“Aye.” Vanx grinned at her. “But I, for one, would want no other to guide us.” He made what he hoped was a serious face.
Poops crawled into his lap because Vanx had stopped his affectionate ear scratching.
“But there’s more to my wanting to go up there than treasure hunting and glory seeking,” he continued after the dog had settled. “It is complicated, and once you hear the truth of it, you may not want to go with me.” His eyes met Brody’s. “When you find out some things, some things that you could have never guessed about me, you might even decide not to be my friend anymore.”
“By the gods, Vanx,” Xavian said suddenly, “you’ve got me more than curious now. What is all this about?”
He told them, then. He told them that he was a fifty-three-year-old half-blooded Zythian, possibly the only half-human, half-Zythian to have survived birth in an eon. He told them that his father was the infamous Captain Marin Saint Elm, the same captain who had kept the Zythian ship witch on board his ship Foamfollower. The same captain who went down with said ship on the very first voyage it took without her. He told them that he suspected he was kin to Aserica Rime, and that there was an uncanny power calling him toward the Bitterpeaks. He also told them that he was going with or without them, that he didn’t need the map because he’d memorized it, and that he had no idea what sort of fate awaited him at the end of his quest.
“If she’s a real witch, which I expect she is, to be the root of so much legend and lore, then she might still be alive. There is no guessing what sort of foul things she keeps in her service up there, either,” Vanx finished.
“I’d have never guessed your age,” Brody said with a shake of his head. “You’re right about that, but just because I think of Zythians as strange, don’t mean I can’t be your friend.”
“I know folks who will turn and walk away when they see yellow eyes in the shops along the row, or by the merchants’ bazaar,” said Xavian, “but I’ve been on many a ship with your people, and I’ve found them relatively normal, if a bit cocky and snide. There’s always a heathen—uh, I mean a Zythian—down by the dockside near the luxury district.”
Vanx didn’t let his hackles rise because of the mage’s slip of the tongue. Xavian was blushing furiously, and Vanx could see that he was now getting the gist of what he was concerned about. Vanx searched Chelda now, who was studying him closely, too, a half-grin, half-narrow-browed scowl on her round face.
“I can’t have a problem with you, Vanx,” she laughed. “Not if you’re Marin Saint Elm’s son. You’re practically gargan, like me. Everyone knows that Saint Elm’s priestly father came from over the mountains when the king of his age started up the ore mines and began clearing the great forests of their timber. I can’t recall the whole story, but I remember this much: the Hoar Witch captured a priest of Arbor and bespelled him to fall in love with her, but being that she was immortal and he was not, she used his seed to get her with child, but not just one child, as you think. There are several witch children in our lore. One of our eldritch could tell you the stories of them all.” She shrugged but was smiling brightly now. “Some of the children are supposedly the beasts that wander the Lurr, protecting her stronghold. There is Saint Ash and Saint Blackthorn, Saint Hemlock, and Saint—”
“More likely those are just the trees of the Lurr itself,” Xavian said.
“Bah.” She slapped his chest with her good arm backhand fashion. “Don’t be presuming in the middle of my story.”
The gesture was so much like the way the twin Skmoes smacked each other that both Brody and Vanx had a deep laugh. The mirth only grew when Xavian furrowed his brows and rubbed at his chest like a scolded child.
“Could we possibly meet with one of your eldritch when we go to purchase some ramma or devil-horns?” Vanx finally asked. “Maybe spend an evening hearing all of them?”
“I’m sure it can be arranged.” She grinned. “But it will take more than one evening to hear them all.”
In high spirits, despite their injuries and the death of Smythe, they rode through the gates of Orendyn’s ice wall the next evening. Skog the skog sat proudly atop the shrew but had to lie flat against its thick fur to keep from being toppled off of the beast by the city gate’s archway. It was late, and most of the northern part of the city was asleep or bundled in for the night, but still a small crowd gathered and began following them through the streets. It wasn’t every day they got to behold one of the tundra’s fiercest predators.
