“Come on, boy,” Vanx said. “I need you to stand guard for me while I do a bit of climbing.”
Before Vanx was even standing, the dog was at the cabin door, his entire hind end wagging with excitement. The sight of the dog’s simple joy made Vanx envious. How nice it would be not to have to worry about evil witches and dead friends.
Poops stilled his glee and gave Vanx a look that caused him to pause. Poops missed Gallarael, too. This, Vanx gathered from that fleeting glance, as if it had been spoken in well-articulated words. He was picking up on the subtle signals the dog was sending, or maybe the thoughts were forming through the familial bond-link they shared.
“Come on, then,” he told the dog. “Let’s get this grim work over with.”
They went to the tree where the rope was tied and saw that it still trailed over the cliff’s edge. Leaning out as far as he dared, Vanx peered down into the depths of the chasm but couldn’t see anything of note.
“Go scout the edge of the forest, Poops,” said Vanx. “Make sure there is nothing lurking about, while I figure out what it is we need to do down there.”
A short while later, Vanx was carefully climbing down the rope, while Poops kept vigilant guard above. Vanx wasn’t in a descending rig, but he had the thick harness belt that he’d worn the day before when they traversed the cliff face. He cleverly looped the rope through a set of rings into a binding that allowed him to pause his descent and just hang from the line. This only worked as long as he kept a firm hold of the trailing end of his rope. If he fell suddenly, he wouldn’t likely be able to slow himself, so he took his time and didn’t risk the urge he had to push himself and swing out with his legs so he could see what was below him.
At one point, a burst of flapping wings and squawking beaks sent his heart hammering through his chest. A short while later, a huge shadow eclipsed the sun as it glided over him. Twisting like a maniac to see what new beast was behind him, he was relieved to find that it was just a silver-winged moth observing him curiously.
After a time, Vanx came to a ledge that was surprisingly wide, and as he stood there resting his arms, he saw something that filled him with hope. Boot prints.
He pulled up plenty of slack and then tied himself fast to the line, so that if he fell from here, he would only go a dozen feet or so before the rope stopped him. He carefully followed the prints along the rough, irregular ledge. The rock here was ice-slicked, but recent snow had piled over the glassy stuff enough to afford some traction. Vanx used the rope to keep himself upright as he inched along. He grew more hopeful with each successive step. What he eventually found poked a huge hole in his bucket of hope, though, and he couldn’t do anything other than stare at the bloody mess before him as it all leaked away.
The crimson stain was fairly large, but Vanx didn’t think it was a lot of blood from a major wound; it was more likely a little blood from a lot of smaller injuries. The vague shape of a sprawled body had been stamped, and then stomped, into the barely recognizable mess. Vanx guessed that this is where Gallarael had fallen, because there was part of one of her boots lying there, still half tied into one of the spiked cleats she had been wearing. The tracks leading along the edge hadn’t been cleated, and the portion of missing boot had been sheared away, not ripped or torn.
From all of this, Vanx only grew more confused. The boot prints had to be Darl’s, for they were definitely gargan-sized prints, but there was a good four feet of unmarked snow between the trampled blood stain and the edge of the ledge. The strangest thing was, there were no tracks leading to the edge of the stain. It was as if somebody had come as far as Vanx had and observed the mess, but then what?
There were no tracks leading back. Did some winged beast snatch Darl from the wall and carry him away? Something had taken the body that had made the stain. Vanx was suddenly worried that the giant serpent had come out of another hole and gotten them. He eased over onto the wider ledge and squatted down, contemplating the situation.
If Darl was alive, and there was a good possibility he was, they couldn’t just leave him.
“Darl!” Vanx called out with his hands cupped to his mouth.
“Darl— Darl— Darl—” his words came echoing back to him.
Again he called out but was only rewarded with his own desperate-sounding voice.
Vanx stood and looked out over the nothingness beyond his position. Off to the right, the frozen falls tumbled majestically. Off to his left, the little ledge faded back into the sheer cliff, which angled out of view only a few yards farther on. The bottom of the gorge was still a long way below them. This precipice wasn’t even halfway down.
