The gargan seemed pleased by the sudden look of concern that had come over Vanx.
The other gargans and Vanx’s companions spread out around the clearing’s edge. It was at least twenty paces across and relatively level. A single, low-cut ironwood stump, which had been hollowed out and used as a fire pit, stood near the center of the clearing. It was the only obstacle Vanx could see.
Xavian squatted near where Vanx was opening his instrument case and held Poops as still as he could manage. Gallarael stayed close, too.
“What do we do if you are wounded?” Xavian asked.
“Be ready to fight for your life,” Gallarael whispered. “If a drop of his blood so much as touches the snow, I’ll not be able to contain myself.”
Vanx heard Xavian begin reciting the words to a powerful blasting spell under his breath. “Don’t worry.” He grinned as he produced a long, carefully wrapped bundle. “I’ll not be bleeding today, unless our rammaton is a master bladesman, which, judging by his choice of swords, I’d wager he is not.”
“Don’t be a hero,” Brody called over to Vanx. “Fight a while then submit, and we’ll move on.” Brody couldn’t have heard what Vanx just said, but with his keen Zythian ears Vanx now heard his friend whispering doubts to Chelda.
The big gargan said something aloud and in a mocking tone. Whatever it was caused his men and Chelda to have a good laugh.
“He asked if you’re going to lull him to sleep with a song or come test his skill?”
Vanx thought back to a time when he had been just as overconfident with his fighting ability as this gargan was. A frail old master came in one morning and handily battered and bruised his body, and his pride, with naught but a plain walking stick.
Vanx remembered that lesson well.
He stood and turned to face his huge opponent and pulled the oilcloth free of the sword. The blade was still sheathed, but the jeweled hilt sparkled in the blustery daylight, as if it were illuminated from within.
“Tell him that I will play him a song later.” Vanx’s voice was as loud and full of bravado as the gargan’s had been. “Right now, I’m going to give him a lesson in swordplay that he would be wise to never forget.”
As soon as Chelda translated the words, Vanx unsheathed his blade. Its gleam was like quicksilver, and it drew a gasp from everyone in the clearing, Rammaton Tytak included.
“Tell him, Chel. Tell him that I’ve forgotten more about this kind of thing than he has ever known, and that if he wishes to survive this day, he should remember why the older, wiser ramma keeps his harem, while the young upstart usually wobbles off of the mountainside with naught but wounded pride.”
Tytak let out an angry growl after Chelda translated those words, and then the two men began to circle and close in on each other.
Chapter Eighteen
I cast this wreath into the sea
-to satisfy Nepton.
Shelter well into the depths
those souls you’ve taken on.
-- a prayer to the god of the sea.
The taunting had the effect Vanx intended it to. Not only had he angered and flustered the rammaton, but his confidence gave the bigger man pause. The seed of doubt Vanx had planted, he would now nurture, so that it would ripen, all in hopes of ending this before it got out of hand. Besides all of that, the gargans seemed to like his cockiness. He hoped that it would go far in earning their respect.
Rammaton Tytak came in first with a wide, but not entirely clumsy, swing that Vanx easily avoided. The big man’s blade was so heavy that Vanx had no trouble darting in behind it. He whacked the huge, bare-armed warrior across the biceps with the flat of his slim blade, hard. The resounding pop of metal on flesh made a sound resembling a breaking branch, but drew no blood. Vanx knew that it had to sting, though, and that the man would instinctively think he had been cut. He darted out of range of the rammaton’s sword, forcing his foe to find him again.
Vanx had a determined grin on his face, he knew. He was enjoying this now. He was getting a feel for the rammaton’s skill, or lack thereof. He sidestepped, lunged a jab in, and then kicked away a twisting backstroke. He dove through the rammaton’s legs, then, and rolled to his feet behind him. Half a heartbeat later he had his blade laid against the gargan’s neck from behind. He was hoping that his display of acrobatic dexterity would cause the other man to yield, but he had no such luck.
