That Frigid Fargin Witch (The Legend of Vanx Malic) (5 page)

The Hoar Witch had gleefully assured her that her champion was fleeing, and who could blame him after she had called him blindly into a trap?

Worse than all of that, all of the Hoar Witch’s vile creatures were already bearing down on the Heart Tree. The guard would fight and die honorably, which would be better than withering away after the Heart Tree was infected. If she called them off and let the Hoar Witch have what she wanted, her people would die anyway, just more slowly and painfully.

Something one of her mentors had taught her came to her: it is always better to die fighting evil, than to submit to it. As long as you are fighting for good, there is always the possibility that other chances will present themselves. Once you submit you have given up all of those other possibilities.

“No?”

The wrinkle-faced Hoar Witch poked a dirty, yellowed fingernail sharply into one of the pixie queen’s eye sockets and withdrew it. In one of the many mirrors set about the frigid room, Corydalis saw her once brilliant lavender orb cloud scarlet and a bloody tear streak down the side of her face. Her convulsions had lessened into a steady tremble, accompanied by the occasional twitch of limb. The pain had long since fled.

“They are dying horribly, you know,” taunted the Hoar Witch. “Vrooch and his pack mates toss their little bodies about for hours, to soften them up, before they devour them. They play tug-of-war with the gnomes and the sprites. Well let’s just say they are rather entertaining, once you pull off those spindly little legs.”

“You are horrible!” Queen Corydalis managed. Bloody spittle sprayed from her mouth and ran down her face and she forced the words out of her broken jaw. “Rotten to the root.”

SMACK! A sharp slap resounded. “Look, wretch,” the Hoar Witch hissed. “I’ll show you your pathetic defenders.” She snatched up a hand mirror from a folding table laden with the potions, powders and devices she used most frequently on the altar of pain.

The Hoar Witch held the mirror out for the pixie queen and put her other hand to the crystal shard hanging at her neck.

In the mirror Queen Corydalis saw a haggard elven woman wearing a battered suit of lacquered yellow plate armor. She was fending off a skunk-striped wolfish beast, easily three times her size, with naught but a broken spear. No sound accompanied the image, but the scene was portrayed clearly and vividly.

Through the blood, dirt and fear, the pixie queen recognized the elf. It was Gloryvine Moonseed. They all called her Moonsy. She’d earned her place among the honor guard over a century ago. Her father had served the honor guard as well. He’d fallen when Moonsy was still an adolescent, in a hard-fought battle against an ogre who thought to build a shack on one of the older fairy mounds. Like her father, fierce Moonsy stood her ground against the impossible odds and fought on relentlessly.

A toothy muzzle came into the picture flashing razor-sharp fangs and slobber. Moonsy dodged and deftly darted out of its way, while jabbing and sticking the angry beast with her broken spear. Over and over the wolfen beasts lunged at her. Her tiny weapon was doing little damage, if any, but at least none of them could get hold of her.

Then one of the wolfish things rushed her and tumbled her over onto her back. Queen Corydalis squeezed her eyes shut, but not to shield them from what she was seeing. She had to concentrate to muster what little power she had left and direct it all to the fierce warrior who desperately needed it.

A surge of exhilarating energy flowed from Queen Corydalis, through the ether, and into Moonsy. It came with a simple command: “Don’t ever give up. None of you ever give up.”

Spent to the very brink of death, the pixie queen barely cracked the lid of her good eye in time to see Moonsy roll out from under the closing jaws of the ferocious skunk-wolf.

The little elven warrior dove forward, past the beast’s maw, and then rolled under its belly. A guttural canine sound, a squealing howl, cut across the evening, finding its way into the witch’s chamber. The pixie queen saw that the Hoar Witch felt the death Moonsy had just dealt.