The translucent blue-green falls sparkled like melted jade in the afternoon sun. All about the huge pillar of water, scarlet birds kited and wheeled. They swooped between the falls and the cliff through the eerie blue glow that refracted there. Not so far above them, a single giant moth: its massive, metallic-sheened wings alternating lavender, then turquoise, then lavender again as it opened and closed them in the sun. Vanx guessed those wings to be the size of ship sails, and he wished he could take the time to study the wonder of the creatures. He was beginning to feel a deep, brewing madness in the cauldron of his gut. It was a concoction of anger, sorrow, hate and regret, of guilt and love, and more than a little fear. What qualities the nasty brew would have when it all boiled over, he couldn’t say, but he knew one thing for certain—there would be havoc and destruction in his wake when it happened. Whether he survived the wrath of the emotional storm that was coming wasn’t that important anymore. The only thing that mattered was that the Hoar Witch didn’t.
There was a sudden eruption of birds again, this time from farther below him. Their cawing, shrieking cacophony was accompanied by an angry huffing sound that no small creature could make. It was too far down to be a threat to him, but Vanx knew that whatever it was might be what had gotten hold of Gallarael’s body.
The simple fact that he was powerless at the moment pushed his anger to its limits. He was suddenly of a mind with the elf, Thorn. It was time to start this witch hunt, for a hunt is all it really was now. All he had to do was stop being the prey.
Vanx stood and used his dagger to scratch an upward-pointing arrow on the cliff face. He pulled up several dozen yards of the rope’s trailing slack, and after wedging his old dirk in a crack in the rock, he tied the line to it, so if anyone set foot on the ledge, they couldn’t help but see it. He doubted it would matter. After hearing that creature and estimating its size, he was pretty sure Gal and Darl were dead.
Vanx forced it out of his mind and started thinking ahead. They could leave Xavian behind to tend Kegger. That way he, Chelda, Poops and the elf could make some time. The mage wasn’t suited for the Lurr. Besides that, the jarring trauma Xavian had taken when his unconscious body had slapped into the cliff face the day before would hinder him from being able to keep up.
Chapter
Three
A battle they did fight
across the land and sky.
Against dragons and demons,
by the thousands they did die.
– The Ballad of Ornspike
It was sheer luck that Vanx spotted the grey-furred thing watching him from a low-lying tree limb. It was the creature’s long, sinuous tail that caught his keen eyes. When he followed that pink, snaking curl up to the leathery-winged possum that was watching him through its beady eyes, he knew that it was one of the Hoar Witch’s spies. He didn’t point it out to Poops and he did his best not to pay any attention to it. Instead he headed straight back to the cabin, slump-shouldered, looking sad and defeated. The moment he and the dog were behind the closed door, he rushed over to wake Xavian.
“What? What is it?” the mage sputtered. Then his eyes came open and the color drained from his face. “By the Six Wards of Marxulia, I ache in places I never knew I had.”
“Hush,” Vanx hissed through a devilish grin. “What sort of spells can you cast? Can you make false voi
ces? Or make it sound like there are several people in a room when you are really by yourself? Can you make it sound like me, Chelda and the elf are talking at the same time?”
“I can, yes,” Xavian nodded. “But not until I have spelled my own aching arse. I’ll have to, just to be able to concentrate enough to cast a specific false crowd.”
He tilted his head curiously and looked at the elf snuggled deeply into Chelda’s cleavage. Both of them had pleasant smiles on their sleeping faces.
“Why, Vanx?” Xavian shook his head and finally asked.
“I have a plan forming in my mind.” Vanx paused and looked at Xavian seriously. “You won’t mind staying here in the cabin and watching over Kegger while the rest of us trek on, will you?”
The look Xavian gave him was as full of disappointment as it was relief. “I’ll stay. At least, if you don’t come back, I’ll have a guide to get me out of here.”
“Yup.” Vanx grinned at him. “But you’ll have another sort of journey to take. You’ll have to go to Parydon and deliver a grave message to King Oakarm or his son. At least you have your letter of introduction for the Royal Order. You’ll do well.”
