That Frigid Fargin Witch (The Legend of Vanx Malic) (10 page)

It was Thorn who bravely moved between the towering half Zythian and the others.

“Vanx, they are not saying they won’t release Chelda from her entrapment here. They are saying that they can’t.” Thorn held out a hand toward his big friend and motioned him to back away. “The battle berries have your blood up. The Troika Sven is not your enemy. None of us here are.”

Vanx realized the truth if it. He was scaring the fairy folk and he immediately stepped back. He had been aggravated ever since Chelda was escorted up to the Shadowmane. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because she was fighting now and he wasn’t. Maybe it was because he had a strong feeling he would never see her alive again.

One of the seven councilors, a stooped and matronly old elven woman, who Vanx guessed to be at least a thousand years old, stepped to Thorn’s side. “I am Elva Toyon, the eldest of the Troika, and it’s true. Never have I heard of any but a queen being able to release a mortal from the Underland. It is something that has rarely happened. The last time was so long ago that I was but a silly girl and Queen Corydalis wouldn’t take the throne for another two hundred years. I doubt she even knew how to release your brave friend from the enchantment.” Elva Toyon bowed apologetically and several of the other members of the council bowed as well.

The idea that he might never see Chelda again, would never see Gallarael again, came to him. “Chelda Flar, a mere mortal gargan, is the golden-hearted champion the pixie queen called out for. I am but a bringer of death. I go to rid the world of the vile Hoar Witch and it is for vengeance that I do this.”

He realized his teeth were gnashed together and that the battle berries were indeed fueling his emotion. Then his attention was diverted by a flare of light out in the crowd. Vanx saw a hobbling old pixie man who had to use both a cane and his frayed old wings to keep himself upright. The tip of his beard drug along the floor. When he approached the nexus, a young elf hurried from the crowd to help the feeble old man up into it.

The fairy folk still crowded beyond the radius of the seven root pillars were looking on anxiously, with fidgety and nervous expressions. Vanx could only imagine what they were thinking. He couldn’t hear them, and Thorn assured him they couldn’t hear what was being said on the dais unless the speaker had his palm on the interpreting orb, and then everyone in the Underland would hear.

Thorn stepped up beside Vanx’s thigh and followed his gaze. “The oracle,” the elf exclaimed, “Elden Grank.”

“Yes, it is I,” the ancient pixie rasped as he came fully into the nexus’s field with them. “Without the power of the queen’s blood among you, your bickering found its way to my ears.”

Vanx saw that the oracle’s eyes were milky white.

“Nux Vomica Toyon, you may be the oldest member of the Troika, but you are a child compared to some.”

He shooed away the boy that had helped him up into the heart of the nexus, and then confidently turned to face Vanx.

“These youngsters speak in haste,” he rasped. “There will be another queen, or maybe a king born, if the Heart Tree survives. There is hope for your friend.”

The old pixie gave a disapproving nod toward the seven members of the council. “Mighty Chelda will not age while she is among us. When the new monarch of the Lurr matures, Chelda Flar can be granted her freedom from the Underland.” The old pixie’s milky-eyed gaze fell on Thorn then.

“There is another way as well, but it is unclear to me at this time. My gift of seeing is a gift from the Heart Tree, but without a queen the tree is struggling and all is dim.”

The oracle looked at Vanx then, with empty white eyes.

“Once you reap the vengeance you desire, Emerald Eyes, there is no doubt the tree will regain its strength. But you must not only succeed, you must come away from the deed clean and untainted.”

“What do you mean I must come away clean?”

The oracle’s smile wasn’t a pleasant one.

“You are a bridge of sorts, Vanx of Malic. You are god-touched, an impossible mixture of bloodlines. You are a singularity in this world. You share the blood of the Zyth and fae, the blood of man and witch, the blood of Draca, and even the cold, blue blood of the sea runs in your veins. There is another aspect to your life’s flow. I can see you teetering on the cusp of light and dark, a place where the slightest of nudges can send you falling in either direction. The dark one works in many ways to draw a powerful soul to his side. Some paths that lead his way are obvious, but some are subtle and hard to detect. To kill Aserica Rime could be one such path, but it must be done. You will have to use her evil to end all of this, for only you share the witch blood and have the heart to oppose her. How easy it would be for you to fall the wrong way in that time.”

