The other thing Vanx noticed was that the stalactites in that center area of the domed cavern extended farther down and the stalagmites reached higher up than anywhere else he could see. At the edge of the area where he’d seen the Zwarvy tending their gardens, there hadn’t been any drooping fangs or up-reaching spikes at all. Now, as they came round a row of dwellings made from tightly fitted blocks, Vanx couldn’t help but gasp.
As in the cavern, where he’d fallen under the Zwarvy’s sleep spell, several of the stalagmites had met in the middle and formed columns. Only here it looked to be no random occurrence. It was a divine place, created by some godly hand; of that Vanx had no doubt.
A pool had formed, more a pond in size, around the bases of the substantial columns. The random stalactites above that hadn’t reached down to their mates were dripping. The falling drops plopped silvery water that exploded into a misty spray when they hit the tops of the spikes reaching up from below. The effect was spectacular, for the glowing blue mineral formations made the mist seem like a magical cloud hovering just above a man’s reach.
“Skelatra,” Pak said with reverence, indicating the sight above the cottony blue layer.
Rising up out of the cloud like some massive barred cell was a small island. At its center stood a large, drooping tree that looked to be made of ivory, or maybe slightly yellowed bone. From its twisty limbs, tiny silver leaves glittered like scales, and translucent, golden apple-sized orbs, which held a curious flickering light source of their own, dangled from the branches. Surrounding the tree, at least twenty paces from its massive trunk, were the stalagma-formed columns. The space between them was uniform and about wide enough for two men to wade between side by side. The effect they created around the ancient Earth Bone Tree, for Vanx recognized it as such from his lore lessons, was that of a gargantuan cage.
“Is it true that fairies are born from its fruit?” Vanx asked, remembering the tales and wishing he had listened more.
“Fairies?” Olden Pak frowned as he considered the word. He shook his head from side to side. “Wispwights,” he said. Vanx had heard the term before, but wasn’t quite sure what a wispwight was. He assumed it was another form of the fairy folk: pixies, sylphs, flutters and glimmers, why not a wispwight too?
“Un mest go unton Skelatra consoderin unself. Ruetun un granten Zwarvy ful ena.” Though the old Zwarvy’s words were spoken in his strange dialect, Vanx understood them clearly. If he went into Skelatra and then returned, the Zwarvy would help him complete his quest. Pak had an apologetic look on his face as he spoke, as if he were certain that Vanx would find this disagreeable. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
“What if I choose not to enter?” Vanx asked, trying not to provoke or offend, but wanting to understand the gist of his situation.
Olden Pak told him that if he didn’t enter then he could never leave the Unzurra. The Unzurra, Vanx surmised, was the whole of the Zwarvy underground. It made sense to him. If he were a foolish person, a gossip, or a braggart, he could cause these people much harm. These were things he would never dream of doing, but how would Olden Pak or his people know? As a bard, he’d learned all the ancient tales and figured that the tree’s magic would assess his worthiness or something of that sort. Many of the songs Vanx sang had verses about the hero’s resolve being tested by similar means.
He shrugged and started off into the pool at a brisk pace. Had he been given the choice he would have chosen to take a closer look anyway. He didn’t turn to look back at the old Zwarvy as he went, but he said, “Look after that doogle if I don’t return.”
“Inna,” Pak called back in a respectful tone.
Vanx figured his host was happy that he was entering without resistance or argument.
Trevin squinted out at the fresh pile of dung a young red wyrm had left outside their hiding place. He was certain that he was seeing several mushrooms push up out of the foul, barrel keg-sized pile of muck. The smell was disgusting, but the phenomenon was curious.
That night had been filled with horrid sounds: roars of anger and triumph, calls of agony, and the crunching of bones and trees. It sounded as if every dark creature that had ever lived had come out to battle for some unknown prize.