The companions stopped the monstrous thing right in front of the Iceberg Inn and Tavern. Vanx figured that Lem and Fannie wouldn’t mind. By morning there would be a score of local merchants and tavern men converging to make a bid on a share of the meat, and ten times as many thirsty gawkers hoping to hear about the kill and get a glimpse.
Vanx followed Darbon through the door, holding Poops in his arms as if the dog were a newborn child. Despite the powerful urge he had to be elsewhere, he was happy to be back. Darbon had clearly never been more glad to be someplace in his life. Both of them were grinning, at least until they saw Gallarael Martin Oakarm, the Princess of Parydon, waiting expectantly by the hearth fire. The look on her face told them so much more than they wanted to know. That much grief could only mean one thing. Trevin was dead.
Chapter Twelve
Old Master Wiggins
loved the Spring Fair dance.
He twirled and spun so hard and fast,
he came out of his pants.
– a Parydon street ditty
When Gallarael saw Darbon’s face, she dropped her eyes. What little excitement she was showing scrunched back into anguish. Darbon stopped stock-still, and Vanx had to brush past him to get inside the tavern. For an awkward moment, he didn’t know what to do with Poops, but the dog began to squirm, so Vanx sat him on the floor. Poops gave Gallarael’s boot a curious sniff, then he hobbled off toward the kitchen looking for a treat.
Vanx wrapped his arms around her and hugged her, kissing the top of her head like a father might when gathering in a troubled child.
“He died, Vanx,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “He got the gut rot and died because of me. And look at Darbon’s scars. Oh gods, look what I’ve done.”
“Quazar and the wizards couldn’t—”
“They did all they could do.”
Vanx didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He looked around the common room as he held her close. At this hour, the tavern was empty. Most of the chairs had been turned upside down, and the floor had been swept. A pair of merchants were at the bar and had stopped their conversation to stare at the teary scene taking place by the fire.
Vanx realized that Gallarael was alone; no handmaidens about, no retinue of armed soldiers to guard her.
Chelda, Skog and a dozen curious townsfolk came streaming in. Chelda ran right into Darbon, who was still standing there like a statue.
Lem, the owner, was trying to ignore Vanx and his terrible situation and motioned for the newcomers to come over to the bar and allow Vanx some space. Vanx nodded his appreciation.
“I’ll buy the first round, if you tell us the tale, Chelda,” a man said jovially.
“Hear, hear! And I’ll buy the second,” said another.
Chelda agreed and whispered something to Darbon.
Darbon blinked himself out of his shocked state and went to ask about Salma.
Vanx could tell that the boy was troubled. He was sure Darbon understood that their friend was dead. He could only hope that seeing Gallarael wouldn’t send him back into his depression.
Brody and the Skmoes came in, bringing with them a blast of cold air and another group of gawkers. Suddenly, the common room was bustling and alive with people.
“Do you have a room?” Vanx asked, having to speak loudly and into her ear now to be heard.
Gallarael nodded into his shoulder that she did.
“Did you run away without telling anyone where you were going?”
She nodde
d again. Then she pulled back enough to look into his eyes.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. She took in the crowd and then wiped her nose self-consciously. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken into her pale face, and her nose was bright pink and raw.
“They think my name is Galra.” She nodded toward where Lem and Fannie were hustling to fill some mugs. “I told them that I am the sister of a friend of yours who died.” Tears still streaked her cheeks, but a genuine, if slight, smile crept across her beautiful face. “Salma is nice. She’s smitten with Dar.”
“How long have you been here?” Vanx took in her new look. Her once long, wheat-golden hair was cropped short and black as pitch. “What did you do to your hair? Did you dye it?”
“Three days.” She let out a deep sigh as she went on. “And it’s not dye. I’ve changed inside Vanx. I’m not—not—” She paused to brush away a tear. “I’m not normal anymore. The remedy you brought back saved me from death, but I still change sometimes.” She started crying again and leaned into Vanx. “When I get angry,” she sobbed, “the darkness, it just… it just takes me over.”
