The elder Zwarvy listened and considered the skin full of dragon’s blood while looking into the Skelatra at Vanx’s statuesque form. The mannish had been sitting there in the same position, his head and shoulders just above the water, for a very long time. He didn’t know what to make of it.
The pall of smoke hanging over Dyntalla Stronghold was darker and thicker than any they had ever seen before. It wasn’t until Captain Willie had the Sea Hawk well in the harbor that they figured out the stronghold was under attack. Peg shouted down what he saw from the lookout, and then Zeezle took a turn and filled the report in with vivid detail. Ogres had breached the huge outer wall and were attacking the area between it and the other, smaller, wall that surrounded the coastal city. Rubble and flames were everywhere where homes and businesses used to be, and gangs of club-wielding ogres ranged the streets, destroying everything they came across. It was total mayhem, and Zeezle Croyle said he wanted no part of it.
“You can stay on the ship,” Prince Russet assured him. “One way or another we will get you back to Zyth unharmed.”
“Look!” Peg exclaimed from above, pointing excitedly to another royal ship. This one was flying the king’s banner from its mast. They’d all been so intent on the burning city that none of them had noticed the vessel.
“Take us to her!” Captain Willie roared. “Bring us up alongside.”
“Let me take the rowboat to shore, my prince,” Trevin begged. “Every moment we wait might be her last.”
“I’ll row with him,” Darbon added. He was still black and blue and coughing up blood, but he was determined not to let that stop him.
“Not yet, Trev,” the prince said, and gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “You don’t know how to find the cave way in, nor do you know the state of things inside the stronghold. What if they’ve moved her?”
Trevin ground his teeth tight, but nodded his understanding of the decision. Prince Russet’s reasoning made sense. If Dyntalla was under attack, then Quazar might have spirited Gallarael away. Maybe even out onto the king’s ship. And the king or his crew would be able to describe the state of things on shore if she wasn’t there.
Only a skeletal crew remained on the vessel, but the captain, a short, serious-looking man who sneered with disdain at Captain Willie as they conferred, told them what they wanted to know.
The ogres had only breached the outer wall. They’d tried to scale the stronghold wall in several places where the buildings on either side afforded them good handholds, but they’d been thwarted thus far. The bigger of the beasts had come out of the mountains to join the raid, Captain Rosthuf told them. He’d heard firsthand reports from the King’s Guard that some of them were nearly twenty feet tall. He gave them some other news that set the crew to lowering a longboat before even being ordered to do so.
“Gallarael, the king’s illegitimate daughter,” Captain Rosthuf said in a mock hushed tone, “she’s on her deathbed. The old wizard can’t even help the troops defend the stronghold because all his attention’s tied into keeping her alive.” The way he said the words showed his distaste for the whole affair.
“You’re a blunt bastard, Rosthuf,” Captain Willie said as Darbon, Trevin, Yandi, and the prince went over the side rail to get into the longboat. “That is your prince’s sister you speak of. Should watch your tongue.”
Captain Rosthuf flushed with what was obviously a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “You’re one to talk,” he shot back. “There was a day, not so long ago, when you’d have raped her yourself had she been on your ship. Royalty or no.”
Captain Willington nodded, feeling a rush of shame color his face. “And you’d have been right to walk me off the board for it, too, but you never had the wits or skill to catch me, you self-righteous sea-slug.”
Captain Willie turned before the other could reply. “Get us away from this scalawag, Peg!” He yelled the order. “Hurry, before our guts turn to custard as it happened to these bay-bound curs. Once we’ve a distance, drop the anchor and the other longboat so that we can go defend our king and kingdom like men.”
An aura of jaundiced light radiated weakly from Gallarael. Quazar was in a trance-like state of concentration, using all his focus and will to hold her in life. He would have let her die hours ago had the tower lookouts not spotted the Sea Hawk coming into the bay. Over the last few days his initial spell’s ability to stall the course of the fang-flower venom had gradually given way. Now, all that was keeping the poison from finishing her off was Quazar’s will.
Matty had been confined to the wizard’s tower after nearly castrating Duke Martin. Quazar had been carefully instructing her how to mix the dragon’s blood with the concoction he’d been brewing. In his wisdom the old wizard had prepared for every contingency he could imagine. It was a good thing, too, because he couldn’t let his concentration wander to do these things himself or Gallarael would die.
When Trevin burst in, offering the bull scrotum-covered vial of dragon’s blood, Matty went about the business of finishing the recipe. She followed every detail of the old wizard’s instructions to the letter, and then gave Gallarael the exact dose Quazar had recommended.
Darbon couldn’t climb the tower stairs or he would have been there, and Prince Russet was duty bound to report to his father for orders. Trevin, the wizard, and Matty, however, all watched on hopefully. The optimism on their faces soon turned to concern and then to downright fear as Gallarael’s skin began turning greasy and black. She let out the most horrendous of screams. The chilling sound cut through the stronghold like a saber. Then she went into a fit and Quazar collapsed into a heap on the floor.