“Is she dead?” Xavian asked. “I had held out hope. I am sorry, Vanx.”
“There’s not much to hope for. Both she and Darl have disappeared, most likely into the belly of some beast.” Vanx sighed. He leaned closer and whispered. “We have another spy out in the trees. I’m going to go hunt up some meat, for when we’re gone and keep an eye on the thing. Tell the others to act normal when they wake. Tell them not to say anything that gives away that we know it’s there.”
“Come on, Poops,” Vanx nearly shouted then. “Let’s go hunt something to eat. It’s a long hike back down to Great Vale.”
Later that night, just after the sun slipped from the sky, Aserica Rime was roused from her bed by Clytun. The minotaur was excited and persistent. The Hoar Witch had been watching the warlock off and on, without sleep, since long before his group passed the frozen falls. She had just lain down, after spending most of the afternoon torturing information out of the pixie queen. Clytun’s orders had been to disturb her only if something was happening with the warlock. She knew Clytun wouldn’t bother her otherwise, so the moment her ancient brain registered the minotaur’s insistence, she was up and moving.
“Tell me what you saw,” she asked Clytun as they spiraled down a dank, torchlit stairway past landings closed off with heavy doors. Some of them were banded wood, some barred, like cages, with horrible moans or aggressive snarls coming from deep within. Then a thin plea for death echoed up the stairwell from farther below.
“It was like a fountain of bright blue sparks. It nearly blinded Flitch.” The minotaur spoke quickly, ignoring the harrowing sounds around him. “The whole group, save for the big gargan ranger and his helper, came outside. They huddled around their wizard, and he cast a spell, but I think something went wrong.”
The minotaur opened a huge iron door for the Hoar Witch. The stairs continued farther down, and from somewhere far below, that thin plea for death trailed up again.
Entering the room she snatched a drawstring bag full of some foul-smelling, bright yellow dust, and after sprinkling a generous amount across the still water of the raised pool in the center of the room, she dabbed a bit of the stuff on her tongue and swallowed it. She passed the bag to Clytun. The minotaur had already been dosed with the horrid concoction so he could hear what Flitch was hearing and saying.
Leaning over the pool, the Hoar Witch was just in time to hear the leading edge of a spirited argument outside of the cabin in the harsh, wavering light of a pitch torch one of them was holding.
“It worked the last time I tried it!” the mage growled. “I must have wasted too much of my power trying to save that stupid gargan.”
“Hey.” The barbarian shoved him. The flaming brand she was holding flared and sputtered with her movements. “Gargans aren’t stupid.”
At her feet, the dog barked and danced around crazily, adding to the din.
“It doesn’t matter!” the thin voice of the elf yelled out. “You’re all a bunch of shameful yellow-bloods. Curse y’all to the bottom of hell for slinking away.”
“Now wait a minute, you.” The warlock growled. “If you’re so fargin brave, why do you need us to save your wretched little queen?”
“ARP! Woof, woof,” sounded the dog.
“I don’t. We don’t,” The elf spat. “It’s all beyond saving now, anyway. The witch took the queen so we fae will just rot away. You’ll all come to regret it, if that blasted witch finally gains the full power of the Heart Tree.”
“Woof, woof, woof.”
“You’ll wish you’d stayed and fought her evil.”
“I’ll be in Harthgar,” the warlock shot back. “Or in Parydon, sipping mulled wine and playing my songs for heavy-breasted, jewel-laden merchants’ wives.”
“Wait. Stop all this.” The wizard’s voice rose over the others. “Let me rest. I’ll try to take us back to Great Vale on the morrow.”
“What if the witch’s pack of beasts comes back?” the barbarian argued. “They’ve already killed our guide and our ramma mounts.”
“She only sent them to warn us off.” The warlock squatted down and tried to calm the dog. “We are not going into her forest now. We are going to leave this foul place. Her warning worked. Why would she send them back?”
