The Legend of Vanx Malic: Book 02 - Dragon Isle (25 page)

“Father,” Prince Russet said angrily, “may I present Vanx Malic, the savior of Dyntalla and a hero of the realm?”

Vanx bowed, but only his head. He owed no real fealty to King Oakarm, but he did respect the man. He kept his head down until the king spoke to him.

“Rise.” The king gave the customary command, even though Vanx hadn’t knelt. “I am almost asham…”

His voice was drowned out by the clanking, clashing sound of two young pageboys half-carrying, half-dragging Bearfang Karcher’s shining ring mail armor and his huge, two-handed great axe. The sight only served to reinforce the idea that Vanx wouldn’t escape this ordeal unscathed.

“This is a mockery of justice, sir,” the angry king started up again, after several grown men of the King’s Guard took up the burden and ended the noise. “You’ve done nothing wrong, other than fall prey to the charms of a seductress.”

Across the room, Duchess Gallarael batted her eyes and blushed furiously.

“You’re a hero, and no matter the outcome of Humbrick Martin’s nitpicking of the kingdom’s law here, you will be remembered as such. But I’d like to say that I personally hope the gods show you favor this day.”

“Thank you, King Oakarm,” Vanx said sincerely. “But my people, at least most of them, worship a single goddess, not your many gods. And the fact that I am alive leaves no doubt that she holds me in regard.”

He glanced at Duke Martin, who was watching on curiously with a smug look of triumph on his hawkish face. “’Tis you, Duke, who needs the favor of your gods this day, for it is also written in your laws that a slave cannot fight a noble, or his owner.”

“That is why I chose a champion, fool,” Duke Martin interjected. “I read the laws and prepared for these trifling details, I assure you.”

“Let him finish, Humbrick,” the king snapped at him. “I don’t think he is quite through explaining what he has to say.”

“Thank you,” Vanx said. “There is another law. It is written in the sections pertaining to hearings, divine judgment, and this sort of fiasco.” Vanx gave a broad sweep of his arm, but stopped with his hand extended toward Duke Martin.

“I’m curious,” Vanx asked with a barely containable grin of his own threatening to spread across his face, “what weapon are you going to use against yon mountain man and his great cleaver? And this is the stumper: if you must yourself die to prove your own innocence, how will this turn out?”

“What?” Duke Martin blurted out over yet another explosion of crowd murmuring and hissing exchanges. “I’m not going to fight that giant, you are.”

“I beg to differ, master,” Vanx said with a mocking bow. “You have demanded that I am still a slave and, according to the laws of slave ownership, you must fight in my stead. For ultimately you’re responsible for the defense of those you presume to own. Ah… I see you are confused. I will recite the law, word for word from memory to remind you:

“No slave may stand against an accuser, be that accuser of noble birth or otherwise. Let a slave’s owner, master, or lord stand in his stead. The confinement, training, and actions of anyone subject to slave chains is ultimately his master’s responsibility to bear.”

“That is absurd!” Duke Martin yelled over the king’s bellowing laugh.

“Master,” Vanx said disdainfully. “That is you.”

“This can’t be right!” Duke Martin raged. “How can I prove my innocence if I have to fight for you?”

“It seems a true divine verdict is being granted this day.” The king was laughing as he spoke. “The gods are already deciding your fate. I would find a weapon, if I were you. Karcher has a pretty big axe.” Then to Bearfang, who’d taken a curious interest in these new revelations after donning his gear: “Don’t worry, Mr. Karcher, the Crown guarantees that the duke’s promises to you will be carried out. Should you survive this contest and prove him innocent you will get the land and coin he promised.”

The king stood and opened his arms wide. The man beside him banged the bottom of an iron-shod staff three times on the floor. “Clear out! All of you clear out! These men are about to battle for the judgment of the gods.”

“Wait!” Duke Martin protested. “Wait, Your Majesty. This can’t be right.”