What was happening to her, Trevin couldn’t say, but he knew it was bad. The thing on the table had no resemblance to Gallarael at all. Then Matty wrapped him in a hug and began sobbing into his chest.
The wizard saw the king and the both of them knew
“You need me now king, to keep them loving you.”
“Tis true,” said the king, “but you need me as well.
Unless you’ve found a way to break that witch’s spell.”
– The Weary Wizard
“How long have I been in there?” Vanx asked Olden Pak sharply as he sloshed his way out of the Skelatra’s confines. He held one of the tree’s fruits cradled in his arms and when Pak saw this he seemed so overwrought with bewilderment that he couldn’t find any words with which to respond.
“I asked you how long I have been in there?” Vanx’s voice was more forceful this time. Murmurs arose from a crowd that was gathering nearby, and Vanx realized that he couldn’t just bully his way out of there. Still, he was no less angry at being led into the Earth Bone Tree’s embrace when time was a most critical issue for Gallarael.
“You said your people would aid me when I returned, Olden Pak,” Vanx said as he came up on the confused old Zwarvy. “Are you an honorable people, or just a bunch of roaches who crawl out of the dark and feed on dragon scraps?”
Olden Pak blinked several times and arched his brows as the insult sank in, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the still glowing object that Vanx held.
“We collected… well, Ootlin collected…” the old Zwarvy stammered before clearing his throat and starting again. “By some divine influence Ootlin was led to a fresh pool of the dragon’s blood you came here for. It is here.” Olden Pak extended a slightly trembling hand, which was holding a heavy waterskin. “We will help you, as I promised, but there’s naught much we can do now. You have been with the Skelatra for six full turns of the moon.” Olden Pak dropped his eyes with an expression that might have been shame. “Your companions sailed away from here days ago.”
“This I know,” Vanx said as he took the precious fluid from the little milk-skinned creature. “I need a guide. I need someone to take me to the Fire Queen’s lair. I will…” He stopped speaking because the wispwight nut began shimmering and shining in his arms. The glow radiated brightly enough to turn his eyes, and then it pul
sed three times, causing the growing group of Zwarvy onlookers to gasp in fright and wonder. The glassine orb made a popping sound and its form suddenly dripped away like so much soapy water. Left in Vanx’s hand was a tiny sparkling nugget the size of a green pea. It shot up into the air in a frisky zigzag, dripping a cascade of fading sparkles as it went.
A collective “Ahhh” resounded from those watching. The group had grown in number to nearly a hundred now. Each and every one of their strange, glowing eyes followed the tiny wispwight as it danced and frolicked around Vanx’s head. After a few heartbeats the little kernel of light seemed to grow bored and shot off in a spiraling streak until it disappeared from view entirely.
For a very long time there was nothing but silence.
“How did you take a wispion nut without being devoured?” Olden Pak asked after a bit. Fretful curiosity showed plainly on his strange face, and Vanx realized that he now clearly understood the strange language they spoke.
“It fell from the tree and landed in my lap,” Vanx answered while combing his fingers back through his hair. He was feeling, for the first time, some tingling effect from the sparkles the strange fairy creature had dripped on his skin. “I didn’t take it, it was given.”
“You must be famished,” Olden Pak finally said. “You’ll need nourishment and there is something I have that might help you, if you truly intend to venture into the Fire Queen’s lair.”
Vanx had to admit that he was incredibly hungry. He figured that the fatigue he was feeling was from a lack of food and not from any sort of exertion. He hadn’t done much more than sit there for the last several days. He’d finished off the flask of stout he carried in his boot a few nights earlier. Now, he was suddenly wanting nothing other than to gulp down as much water as his stomach would hold.
It wasn’t water he was given, but several wooden mugs full of piss-yellow ale by the backslapping Zwarvy as he and Olden Pak made their way back to the elder’s home.
The Zwarvy seemed to be revering him as some sort of hero. The notion made Vanx uncomfortable. He was more than a little woozy from the drink and was glad when Olden Pak’s wife gave them a meal.
After eating boiled devil goat meat on a bed of some warm, spinach-like vegetable with a grainy flatbread, Pak’s wife showed Vanx the papoon she’d made for the doogle. It was like a backpack, only it had a pouch in front to carry the pup that had found Vanx. The rest of the rig was like a typical pack with an area for storing goods in the back. When he tried it on, the pup seemed to like it, especially when Vanx lay down, allowing the little mutt to nestle its head under his chin. Within minutes the two of them fell fast asleep on the stony floor of the hut’s open living area.
Vanx woke sometime later to Ootlin’s insistent boot.
“Un doogle gon piss all over you. Lettun loose a while,” the young Zwarvy said in his strongly accented voice. The more he spoke the clearer his words became. He smelled faintly putrid and foul to Vanx’s keen nose, but his grin was wide and contagious, even though it showed his sharp, needle teeth.