Rolling away from the edge of Vanx’s blade, the gargan came around and dropped to a knee. Vanx had been extended to keep his tip up along his taller foe’s neck. By the time he adjusted, the heavy sword was cutting at his legs low and surprisingly fast. He did the only thing he could do, which was jump up and hope to clear the cleaving steel. He only managed it by drawing his knees up to his chest, and it was a close thing. He couldn’t counter because he had to work on landing on his feet and keeping his balance.
He saw the angry bright pink stripe he’d put on the gargan’s arm as the man twisted with the momentum of his swing. Vanx nearly broke his ankles for that brief lapse of concentration. He had to drop and roll away to keep from injuring himself, and by the time he was back on his feet and ready, the gargan was already closing in.
Had he not been wearing thick furred britches, he would’ve earned more than the stripe he got across his thigh. It was far wider than the one he’d given the rammaton. As it was, the flat of the heavy blade hit him so hard that it knotted his muscle and nearly snapped the bone in two.
Poops barked savagely at the scene. Vanx saw that it was all Xavian could do to keep him in place. The wizard gave Gallarael a worried look. She had her face buried in Brody’s shoulder and thankfully wasn’t watching the battle. Vanx couldn’t afford the distraction, so he tried to will Poops to be calm and forced it all from his mind.
Vanx didn’t go off into some wild, blood-red rage or get lost in a frantic attack of desperation. Those sort of things only went well in stories, and maybe out on crowded battlefields, where one’s own death was imminent and glory was aplenty. No, Vanx withheld his rage and somersaulted backward, giving himself some space. Only then did he face off with the rammaton again.
Vanx didn’t wait for Rammaton Tytak. He went into a long series of lightning-quick stabbing, slicing, and thrusting attacks that had the bigger man dancing, dodging, and defending with all he had in him. Within a few moments, the gargan was heaving out great roiling clouds of breath, and when Rammaton Tytak saw that Vanx wasn’t even slightly winded, and was in fact grinning broadly and offering a wink of delight, the seeds of doubt Vanx had planted earlier began to grow.
A few quick moves later, Vanx had a lush garden blooming. He went flipping and tumbling around the slogging warrior, and when his blade found the rammaton again, he let the edge of it bite into the flesh. Not deeply, but enough to remind him that, if Vanx had wanted to, he could have taken off a good portion of the arm.
The rammaton, seeing his blood, and on the verge of exhaustion, went into the sort of panicked rage Vanx had avoided only moments ago.
Vanx knew he had to be careful here. One blow from the man’s weapon could cost him a limb or his life. Vanx didn’t try to counter the attack. He concentrated solely on avoiding the wild and savage blows that were coming fast and from every conceivable direction. The big man soon wore himself down, but not before earning Vanx’s full respect. Most well-trained Zythians could have survived that final barrage, but Vanx couldn’t think of a single human swordsman, not even the knights of the Parydon Royal Guard, who could have done as much.
Vanx retreated to the hollowed-out iron oak stump when Rammaton Tytak finally fell to his knees gasping for air. A full pillar of steam was rising from the gargan as he heaved volumes of icy cold air in and out of his lungs.
Vanx told Chelda to ask for his submission. Reluctantly, she did so. After a long, tense locking of eyes, the rammaton looked down at his bloody arm and then drove his blade into the snow-packed ground in front of him. He gave a grudging nod toward Vanx, drew his dagg
er from his belt, and then proceeded to cut off a lock of his white hair. When he was done, he held it out in offering.
“It’s called a sorethatch,” Chelda explained. “A token of your victory. Take it. I’ll show you how to secure it in a bead. If we come across another ramma rabble, it will keep us from having to prove our worthiness again. It will go far in helping to secure the stock we will buy near Shepherd Springs.”
Vanx came down off the stump and took the strands of hair. The other gargan men gathered round and congratulated him. Rammaton Tytak wasn’t angry, or if he was, he didn’t show it. He had his wind back, he cleaned the blood from his arm with a handful of snow and then ordered his men to build a cook fire in the iron oak stump.