“She doesn’t need a reason. She’s a witch, you stupid, dog-loving heathen.” The big blond girl threw up her empty hand and passed the torch to Xavian. She then stomped her way back to the cabin.
“In the morning, I’m off to warn the fae,” the elf spat.
His voice was shrill and raw with anger and his arms flailed about wildly, trying to express his feelings.
“If you’ll not come help us, then I’ll go tell them the news. Though it will break their spirit, some of them might be able to escape the witch.”
“There’s nothing I can do about it.” The warlock stood and stared down at the elf. “My friend is dead. Two of my friends are dead. I didn’t ask to be called away from my music and the hearth fires and all the willing women.” Without waiting for an answer, he spun and walked back to the cabin. The dog was right on his heels.
“Like I said, I’ll try to teleport us back to Great Vale after I’ve rested,” the wizard repeated reassuringly. He followed the warlock back to the cabin, carrying the torch.
A moment later, when the elf went in and slammed the door, the forested area outside was left dark.
When Chelda left the argument, she hadn’t gone into the cabin. She had only opened the door and snatched her bow.
A few heartbeats later, her silent arrow, a shaft with its razor-sharp tip removed so that it wouldn’t kill the target, thumped into Flitch’s unsuspecting body, sending him tumbling tail over wide-eyed head, from his perch in the tree. His bat wings flailed uselessly, doing nothing to slow his possum body when it cracked into several branches and then thumped into a snowdrift at the base of the tree trunk.
Before the dazed sneak could recover, Chelda darted back behind the cabin and joined two other shadowy forms as they raced into the woods unseen.
“What happened there?” the Hoar Witch yelled. She had been lost in thought, already scheming on taking over the Heart Tree and contemplating all she had heard, but when the scene in her viewing pool went blank, it drew all of her attention.
By then Flitch had found a different place to hide, one closer to the cabin and away from whatever had just blasted him.
Aserica’s pool flickered back into a view; only now the cabin was far closer, and the Hoar Witch could more plainly hear the fools inside arguing and stomping about.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about thwarting the will of the dark one by letting the young warlock get away. He wouldn’t be pleased, but if she could do as the elf suggested and gain full control of the Heart Tree, then it would hardly matter what the dark one thought. The p
ower of a fairy tree was a far greater boon than the dark one’s favor.
The Hoar Witch only had to kill off the tree’s defenders and feed her witch blood to its roots. She would be bonded with the tree, then, and could access its power. She could use the Heart Tree’s own strength to purge the good from its sap. She could make it a heartless, cruel thing and she could command its might, with her will.
For a moment, the idea came to the Hoar Witch’s mind that the pixie queen had let herself be taken just so the tree would be vulnerable.
An elaborate trap?
No, the bane of the foolish is that they always put too much faith in others. No, the stupid pixie queen had called for a hero and a half-craven bard had come instead.
She sat there for a long time, perfectly still, with that thought hanging in her mind. Then she slapped the surface of her pool and growled out. “It’s a trick.” She snarled as she reached for the crystal talisman hanging from her neck.
“Flitch, you watch them like a hawk,” she commanded through the shard’s power. She had to cackle at the absurdity of that comparison, but the bout of manic glee didn’t lessen her rage. “That warlock has my blood in him. He won’t give up so easily. I should have known better. Do not let them leave without your beady little eyes fixed firmly on them, Flitch, or Clytun and I will mix you into a stew.”
A moment later she was focused on Vrooch, the monstrous leader of her hybrid wolfen pack.
“Vrooch, take your pack to the Heart Tree. Kill every elf, fairy, sylph and pixie you come across. Show no mercy.” She cackled again. “I want you to feed on the fae until you’re shittin’ magic mushrooms and pissin’ rainbows.”
“You, Clytun,” she turned to face the anxious minotaur. “You go wake the witch woods. If a squirrel so much as farts in my forest, I want to know about it. And you, my young warlock—” She looked at the ceiling, as if she could see Vanx standing there. “You will soon find out that Aserica Rime isn’t so easily fooled.”
That Frigid Fargin Witch (The Legend of Vanx Malic) Page 2