The Legend of Vanx Malic Books I-IV Bundle: To Kill a Witch

by M. R. Mathias

  The reason Chelda’s people were referred to as giants, Vanx surmised, was because 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 ago. 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 of and spiteful toward the full-blooded Zythians who 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. Endell was out gathering supplies and securing haulkatten sleds. Vanx thought he might have sent these two over.

  “Please, continue what you were saying,” Vanx said.

  “After you talk to them.” She started to back away from the table.

  “No, stay, please.” Vanx smiled. “You are in this now as much as the rest of us. I want your take on them.”

  “They’re brothers,” she said quickly, before they were close. “I heard they are good out in the tundra but a little off in the head.”

  “You know them?” Vanx asked as he stood to make the customary Skmoe greeting of a head bow.

  “I know of them,” Chelda mouthed before making her own head bow from the less respectful seated position.

  They looked exactly alike, and like unruly children no less. They had short-cropped, yet shaggy, black hair and wide, solemn faces. They stood a handspan over four feet tall, which put the tops of their heads at Vanx’s chest. Even with his keen Zythian senses, he couldn’t tell them apart.

  They were dressed the same, too. Thick gray-striped-on-black sea tiger fur coats and elk-hide britches. The coats were worth a sizable bit of coin. Vanx could tell by the way they wore them that they hadn’t bought them, but had killed the sea tigers themselves. Out among the native peoples, it was a sign of great skill and bravery. Here in the city, it was a sign of great wealth.

  The only difference Vanx could determine now was that one of them had his left pant leg caught in his boot cuff.

  Seeing Vanx notice this, the man with his pant leg fouled gave Vanx a deadpanned look. “It’s like that so we can tell ourselves apart.”

  Chelda snorted out a laugh, and Vanx smiled, despite his attempt to remain staid. Both of the Skmoes managed to stay stone-faced, as if the comment were a completely serious remark.

  The one who hadn’t spoken yet took a seat, and his brother followed. The one with the fouled pant leg called for the barmaid.

  Vanx waited patiently as a woman he didn’t know by name brought over a fresh round for all four of them.

  “It is so kind of you,” the woman said to Vanx, nearly drifting away into his gaze when she caught it. “Salma is beside herself. I’m certain she will look splendid when your tailor is done with her gown.”

  Vanx smiled and nodded politely. After Darbon formally asked Salma to the spring dance, Vanx sent them both to the tailor to be fitted with proper attire. He wanted them to look and feel like royalty. He wanted Darbon to lose himself in the evening. Salma too, for that matter, but at the moment he wanted the barmaid to go away so he could talk to these odd twins.

  Chelda must have noticed, for she slapped the woman on the arse sharply and sent her for some fresh bread. This caused Pant-leg to grin mischievously. After the barmaid had gone, the other Skmoe finally spoke.

  “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.