The oracle coughed, shuddered and nearly fell to the dais floor. Only Thorn’s quick reflexes kept the pixie upright.

“You should rest, old one,” Elva Toyon advised. “You are spending too much of yourself just being up and about.”

“Bah,” the oracle waved her off, but accepted Thorn’s support.

“There is no time to rest.” Focusing his empty gaze back on Vanx, he continued. “How easy it would be to fall the wrong way while killing your own? While killing for vengeance?” The oracle smiled then, and it was a genuine and hopeful effort.

“I have hope, and all of you should, too. It’s clear this bringer of death is not out to take over the Hoar Witch’s domain and continue poisoning us. I’d wager he hasn’t thought much about himself at all in this. His only concerns have been to free another from an unfair binding, and to avenge the death of those he held dear. Those are virtuous designs in the eyes of Babd. If he follows his heart and the Rotted Root Way, we might just stand a chance.”

Thorn glanced at Vanx, and the look on his little face showed as much fear as concern. Elden Grank hovered away from him on far steadier wingbeats than those with which he had arrived.

“The Rotted Root Way is forbidden,” Elva Toyon said with a horrified glance up at Vanx. He couldn’t help but feel like a giant among these people.

“There is evil most foul in those caves and tunnels,” she finished.

“The creatures there see in the dark and drink the blood of those they kill,” said another of the Troika Sven.

“We sealed those ways off centuries ago. You will unseal them for the emerald-eyed bringer of death and General Posy-Thorn,” the oracle snapped sharply.

“Then you will seal them back. Those caveways lead into Rimehold’s lowest depths. The Hoar Witch has many spies in the forest, but what need has she to snoop her own dungeons? General Posy-Thorn will take the Glaive of Gladiolus as his weapon, for this is the time of our greatest need.”

“But we were going to let Captain Moonseed lift the glaive against the horde above. It is more a blade of healing than of murder, and our wounded fighters need its power,” argued Elva Toyon. A few of the other members of Troika nodded and agreed with her.

Another of them added, “Moonsy was the one the queen gifted with her death wish.”

“Not a bad choice,” the oracle said as he nodded.

“The queen did save our brave Moonsy from certain death with her last burst of power, but the command to never give up was given to us all.”

Elden Grank stepped forward and clasped a hand on Thorn’s shoulder.

“It was General Posy-Thorn whom our queen sent after Falriggin’s shard. It was also Thorn who brought both mighty Chelda Flar and the death bringer safely to our aid. It is he I see, using the enchanted glaive to get Vanx through to Rimehold, so that he can do what he came to do.”

“So it will be done,” Elva Toyon said.

She nodded as she spoke. “Is there more that you see that may aid them before we unseal the forbidden passages?”

“Nay,” the oracle said, with a final bow.

“The oracle has spoken,” Elva Toyon said.

“General Posy-Thorn, how would you have us command those who have gathered here?”

She gestured to the crowds of fairy folk surrounding the dais.

“You are still the commander of our defenses.”

There were thousands of them gathered out there, from fingerling sprites, to waist-tall, furry-legged Satyrs. All of them looked nervous, yet eager to be doing something, other than waiting.

Thorn looked first to the oracle, then to Vanx. Then of all places, his eyes rested on Sir Poopsalot. The dog turned his head curiously and let his tongue loll out the side of his panting mouth.

“Put all of our troops under the command of First Captain Gloryvine Moonseed. Moonsy won’t falter.”

“And your orders for her, General?”

“Defend the Heart Tree by any means necessary, including mounting direct attacks to divert as many of the Hoar Witch’s beasts from the Shadowmane. And so they may have the chance to win back their honor, the members of the queen’s Royal Guard will fight in the Shadowmane, with mighty Chelda Flar.”

The Troika Sven seemed pleased with Thorn’s orders and after they conferred amongst themselves, they broke off into pairs to set things into motion. Alone, Elva Toyon stood before Vanx, Thorn and the oracle.

“Moonsy is being called down from above, General. Pixen Ruderal and Mar Boxthane are retrieving the Glaive of Gladiolus for you from the vault in Haven Hall.”