“Be leadin’ un to the dragon’s den when you’re ready,” Ootlin informed him.
Vanx let the squirming pup out of the papoon and pulled the rig over his shoulders. He followed the little black-and-white dog out and relieved himself, too. When he returned, he found Olden Pak there stuffing wrapped packages of food and a pair of waterskins into the pack’s back compartment. When he was finished, and Vanx had refitted the thing over his shoulders, the elder gave him a small, stoppered vial.
“The very foundation of her lair glows with the heat of the core. This potion will keep the heat from crisping you. Two drops for the doogle and the rest for you, but mind yourself: the protective power won’t last forever.”
Vanx tucked it away in his belt pouch near the dagger he still had strapped there. With a sigh of resignation he situated the pup in the papoon and gave Olden Pak a slight bow of appreciation. The elder bowed back and, with a somber expression, led Vanx and Ootlin to a tunnel opening at the far end of the city cavern. When Vanx bade the elder farewell, the milky-fleshed creature hugged him as if he would never see him again.
Gallarael, or some feral-eyed semblance of her, sporting slick, pitch-black skin, fangs, and long, razor-sharp nails, howled out. The sound was filled with what might have been pain, rage, or even terror. She was behind the barred door of the tower room in which she’d been locked. Trevin and Matty had both been sliced to ribbons by her claws. Darbon, with the help of Prince Russet and some soldiers, had fared a little better as they ushered the limp wizard out of harm’s way. Those who tried to subdue Gallarael were savaged. When Darbon went back in to save Matty, he was raked across the face. Luckily, he didn’t lose his eye, but he would have to live with a quartet of nasty scars running diagonally across his mug. Trevin was now in a room two floors below being held together by cat gut stitches and the magic of one of Quazar’s acolytes. Matty was in the room beside him. Her wounds, while severe, weren’t nearly as bad as Trevin’s. Both of them were in a state of despair. Each of them felt guilty for causing the horrible change to come over the princess. Quazar, after he’d somewhat recovered, tried to convince them both that it wasn’t their fault, but neither of them fully believed it.
Matty had gone over what she had done again and again, and the old wizard confirmed that she had made no error. Trevin, though, on top of his guilt and severe injuries, was heartbroken and confused as well. He was certain that he and Zeezle had gotten blood from a dragon not potent enough to cure her, or too late in the morning to have been bathed in all Aur’s light. It was a good thing that Quazar had cast a dampening spell over Trevin’s form, because if he had heard Gallarael’s animalistic howling and screaming, he would have succumbed to his sorrow and probably died from despair.
Zeezle had come ashore with Captain Willie and the rest of his crew. Everyone was surprised at how calm and peaceful most of the stronghold was inside. It was crowded, and outside in the baileys and garden courts there were hundreds of people all huddled in fear, but there was little of the chaos they’d imagined.
Troops of engineers lobbed kegs full of rock and hot oil over the walls of the city to ward off the ogres that were still trying to get inside. What groups of archers and pike-bearing men they saw on the wall top looked to be busy repelling the enemy. Though the concentration of royal soldiers inside Dyntalla’s old fortress wall were doing an efficient job of keeping the enemy out, it was inevitable that sooner or later the ogres would breach the defense.
Both Captain Willie and Prince Russet refused direct orders from King Oakarm to sail Zeezle back to Zyth, saying that Captain Rosthuf had nothing better to do. The king finally rescinded the order when Zeezle decided that he wanted to stay and fight alongside the humans to honor the loss of his friend.
Had Zeezle known the stronghold’s protective barriers would be breached that night he might have chosen otherwise, but the Zythian adventurer found that he had no regrets when his sword came free of its sheath and bit into the flesh of one of the gargantuan beasts. Some of the ogres managed to scale the wall. He, Prince Russet, and a troop of the prince’s personal guard charged out to meet the first wave of them in the open training yard. The battle was long and bloody, and it was only the first of many to come, for the bigger of the green-fleshed beasts started bashing the wall apart in the areas where the catapults couldn’t keep them back. With tree trunks, hurled boulders, and whatever else they could find, they broke through in a half-dozen other locations and stormed the stronghold. The ogres met the brunt of Duke Elmont’s soldiers head-on. The battle was brutal and costly, and by the end of that first day it looked as if the ogres might actually take the old fortress.
It seems like a million years have passed.
I’ve been lost allways searching for that song.
It’s kind of funny I thought it we could make it last.
Now I am wondering where the time has gone.
– A Zythian bard’s song
“The Unzurra is hotter from here,” Ootlin informed him as they took the larger of the shafts out of the interchange. The Zwarvy wasn’t exaggerating. Vanx could see the deep, bloody glow of the rock in places along the walls and ceiling as they continued. The floor, kept cool from the dripping seepage of the sea they were under, caused the air to be thick and steamy. It took only moments for the sweltering heat to soak Vanx’s clothes with sweat.
Dragon Isle (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 2) Page 11