Like one of her monsters, Aserica Rime let out a savage, mourning howl which was as full of anger as it was pain. But the Hoar Witch recovered quickly and put her rage into the slow mutilation of her subject. It was a wasted effort though, for even before the skunk wolf’s death-call had died away, Nandina Corydalis, the pixie queen of the Lurr Forest fae, was dead.

Gallarael had been regretting the transformation ever since she shifted back into her human form. The scratches, bruises and cuts of her other self’s body were bearable, but now they were deep, throbbing aches and bone-grinding pains. When she moved, it felt like coarse sand, the kind Trevin used to use to work the rust from his chain mail, had been thrown into her knee and shoulder joints. It felt as if each effort to grasp the skittish gargan’s wine skin was grinding away her sockets. When she’d hobbled into the darkness of the cavern to relieve herself, she had nearly crumpled into a ball and given up. Her feet had been strapped into those metal-frame cleats and had been torqued and torn and forced out around them when she shifted, but even worse was the throbbing in her head.

She’d watched a parade once back in Highlake when King Oakarm had come to visit. Duke Martin had held her on his shoulders for a time, but when he had to go make his appearances, he would set her down right by the marching orchestra. The huge belly drums thundered when the king came by and the trumpets were so loud that she’d screamed at the top of her lungs for her mother, but hadn’t even been able to hear her own voice. That is what her head felt like now: like that entire troupe of cymbal-crashing, kettle-hammering, horn-blowing minstrels was in her head, and each of them playing a different song than the other.

The sour taste of Darl’s watered wine hadn’t helped, but she had to admit that after a few sips of it she was able to ease back into sleep for a time.

“So what happens now?’ she asked. “If I change back, I might be able to make it back up to the cabin.”

“I just as soon ye not be changin’ back,” Darl’s words only slurred a little bit. “Once I’m up to the top I can haul you up easy enough.”

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” she said with a hint of shame in her voice. His aversion to her condition, the way he tried to hide his fear, was very similar to the way her father, her brother Russet, and the wizards at court had acted toward her after they knew. It was part of the very reason she’d left Parydon. She didn’t want to be around people who were afraid of her, but she had to admit she understood why they should be.

She smiled a thin little smile and nodded her understanding. She couldn’t blame him for his fear of shapeshifters; after all, his people lived close to this place where ill-formed beasts were far more than just fireside tales.

She was comfortable around Vanx and Chelda, for like her, they were treated differently. Every time Vanx revealed his half Zythian heritage, and Chelda was either accepted or shunned for her taste in bed partners, gave them insight. Her own father was embarrassed by her condition—
No,
Gallarael stopped that thought. It wasn’t a condition. It was who she was now. She was a shapeshifter and she was resolved to embrace that.

“How long will it take you to get up there?” she finally asked.

“If I started now, I could be at the top by midday.” He gave her a worried look. There was a true concern in his eyes that caused Gallarael to smile again. As afraid as he was of her, he cared about what happened to her.

“Go on up,” she told him. “I’ll be fine down here. I’ve got the harness belt. I’d rather be up there in a cabin by fire than down here tonight.”

“Well, let’s get that harness on and tie it up now,” he nodded, and seemed somewhat relieved.

She grimaced as she took the wine skin and a cloth-wrapped bundle of food from him. Just leaning up to get the items was brutally painful. No doubt a slow, jerking ride being hauled up the cliff face would be excruciating.

She hid her pain as best as she could. Darl rigged her belt and buckled it around her, then put on his own harness. After a few moments he was moving up the rock face.

She waited until he was a good forty feet up the ledge, then shed her tattered boots and shifted into her changeling form.

Immediately her wounds felt better. Her mind, though still completely her own, took on a different sort of perception of herself. In this form she was a predator, not prey.

She stretched her muscles and rotated her joints. She was pleased to feel that most of the gritty feeling was gone. Then she started up the cliff without a rope or harness at all.

When Darl finally pulled himself over the edge, she was sitting at the base of the tree to which his rope was anchored. She was in human form, sipping from Darl’s skin and rubbing at her raw, throbbing feet. She had barely beaten him to the top, but she didn’t want him to know that. If he wanted to be afraid of her, she would let him.