She smiled at Thorn, then up at Vanx; her grin faltered when she brought it back down to meet Poops’ lazy eyes and she took an involuntary step back.

“It will take all of us to open the forbidden way,” she finally said.

“If you would, General, show our guests to the Garden of Miora. There, all of you can rest and refresh yourselves before your dark journey. Attendants will come with food and necessities and I will send Sar Oxalas to see about any equipage you think you may need.”

“When will we go into this rotted root cave?” Vanx asked.

His tone made it plain that he didn’t want to linger any longer than necessary. The battle berries still had him eager to get on with it.

“All too soon,” Thorn reassured him as he urged Poops to stand and then climbed onto the dog’s back. “Now come on. Let’s get something to eat and fill our skins. I have to find some more battle berries and eat at least a bushel of them, or you’ll never get me into that foul passage.”

Chapter
Twelve
Chapter
Twelve

Cold words cut like a knife,

right through my heart they steal my life.

They tear my heart open wide,

until there’s nothing left inside.

– A Zythian bard’s song

G
allarael’s first instinct was to pause and consider the wrongness of the valley that spread out below her before she rushed down into it, but that wasn’t an option. Behind her came Darl on his ramma mount and behind them, the other ramma followed. Right on its tail was another of the freakish wolfen creatures. This one was covered in grey-blue scales, with a head that looked to be part horse, part viper. Swooping out of the sky was a vicious creature of talons and feathers. It was as big as a man and it might have been wolfen, too, but Gallarael’s eyes couldn’t hold it long enough to tell.

“Into the trees!” she yelled, and barely beat Darl’s ramma in a headlong charge down a semi-steep grade right into the Lurr forest.

What had given her pause about the valley was that it was green. It was rich with spring growth in the middle of a range of frigid mountains. A hazy, irregular dome hovered over the basin and even though snow fell all around and onto that invisible barrier, it didn’t build up, or allow anything to pass through it.

There was also the glittering crystal tower that jutted up through the treetops at the base of the valley’s crook. The valley eventually opened up into the convergence of a flat, silver expanse of water and more sharp, snow-covered mountains.

There was a sizeable clearing in the forest. Centered in this glade was a giant elm tree which towered over the others, matching the crystal tower in height. Before they encountered the canopy, Gallarael had marked that location as her intended destination and tried to lead Darl that way. It only occurred to her then, when she ducked and darted her way below the low-hanging branches and the open terrain between them, that the gargan was no longer behind her.

She stopped her momentum and spun back to search for him. It took her a moment, because she had come so much farther down into the valley than he had. Now it was as if the trunks of spruce, cedar, elm and oak sought to block her view, but she eventually found him and was off to his aid without a thought.

Darl sat on his terrified ramma mount, his left arm tugging down on…what? A rope? No. It was the lead lines to her ramma. She looked up to see part of it dangling from the limbs above.

“Let it go,” she called out.

She saw plainly the blue-tinted wolfen as it darted through the darker greens and browns of the off-seasoned forest. It was heading toward Darl, and gaining speed to make a leap at him.

“Your beast!” Darl yelled back. He hauled mightily down on the line and Gallarael saw the claws that were clutching her ramma when a shower of leaves and feathers came down around him.

A sound that was a cross between an eagle’s cry and a mountain cat’s roar filled the forest.

“Cut it loose!” Gallarael screamed, but her voice was drowned out.

She realized then she had no weapons. A bow would’ve been ideal, for she could at least have slowed the charging wolfen with an arrow. The winged thing wasn’t letting go of her ramma and Darl still hadn’t let go of its line. As much strength as her changeling ability gave her, she could do nothing from where she was, so she leaned into a quadrupedal lope and ran with all the strength her condition afforded her.

The grey-blue wolfen was but a streak through the trees now and it was closing on Darl with uncanny speed.

Gallarael pushed her limbs to the limits, trying to beat the creature to him, but she knew she couldn’t. Even as she closed to leaping distance, the scale-covered beast was in midair. Its slavering viper fangs were bared and all its substantial weight was coming behind it. She had to slow her charge, for if she pounced now she would get Darl as well.