The area suddenly quieted down, though. It was near dawn, and the silence drew Trevin’s concern. His ruined foot had grown stiff and sore, and Zeezle still slept soundly beside him. The Zythian had slept through the long, tension-filled span of time when the smaller red was traipsing about outside their shelter, picking its place to relieve itself. Since then Trevin had tried to wake Zeezle a few times, but only halfheartedly. The wild-eyed heathen had saved his life, and by the looks of it he needed every bit of rest he could get. He wanted Zeezle to use his sharp eyes to see if there was a place for him to hide along the entrance to Pyra’s lair. The idea that he could hide in a crack, run out and jab the dragon with his sword, fill a vial with blood, and then toss it out of harm’s way for someone else to grab before the dragon turned and ended him, kept running through his mind. No doubt he would die doing such a thing, but Zeezle could retrieve the vial after and hopefully get it to Prince Russet. He was so certain of his plan that he decided to wake Zeezle now.
He splashed water from the skin across Zeezle’s face and the Zythian fluttered open his lids halfway, revealing eyes still reddened by fatigue. Although the sight of those semi-luminous orbs was unsettling, Trevin was relieved to see him awake.
Zeezle took the waterskin and drank from it. He splashed a handful of the liquid on his wild-looking face. His nose crinkled as it was filled with the stench of the recently laid pile of dragon dung outside the hole. He made a disgusted gulping gesture, as if he’d swallowed some rotten morsel of food and was on the verge of heaving it back up. The look caused Trevin to chuckle, despite all the angst and pain he was feeling.
“I hate this place,” Zeezle whispered as he peered out of the shelter to take in the quality of the darkness that surrounded them.
“This island is the most horrible place I’ve ever been,” Trevin agreed.
“Not the island,” Zeezle corrected. “I love this island. I hate this valley. You humans can only smell the very faintest part of the stench. If the smell here was an onion, you’d only be smelling that dried outer skin. I can smell the raw center under all those layers, the part that brings tears to your eyes.”
“That’s awful,” Trevin said. Then his voice went into a hiss. “Another dragon. Over there.” He pointed across the valley at the hulking shadow he perceived to be a dragon. Zeezle peered around him.
“It is,” the Zythian confirmed in a whisper. “It’s a big fire breather and the cusp of dawn is upon us.” He grabbed the shoulder pack from the floor where he had been using it as a pillow. He dug through it and came out with a pair of gloves, a vial covered by a bull-scrotum pouch complete with a stopper dangling from a chain and a drawstring to seal it all up. He then produced a small dagger. Its blade had a long, deep furrow down the center of its length. It was a well-made copy of a kingdom-issued trench knife, and Trevin knew the furrow was there to help the blood flow.
“What are you going to do?” Trevin asked. Zeezle’s purposeful actions had revealed that he was about to do something demanding.
“That’s no small fire dragon out there.” Zeezle shoved the dagger through his belt and pulled on the gloves. “The stars are dancing about Aur. We don’t have to bleed Pyra. The blood of this wyrm should do. Almost anywhere but on this island such a dragon would reign supreme.” With that Zeezle started out of the shelter, leaving Trevin with a gaping mouth.
Trevin half expected Pyra to appear and blast the Zythian to ash, or some other winged beast to sweep by and pluck him from the ground. He moved so fast, though, that Trevin lost him in the shadows. He had to look across the valley at the darkened shape of the shitting dragon to find him. When he did, it was happening. Zeezle just ran up and jabbed it, gave a twist and a yank, then ran.
The dragon roared in surprise
and spun around. The first rays of sunlight had lit the sky enough for Trevin to see that Zeezle was more than halfway back across the valley and slipping from dung pile to dung pile trying to hide in their shadows as he went.
The dragon roared again and blasted a jet of flame, but it was directed nowhere near Zeezle. A beetle the size of a wagon cart that must have been feeding in a nearby mound took the blast and caught fire. Zeezle was right; it was no small dragon, and luckily its attention went to the gargantuan insect, not on the Zythian who was closing on the shelter already with a terrified grin on his face.
Trevin was in awe as Zeezle came diving back into their hiding hole. “Dawn’s light will give us enough cover to get up out of the valley, I think,” Zeezle said breathlessly. “The vial is half full. Can you walk?”
“I doubt it, but I’ll try,” said Trevin, relieved that Zeezle had retrieved enough. The idea that they had just gotten the blood of a formidable fire wyrm on Aur’s night filled him with a burst of determination. Before he could get up, Zeezle knelt by Trevin’s foot, and after gently pulling off the guardsman’s boot, went about removing the bandages he’d put on the night before.
