the finer ships that sail between Orendyn and the island.

  Just for form’s sake, he went over the deal one last time.

  “So, I get thirty golden falcons now and a full share of the profits, should there be any.” Xavian scratched at the edge of his worn leather skullcap and then ticked all of the individual items off on his thin, well-manicured fingers as he continued. “Should this hunt prove fruitless, I’m still guaranteed twenty more golden falcons upon our return.” He stopped and looked Darbon directly in the eyes. “Plus a letter of introduction to one or both of the royal wizards you named earlier, and a letter of recommendation based upon my service to you on our little adventure here.” He looked down at his now fully opened hand and then back at Darbon.

  “Aye.” Both Vanx an
d Darbon nodded in unison.

  “But you only get five of your gold coins now, upon agreement,” Vanx said. “The other twenty-five you’ll get tomorrow, just before we exit the north gate.” Vanx patted him on the shoulder.

  We wouldn’t want you to vanish, Vanx said through a simple spell. Then out loud, “We have no guarantees you’ll return for the rest.”

  “You’ll have to use this to buy your own personal cold weather gear and any supplies that are exclusive to your…your… your magery,” Darbon added as he laid five gold Parydonian falcons on the scarred bar.

  Xavian looked at them. They twinkled and gleamed as they reflected the dancing flames from the great hearth.

  He wasn’t a saver. When he had money, he lived high on the boar until he was forced to work again. This was more money than he had ever had at once. Not the five coins before him; he’d earned the standard thirteen gold galleons per haul before, as a ship mage on the big three masters that brought precious firewood, lumber and goods over from Harthgar. To earn at least fifty of the heavier golden falcons at once was an opportunity he might never chance upon again. And if they were successful, the gods only knew how much he’d get for his share of the profit.

  Xavian heaved out a sigh and looked at Vanx. Knowing the man had spoken to him through the ethereal with his cantrip made him more certain that what he was about to say would be taken seriously. “I’ll expect every ounce of protection you can provide while I’m casting. And you’ll have to let me rest, protected, and undisturbed, if I exhaust myself.” He reached over and took the coins, and quickly added, “And I’m not a fire pit. Don’t expect me to waste my skills keeping us warm out there, not unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  Vanx grinned at that and gave Xavian an approving nod. Just then, a local tailor came bustling through the door, and Vanx excused himself.