It was still early in the day, and Brody, Gallarael, even Xavian, seemed to want to be moving on their way, but Chelda convinced Vanx that it was wiser to stay and listen to the men, who traveled the higher foothills every day. She wanted to learn the safest route to where they needed to go, and what passes and dangers they should avoid.
While she conversed around the stump fire, Chelda took a black bead from her pack and made a true sorethatch for Vanx out of Rammaton Tytak’s hair.
A haunch of venison had been dug up out of a nearby snow bank and was now roasting on the fire. The air was thick with its rich aroma, and one of the gargans even found a meaty bone for Poops to gnaw.
No one really understood what was being said, save for when Chelda was telling of the saber shrew they’d hunted and killed, and displaying its fangs. Then Chelda and the men of the ramma rabble went on to more serious subjects. The body language of the gargans, when they spoke, became very animated, and it was plain that they were speaking of something that irritated them deeply. Once the meat was done cooking and healthy pieces were speared on daggers all around, Chelda told Vanx and the others what she’d learned.
“None of these men have actually seen the beast, but they’ve seen its scat and its tracks. It destroyed a small fisher-folk village at Three Tower Lake. Some of the people fled out onto the thin ice toward the island at the lake’s center. The thing followed but fell through before it got to them. They all thought it drowned, but it later surprised a party out hunting elk near Kovz Valley.” Chelda made a reverent gesture with her hand to her heart. “It killed two of those seven and disappeared back into the forest, as if it were made of mist.”
“What sort of beast is it?” Vanx asked.
“Should it concern us?” asked Brody after him.
“They…” She gestured toward the gargan men. “They heard it was a white-scaled beast shaped something like a haulkat from one group of people, and that it was a sleek, white-furred wolf from another. Still others have said it was some sort of lizard. They call it the Shangelak, which is an old word for changeling.” Her eyes met Gallarael’s and held them for a moment. “Shapeshifters have found their way into the stories of my people forever. Changelings are thought to be demonic and evil. My people will hunt down and kill any changeling they can.”
“Do we have to pass these places?” Brody asked. “The places it attacked?”
“Not directly. My home village, Great Vale, is beyond Three Tower Lake, but we can go the other way around it. There are hunting parties made up of young, glory-seeking gargans out after the thing, so we have to watch out for them and the Shangelak both.”
“Do we have to go to Great Vale?” Xavian ventured.
Chelda looked at the mage then at Vanx. Finally, she shrugged. “No. But I hoped to. We can hear the old tales of the Hoar Witch and the Arbor priest from one of the eldritch there, though, and buy the mounts we seek from the shepherds who frequent the hot springs nearby.” Chelda shrugged again, but Vanx knew her indifference was forced. “All of it is on the way to Rimehold.”
“Great Vale it is, then.” Vanx nodded to Brody and clapped a reassuring hand on Xavian’s back.
With still plenty of time to travel left in the day, Rammaton Tytak bade them farewell and gave a deep head bow to Vanx.
Vanx, Poops and their companions followed Chelda deeper into the steeply graded forest. The rammaton led his men farther south along the gargan border.
By that evening, Vanx’s bruised thigh was aching, and he was as relieved as ever when Chelda stopped and indicated a shallow cave where they could set up camp.
Xavian had noticed Vanx’s limp and performed a minor healing of the sore muscles. Vanx was glad for it. He could heal others, if the wound wasn’t too bad, but he’d never mastered the tricky art of healing himself. The few times he’d tried, he only managed to waste his energy.
They posted two-person watches now that there was a specific danger to worry about, but throughout the night only a loud outburst from Poops, when a small creature ventured too close to the camp, disturbed their otherwise peaceful rest.
The terrain grew considerably steeper throughout the next day, and a light but steady flurry of snow began to fall. Sharp and uncaring fists of hard gray stone jutted up through the snow, and the trees were less dense here. It was so steep at times that Vanx had to crane his neck to see what lay ahead of them. They ended up camping in a deep crack at the base of one such outcropping of rock that night.