It turned out that Duke Martin was a coward among other things. He pleaded as he ran from his foe, even begged for the king to intervene. Had Vanx’s future not been at stake here, he might have. In the end, though, Duke Martin fought for his life, even if futilely. Bearfang let him swat his sword around and lunge in, but buried his axe in the man’s ribcage with his first blow. It was a tree cutter’s chop that went clear through the duke’s spine and ended his disgraceful existence. The once haughty and proud ruler of Highlake twitched thrice and then died in a pool of his own blood.

Only one person in the whole room cried out. It was Gallarael Martin, her still transforming skin hidden by a robe, but her wild eyes showing the tears that streamed from them plainly. She had only known one father, and though he’d fallen under the influence of the dark, and succumbed to his need for revenge, he had once truly loved her. She ended up burying her head in her mother’s bosom while the men quickly rolled the body onto a canvas tarp and hauled it away. An old, dusty rug was carried in and unrolled over the blood stain. Then, as if nothing had ever happened, King Oakarm began the second hearing.

“What is Vanx Malic of Zyth accused of?” the king called over the murmuring gossip. The room fell silent and no one uttered a sound.

“There are many ways to skin a cat,

the fun is choosing which.

But it’s no cat I want to skin.

I want to kill a witch.”

– The Weary Wizard

M
uch to Duchess Gallarain’s dismay, Vanx Malic chose to leave Dyntalla. Darbon decided he would go with him when he left. With Matty dead and buried and a fat pouch full of gold at his belt, a reward for his service to the kingdom, the young man decided that being a metal smith could wait a few years. Vanx wanted to see the great Sea Spire and explore Orendyn, Coldport, and the other settlements of the Bitterlands where his father once caroused. Darbon could think of no better way to get over the loss of his first love, and Vanx said that he didn’t mind the company.

Zeezle was on his way back to Zyth, on the king’s ship no less. Captain Rosthuf refused to let the heathen on board for fear of his crew being eaten in the night, but the king ordered him to belay his superstition until the journey was over. Still, Zeezle was nervous the whole way, for the king wasn’t on board for the trip.

Prince Russet and Captain Willie agreed to sail Vanx and Darbon to Orendyn by way of the Sea Spire. King Oakarm wanted to stay behind and oversee the rebuilding of Dyntalla while getting to know the daughter he’d been unaware of all this time.

Trevin was still bedridden, but managed to tell Vanx that he appreciated all that he‘d done for Gallarael. He swore that one day he would try to repay him. Vanx told him to try to heal his body. Seeing him again would be thanks enough. The wounds Trevin took were deep, and possibly crippling, but Gallarael didn’t let that slow her plans for them. Already it was being whispered that the king might grant Trevin the title of Duke of Highlake. After all, the gossipers said, he couldn’t let the Princess of Parydon marry a common guardsman.

At the urging of several of the stronghold children, Vanx’s pup was finally given a name. They giggled when Vanx drew the long, thin sword that had been returned to him, tapped it on the pup’s shoulder and dubbed him Sir Poopsalot Maximus. After having to clean up the little dog’s piles several times, the children all agreed the name was fitting.

One evening after supper, Vanx and Darbon bade farewell to the king, then snuck down to the docks and rowed out to the
Sea Hawk
. Darbon had no one left to say goodbye to, and Vanx wanted to avoid the duchess before she found another way to get him to linger. Vanx wanted to say goodbye to Gallarael, but the fact that he had tricked the man who’d raised her kept him from it. He hoped she would understand. To his great surprise, she did, and was the lone person who stood on the torchlit harbor tower to watch the
Sea Hawk
glide out of the bay.

Vanx stood at the ship’s rail and watched the shore and the city of Dyntalla shrink into the night.

“All’s well that ends well, eh?” Peg asked from the ropes overhead.

The pup, snug in his papoon at Vanx’s chest, yipped in reply.

Before they were even out of the bay, Darbon took ill and was heaving his supper over the rail on the far side of the ship. Vanx couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“All does seem to be well,” Vanx told the seaman. “But I doubt there is any real end in sight. Winds and currents can change in a heartbeat.”