Vanx held her but couldn’t help shuddering at the thought. He remembered all too clearly Gallarael’s razor claws, her snarling, furrowed face and wild, cherry eyes when he’d seen her huddled over Trevin’s body. Her skin had been dark, as if she’d been dipped in tar. Her eyes had been shot with blood and her mouth full of sharp teeth. She’d been vicious in that state, so much so that she had unintentionally thrashed her lover, Trevin, as well as Darbon’s face.
She must have felt him stiffen, for she pushed herself away from him again and met his eyes. “It’s not like before.” Her voice was defensive but sure and steady. “I have control over my actions. And sometimes I have control over when I change. When the darkness is on me now, I don’t feel terrified. I have accepted that part of me. I’m not prim little Princess Gallarael.”
She seemed to be proud of these things, and Vanx didn’t presume to judge her. He, if anyone, knew what it was like to be different.
“Well, don’t go changing around here.” Vanx forced a smile. “Not unless you can grow a good pelt. It’s cold outside. And I doubt Lem would want you to scare this crowd away.”
Vanx kissed the top of her head again. “It will be all right, Gallarael—I mean Galra.”
“Just call me Gal,” she told him. “And go tell Darbon, so he doesn’t give me up as the Princess of Parydon. I don’t want my father’s men over here searching for me.”
“Your mother is probably beside herself with worry.”
“She probably hasn’t noticed I’m gone yet.”
Vanx had to wait for a good long while for Salma to pull her lips away from Darbon’s. He was certain that anything he said to the boy would just flow into one ear and out the other.
Seeing Vanx watching them, Salma let Darbon loose and moved to give Vanx a hug.
“I’m so sorry about your friend Trevin,” she said solemnly. “And I’m glad you brought Darbon back in one piece. Galra told me a little about the two of you.” She looked at Darbon with glowing eyes. “A lot about one of you.”
Vanx cut Darbon off before he could say anything. “I know you don’t want to turn loose of your man just yet—” he smiled kindly at his friend, “—but I have a bit of news to share with him. You can have him all to yourself when I’m done.”
Salma nodded, and tears of compassion spilled down her rosy cheeks. She kissed Darbon then hurried off to help tend the late-night customers.
“What was that all about?” Darbon asked. “I know Trevin didn’t make it. I can see it in Princess Gallar—”
“Shhh,” Vanx shushed him. “That’s just it. They think she was Trevin’s sister,” Vanx said, only as loud as he had to. “She ran away from home and wishes to remain anonymous, for the time being.”
“Well, that explains why Salma was calling her Galra.” Darbon dropped his eyes. “How is she taking it?”
“Not well, and there’s more to it, but it can wait until the morrow.” Vanx gave him a pat on the back. “Trevin died for what he believed in. Never forget that, and don’t let any of this ruin your homecoming.”
“It does feel like a homecoming, Vanx.” Darbon’s look grew serious and his tone heartfelt. “I think that’s exactly what this place is for me: home.”
“I know, Dar.” Vanx smiled. “And I’m glad for you and Salma. Now come over and say hello to Gal. Just, whatever you do, don’t get her angry. She needs us to cheer her up.”
Darbon nodded. “I’ll be over as soon as I get us a round of those free mugs.”
“Good.” Vanx turned back to the table, where Galra awaited him. He was glad beyond measure to see that Darbon had gotten over Matty and that this new troubling news hadn’t sent him tumbling back down into his grief.
The three of them, with Salma stopping by to sit with them every chance she could manage, listened to Chelda tell the exaggerated tale of how they baited and killed the fearsome saber shrew.
Brody laughed heartily at the embellishments and threw in his own two coppers’ worth when she let him. Xavian blushed, but stood and bowed when his deeds were spoken of. The Skmoes nodded a lot, and drank even more. And they slapped each other across the chest every time their part in the hunt was brought up.
But Skog took the cake. He had impaled the shrew with his long pike, and then again with Chelda’s newfound sword. He spent the evening puffing out his formidable chest, as if he were the king of the world.