“What took you so long?” she asked, startling him severely. The only thing that kept him from tumbling backward into the gorge was that he was locked onto the rope with his climbing rig.

Chapter
Six
Chapter
Six

Across his sea ail,

to Nepton we hold true.

For if you cross old Nepton,

his sea will swallow you.

– A sailor’s song

V
anx wasn’t sure how long they’d been traveling through the featureless tunnel. It could have been hours, but it felt like days. Since they’d been in the Underland he’d felt an odd tingle at his breast. It was faint at first, like a ripe pimple, or an itch, but as they moved farther into the underground realm of the fae, the feeling became more substantial. Now it was more like a freshly popped blister, or a hornet sting.

While listening to Thorn tell them how the roots of the Heart Tree radiated the powerful magic that held together this particular part of the Underland, Vanx finally found the source of his irritation. It was the white gold leaf pendant that the Goddess had given him through Nepton’s priest back in Oryndyn. It was glowing a deep cherry color, like fire-forged iron, but it wasn’t hot, only uncomfortable to the touch. Once he let it lay on the outside of the elk-hide vest he wore over his woolen underclothes, it ceased to bother him. Its glow, however, mingled with the soft yellow radiance of the floor to create a brighter illumination.

“It looks like a leaf from the Heart Tree,” Thorn said, once he saw the thing. “It’s been dipped in pure white gold. It must be powerful, very powerful. Where did you come across such a thing?”

“It was a gift from the one who watches over me,” Vanx replied.

“How long is this blasted tunnel?” Chelda asked in a disgruntled groan. “And what are we going to do when we get to the end?”

Thorn spoke as they started moving again. “We came into the Underland at one of its farthest reaches. If we were traveling above, in the physical realm, we would have to go over bitter, windy ridges and deep, snow-filled valleys. We would have to circumvent melts, fall-throughs, and the wrath of the Lanch. Down here though, we...”

“Don’t tell me about the world I can no longer go back into,” Chelda snapped. “Tell me about this back-breaking place I’m stuck in for the rest of my life, and where in mighty Bone’s arse we’re headed.”

“Chelda Flar, I am sorry to the bottom of my heart,” Thorn whined.

Poops waggled back toward them from where he’d ranged up ahead. Eventually he fell into place trotting besides Vanx.

“There are places where the ceiling is not so low,” Thorn said. “There are grand caverns full of interesting folk: sprites, gnomes and pixies mostly. They’re much like the fairies and elves that live in the forest above, but they hardly go above ground. There are orchards, villages and even a clear-water lake down here, but we are headed to the nexus, the heart of the forest, where the Heart Tree’s roots have the strongest grasp, and where Queen Corydalis holds court when she’s not the prisoner of that foul witchy hag.”

“Slow down!” Chelda yelled. “This isn’t easy going for us. It’s... it’s...” She bit off her words as a wild, jolting sensation exploded over them all.

“Oh no,” Thorn fell to his knees and clutched his heart. “By Macha, and Morgana, please, no.” His chin fell to his chest and he sniveled. “Oh no, my queen. Please, no.”

Chelda had fallen to her knees as well. She was staring vacantly down the shaft ahead of them, as if she could see some apparition. Vanx, standing in a fighting crouch, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, had only felt a strange vibration through his link with Poops. Poops let out a strange yip, then Vanx heard some firm yet softly spoken words, the source of which he recognized immediately as that of the pixie queen.

“Don’t ever give up. None of you ever give up,” it said.

Chelda moaned, and Thorn keened out a mournful wail. Vanx concluded that there was some part of what was happening that he wasn’t picking up. Thorn and Chelda were another matter. He could tell that Thorn was sobbing, but the gargan girl was staring blank-faced. Her mouth was a perfect “O” and a single tear trailed down one of her pale cheeks.