Poops killed and dragged out a heavy brown spider, half his own size, from back in the depths of the fracture, which kept the others in its opening for the duration of the night. No one slept well, save for Xavian, who was too tired to be afraid of a huge, creeping arachnid.
The next afternoon brought them to the crest of a high ridge with a view that was breathtaking. Below them lay a vast, bowl-shaped valley that was floored with a perfectly flat expanse of what would’ve appeared to be tundra, had the lake’s water been frozen all the way across.
Where the water was frozen, it was covered with an unblemished blanket of snow. Where it wasn’t, the smooth surface reflected the blustery blue-gray sky as if the lake were the very looking glass of the gods and goddesses above.
The surface was so still and smooth that, if the snowflakes weren’t still floating down before his eyes, Vanx would have felt as if he were in a painting.
Snow-laden pine trees climbed sharply up and away from the frozen shore, and a gauzy mist hung over the water. Sitting off of the inner edge of the ice rim was a small island. Rising up from the island, like the gloved fingers on a maimed hand, were three ancient towers. One of them had crumbled, making it look as if that finger were bent at the first knuckle. Of the remaining two, only one looked whole and stood straight. The other had a healthy lean to it, and the top fourth of it had crumbled away. Even at the great distance from which they were seeing them, it was clear they were old and abandoned.
“Three Tower Lake,” Chelda stated the obvious. Then she went on to say that the crumbly towers had been there long before her people had settled the mountains.
A thin trail of wood smoke could be seen at the northern edge of the ice shelf where it met the trees. There were several huts that had been burned or otherwise destroyed, but there were a few people moving about. Without a second glance, Chelda turned them southward and led them around the lake in the opposite direction.
Chapter Nineteen
Remember those days of old,
when nothing could go wrong?
Now the days are young again.
Where has my lifetime gone.
-- A Zythian bard’s song
Aserica Rime’s worried, yet gleeful, cackling suddenly hiccuped into a choking cough when she sensed her own kind among those she was spying on. She backed quickly away from the seeing pool, and the link between her and her mutated griffin child, Sloffon, snapped with an audible, and slightly painful, “pop!”
Who could it be? And why were they traveling with the barbarian woman? Furthermore, why was she in possession of a Trigon artifact? Where had she gotten such a thing?
It was alarming, but in a curious sort of way. What wasn’t so curious was the Trigon medallion. She’d felt its presence the very instant the gargan woma
n had put it on her wrist. After that, she’d had her beast ferret out its location, so she could track them from afar. Only, this night, she felt something else among the group: one of her kind, and that was just plain frightening.
“Well, Clytun, at least it’s not those Trigon bastards coming to finish our little war.” She spoke more to herself than to the hulking minotaur who stood vigilant guard near the heavy witchwood door of her lookout.
The dingy, underground room was torchlit and filled with tables strewn with all manner of crystal balls, looking glasses, and other ancient far-seeing devices. The chamber was dominated, though, by a circular pool formed with a knee-high stone retaining wall.
Witch blood, true witch blood, was the rarest of things. A witch might birth a hundred different offspring, each with its own shape and form, but only one in that hundred had even a chance to be born with the witch blood. And here one was --a mannish warlock even-- the sort of bastard that comes along only once or twice a millennia. What was so confusing was that this would-be warlock seemed unaware of what he had the potential to become. He was also of her bloodline. This is what she had sensed in him that startled her so badly, for she knew the only child of hers to be born in a mannish form had sacrificed himself to Nepton’s wrath half a century ago.
She hobbled over to a mirror and stood before it. Her hair was a gnarled tangle of gray and yellow-white, her face a sad, wrinkled covering hanging loosely over an almost five-hundred-year-old skull filled with knowledge. Her eyes were tiny black orbs, and her teeth brown and as crooked as her nose.
Normally, she might have taken the time to study her distasteful reflection. Sometimes her ugliness fueled her determination. Seeing herself filled her with hate and jealous rage, but not this day. This day she was too curiously alarmed to need the extra motivation.
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