And the mugs of free drink kept coming.
Endell drank, too, and he spent a good bit of time putting words in all the right ears. He stopped by and introduced himself to Galra, offered his condolences, and then told Vanx that the morrow would be a very busy and profitable day for them. Already, two of the wealthiest houses and several merchants had sent runners up to inquire about meat, pelt and teeth.
It wasn’t until Vanx finally stood up and made a toast that the rest of the room got a sense of the sorrow that was hovering around his table.
Vanx made the toast to Smythe, who gave his life on the hunt, and to Trevin Lispan, who ultimately gave his life saving the girl he loved. “I can say that they both died well, and that is all any of us can ever hope to do.”
The people all toasted the loss, but the crowd slowly petered away after that.
Vanx didn’t wait for them to go. He escorted Galra to her room, then found Sir Poopsalot in the kitchen and retired himself. He chose not to dwell on the sorrows and losses of the past, nor the glory of the day. He went to sleep looking forward to what tomorrow might bring and knew that if Trevin were looking down at him from any sort of heaven, his friend would respect that the most.
But the hopeful outlook fled him in sleep. He spent the night tossing and turning to wild nightmares about a dark, living force and red-glowing eyes out in the rubble that never seemed to let him out of their sight.
When he woke, the urge to be somewhere else was overwhelming.
Chapter Thirteen
A battle they did wage,
By the thousands they did die;
against dragons and demons,
across the land and sky.
– The Ballad of Ornspike
For Vanx, the next few days went by in a blur. The Skmoes had taken their meat, hide and claws and disappeared happily, leaving the others to worry over the rest of the shrew. Vanx was continually bargaining, bickering, and parceling out portions of the meat from the massive beast.
He had help. Darbon and Skog did most of the skinning, and Chelda helped cut and weigh the meat, on a scale they borrowed. But it had fallen on Vanx to handle most of the negotiating. The tanners they’d commissioned had agreed to ready the hide, and the tailors to cut and sew the coats Vanx wanted made. They did all of this in exchange for small swatches of the fur and generous portions of meat. Even after all of that, there was still a good deal of hide to sell, and several claws. Vanx let Brody auction it off to the highe
st bidder, right in the street, and spent the evenings sitting around the Iceberg Inn counting coins.
Xavian found an apothecary who wanted to buy the beast’s bones, skull and brain. Apparently they had some sort of medicinal value. Vanx didn’t care, because they offered a surprising sum. By the time the mighty saber shrew was reduced to naught but a bloody stain in the snow, there were nearly eight hundred pieces of gold to divide amongst them.
After all the expenses were taken out, and a decent burial plot and priest provided to bury Smythe’s leg, they had just more than a hundred each.
On the fifth evening after their return from the hunt, Vanx was counting out their shares in the great room of the Iceberg. Skog and Brody were there, and both of them heavily armed. Xavian, who was now looked upon by the city folk as some sort of powerful sorcerer, stood behind Vanx, guarding over the table full of growing stacks like a hovering hawk. Darbon and Salma were up in their room, probably enjoying Vanx’s absence.
Even though she wasn’t owed a share of the gold, Chelda was there. She’d taken the four huge saber fangs in payment and was certain she had gotten a far better deal than the others. She was standing watch, though, and Vanx noticed she was subtly taking in Gallarael.
“Well, Lem, I guess you get one of these two odd coins,” Vanx called over to the nervous inn owner. “Though we’ve brought you enough custom to earn ourselves a year of free room and board, I think.”
“As you say, Vanx,” Lem replied with a jovial grin. “And I thank you for it, but if you don’t get all that gold off of the table soon, I’ll clout you on your head. I don’t want no bandits, nor pirates, storming in and tearing up my place.”
“Who gets the other coin?” Chelda asked curiously over some chuckles at Lem’s boldness.
“We will let the richest dog in all of the realm decide it,” Vanx announced.
Poops had been divvied out a full share of the coin. It was Vanx and Darbon’s profit for organizing the expedition. The others gave no argument.
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