It was the first time Trevin actually saw how bad the damage was. His big toe and the two beside it were completely gone. Little nubs of bone pushed through the blackened flesh where the toes had been connected. Seeing it caused it to hurt all the more and Trevin found tears streaming down his cheeks.
Zeezle took the foot in his hands and closed his eyes. He chanted a few words that sounded like nonsense, but then a soft yellow glow, like that of a candle flame, enveloped the wounds. Instantly the pain lessened. The char flecked away and reddish-brown scabs formed over the raw flesh left behind. The wound didn’t heal completely, not even close, but a week’s worth of regeneration transpired in those few seconds.
When he was done, Zeezle looked haggard again. The Zythian took off his own boots and, after rewrapping Trevin’s foot, helped him get them on. Trevin found that there was still a lot of pain, but he could walk now, and with the protection Zeezle’s boots gave him, he could move with enough confidence that he thought he could climb back over before the sun was fully in the sky.
Neither spoke as Zeezle led them up out of the valley. He moved deftly on bare feet, and though he was tired he kept a pace that took all Trevin’s will to maintain. Even when they were out of the foul cut in the earth, the Zythian didn’t stop. As the sun reached its zenith they found where Yandi and Darbon were hiding. They stopped and ate from the supplies there, and Trevin voiced his only concern.
“It wasn’t Pyra’s blood we took. Do you think it will work for Quazar’s concoction?”
“The dragon I pricked was a fire breather. The blood was taken while the stars still danced around Aur. I saw them. Though Pyra is a bit bigger, and the true queen of this island, her blood could be no more potent than this.” He held up the scrotum-covered vial in his hand. “I can assure you her shit is no more potent in scent.”
“So we can go then?” Darbon croaked. “What of Vanx? Did you find him?”
“We never looked,” Trevin replied, feeling the guilt start to build inside him.
“He went down a lot farther than you did, Darby,” Yandi said. “I doubt whether he survived the fall.”
“We need to travel as far as we can this day,” said Zeezle. “With two of you injured as you are, and the sun’s light upon us, we won’t make it down to the beach by dusk. Aur’s stars will dance again this night, and the sky will be full of wyrms battling to mate. I’d like to find shelter to get us through.”
“So we’re not gonna look for Vanx?” Darbon asked with tears pooling in his young eyes.
No one answered, and soon they were hobbling down the mountainous trail, Yandi holding up Darbon’s battered form, and Trevin limping along behind them.
They hunt gray bears and ogres
and they kill them with bare hands.
You’d be better to steal the prince’s pie
than to cross a Highlake man.
A Highlake Mountain Man.
– Mountain Man
Vanx stood before the Skelatra tree and watched as it shimmered into the lithe, naked form of Duchess Gallarain. Her hand extended toward him, and though he felt as if he were tempting fate somehow, he took it. She pulled him into her bed and wrapped her warm, smooth legs around him. Her hips ground his groin and he was soon erect and feeling the urge to plunge his manhood deep inside her. Her lips were moist and her voice husky as his cock slid in. She threw back her head and let out a long, slow moan. With one of her hands she grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm wide.
Vanx could feel her hard nipples against his chest. The smell of her sex was raw and potent. Lost in the feeling of her hot wetness, he didn’t notice that she had reached his hand up and was about to close it around one of the golden fruits dangling from the Earth Bone Tree.
“Take it, Vanx,” she begged him. “Take it for me.” He glanced over and saw what was happening. He didn’t immediately react, but when it dawned on him that he was still in the Skelatra he jumped up and found himself tumbling backward in the waist-deep pool. The vision was gone, replaced by a steamy hissing sound and an indistinct form. The steam spread and stretched and the air grew far warmer than it had just been. Then slowly the mist shifted into the huge form of the great, crimson-scaled dragon, Pyra. Vanx knew that this was only some sort of vision he was seeing. Had it been real he would have been trembling and cowering in utter fear. As it was, the illusion was only mildly intimidating, at least until the huge dragon reared back her horned head and opened her maw.
Vanx reflectively threw up an arm to protect himself. The dragon barked out a thunderous laugh in response. Vanx found himself chuckling at the absurdity of his defensive gesture. What would an arm do to stop a dragon?