“Bah,” Yandi called from where he was hauling up a bucket full of seawater to wash away Darbon’s last spew. “’Tis not likely you’ll be doing less than well till we make land in Orendyn. Why do you think the prince gave you his cabin for the journey?”

“What do you mean?” Vanx asked.

The whole crew chuckled at him.

“They’ve a surprise for you in your cabin. Two surprises actually,” Captain Willie called from the ship’s wheel. “She ordered us not to tell you she was there until we were out of the bay and well underway.”

“She?” Vanx asked, a growing sense of dread taking root in his brain.

Just then a window shutter opened on the side of the ship, spilling a shaft of lamp light out across the rolling cobalt swells. The untuned plucking of a stringed instrument, his own long forgotten lute by the sound of it, came to his sharp ears.

He rushed down to the cabin Prince Russet had so generously offered him and threw open the door. There he saw Gallarain, lying in an inviting pose, dressed in only the sheerest of silk drapings. In her lap was the instrument the duke’s men had taken from him back in the Highlake tavern so long ago.

“Did you think I’d let you escape me so easily, Vanx?” she purred. “After Humbrick died, all of his possessions, including his slaves, became mine.” She patted the bunk beside her. “Now come over here and show me how badly you want your freedom.”

The End of Dragon Isle

The following is a three chapter preview of:

The Legend of Vanx Malic

Book Three — Saint Elm’s Deep

Copyright © 2012 by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.

All rights reserved

Chapter One

“So, is it Vanx Malic or Vanx Saint Elm?” Darbon asked with genuine curiosity showing on his claw-scarred face. A friend of theirs, the Princess of Parydon, had been poisoned, then potioned, and while under the influence of the substances had raked Darbon’s face. A quartet of gnarled lines ran from under his brown mop of hair across his mug to his jawline.

“It depends,” Vanx said thoughtfully. “On the Isle of Zyth we have only our name and then our village designation. Vanx Malic means Vanx from the village Malic. Here in the human lands family names have a greater importance.” Vanx finished the cup of ale in his hand with a gulp and then banged it on the top of the dagger-marred table where they were seated.

“Hold your mud,” the barmaid yelled over the noise of the tavern room. Seeing that it was Vanx, her voice softened. “Oh, it’s you two. I’ll be right over.”

The room was starting to fill up for supper. The great central hearth fire at the Iceberg Inn and Tavern was the biggest, warmest, and most hospitable in all of Orendyn. The tables were not too close together and the floor was kept clean. The log and timber structure was cozy and produced a homey feeling. It was also far enough away from the docks to keep the troublesome sailors from walking over. The hard coin from the trappers and caravan traders who worked outside the city’s protective ice wall, however, did find its way in. Lem, the owner, had just purchased a fat elk from one of the local hunters, and tonight the sign out front read: “Fannie’s elk stew, eat until you spew.” Under that, in smaller letters, there was another line scrawled on the board. “Vanx the bard, most nights after dinner.”

Fannie, the cook, could make grizzled snow turtle taste like frosted cake. Her elk stew alone would pack the place.

“I suppose here it is Vanx Saint Elm,” Vanx finally answered the question. He reached down to the floor and gave the middling puppy there a scratch behind the ears. He’d carried the pup in a chest-pouch called a papoon for a long time, but Sir Poopsalot Maximus, as the dog was affectionately named, had outgrown the rig. Poop could keep up on his own now. At the moment, the dog was perfectly content on the floor gnawing the elk bone Fannie had slipped him.

Fannie had grown fond of the dog after she’d shooed him out of the kitchen and slammed the door a little too quickly, accidentally shearing off most of his tail. After a few choice bones, and a few healthy bowls of cuttings, Poop forgave her. The two were now fast friends. Poop spent most of his days guarding the kitchen service door while Vanx and Darbon roamed the frozen northern city.

Vanx, Darbon, and Poop had been staying at the inn for nearly half a year. Darbon’s facial wounds had been fresh when the ship arrived. His emotional wounds were far more tender, though. His first love, Matty, had been killed by an ogre’s spear, right before his eyes.