The wyrm’s fanged teeth were as big as his whole body and could crush him on a whim. The dragon’s mirth settled into a deep, rumbling voice. “Your companions are leaving you behind,” it said. “They go in vain to try to save the princess; only they haven’t the blood they need. Your kinsman took it from a mudged and the girl will suffer for it.”
Vanx considered this. He couldn’t be sure if what he was hearing was real. He wasn’t even sure where he was anymore, but he knew he wasn’t really standing before a great red dragon.
“What can I do?” he asked finally.
“Take a fruit from the tree and bring it to my lair,” the dragon chuckled devilishly, sending dark curls of smoke roiling from her snout. “Stand before me true and, if you do not crumble with fear, we may be able to strike a bargain.”
“You’ll just eat me,” Vanx said, “or burn me up with your flames.”
“Fool!” The dragon laughed. “Who are you but a morsel to get caught in my teeth? A younger wyrm might find you a tasty treat, but to me you’re not but a scrap.”
“Where can I find your lair?” Vanx asked, but he already knew the answer. Zeezle had told him about the cavern that opened up on the valley they’d been traveling to when Darbon fell.
The looming shape of the dragon was already shrinking and whirling into a different form.
It was another woman, one Vanx recognized all too well. She was tall and slender, with shapely hips and well-rounded breasts. Her bare skin was tanned to a golden honey color and her hair was a wild tangle of shiny spun gold. Her eyes were flecks of sapphire and ruby that blended together into luminous lavender pools. It was the goddess Zytha herself, and Vanx fell to his knees before her.
“Ah, my emerald-eyed champion to be,” she smiled sweetly. “Rise and look upon me without humility. You I have blessed with life, but in doing so I cursed you with the loneliest of roads to travel.”
Vanx stood and looked into her purple gaze. A rush of loving adoration for this heavenly form filled his soul to brimming. “I know not of such a curse, Ama,” Vanx said, trying to keep the tremors out of his voice. “But for the chance to live, I am eternally grateful.�
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“After you’ve spent an eternity wandering the world, your feelings will surely change,” she murmured, but then spoke to him more clearly. “I am no manifestation of the Wightwood, Vanx. I came to warn you against the temptations it is trying to force upon you. Do not take of its fruit. No matter what transpires, you cannot, for each of the wisp nuts represents the life of a wispwight yet to be born. If you kill one of its children, the tree will cocoon you with its roots and take your life in turn.”
“What should I do?” Vanx asked. “Have the others really left me behind?”
“They haven’t yet,” she said sadly. “But the tree cannot lie. It can speak to you from a near future. They will leave you, Vanx.” The smile that spread across her face seemed forced. “You must stay here until the wightwood tires of trying you. Then you must make a bargain with the fire queen. You already have something she will covet. You can use it to gain her aid.”
The vision started to fade and the mist swirled about the base of the tree again.
“Remember, no matter how tempted you may be, do not succumb to temptation.” Her form was gone but Vanx could still hear her angelic voice whispering over and over again. “Do not take of the fruit.”
Vanx woke from what seemed like a dream. He was hungry, as hungry as he had ever been. He looked at his arms and saw that they were bone-thin. He felt his normally muscled thighs and found them narrow and bony as well. He looked up at the branches of the tree he sat under and saw the lush scarlet brightness of the apples dangling there. They were fat and seemed to be bursting with juices. His stomach clenched and he had to fight his body back from plucking one. He knew he had to master himself. He knew he had to obey his goddess, no matter how powerful the temptation became, even if he was trapped there forever.
Ootlin, driven by a soft, persuasive voice whispering in his head, ventured out into the world on the second night of Aur’s dance. He made his way through the forest and over the rocks to a place where the half-eaten carcass of a blue dragon lay sprawled across the earth. It wasn’t there that he stopped, but a few dozen paces beyond. He came to an area of crumbled rock that had been drenched in blood. One of the stones was bowl-shaped and half filled with the stuff. He drained the waterskin at his hip and then filled it. Without fear or caution, he traversed the island back into the shaft from which he’d emerged, all the way being directed by the voice inside his head. Only when he was back in the safety of the Unzurra did he understand what he had just done. Unsure of why he had done it, he was compelled to find Olden Pak and tell him.
The Legend of Vanx Malic: Book 02 - Dragon Isle Page 10