There were sections along the docks with establishments built for folk of gargan size. The giants from far away Kar, and the overly serious people of Harthgar traded here, too, from time to time, and the pirates all sold here. So the fact that they were a group of an elf, a gargan, and the freakish half-Zythian from Malic apparently wasn’t that strange.

  It surprised Thorn and Chelda both that all of the Zythians knew who Vanx was, but his whole existence among the Zythians was nothing short of miraculous.

  “They look down upon you, Vanx. But they fear you.” This from Chelda, who had been quiet and brooding for most of the day. Vanx figured she missed Moonsy and felt bad for betraying her at the last moment. “You beat two of them once? At a contest?”

  “It was a festival,” Vanx said, glancing around at some of the looks he was getting. “And not at once.” He decided she was right. They probably remembered the thumpings as much as they remembered he was only half Zythian. This made him cheer up a bit.

  “Go on.” Chelda slapped him on the back as she eased her jog beside the kanga Vanx was riding. She’d ridden one of the uni-horned creatures across the farmlands, but once inside the gates of Flotsam, she’d chosen to walk, for she said she could keep up with the pace the city forced on them with ease, even if her inner thighs felt raw and bruised from the saddle. “Tell us of this beating you gave, that makes them all stare and wonder over you.”

  “Chelda,”—Vanx heaved in a breath and tried to explain it all—“most of the stares are because I am half-human, not a true Zythian. Not only that, but my father was the infamous Captain Marin Saint Elm, and my mother was the ship witch. Once, two brothers—Zeezle, who we are trying to find, and his brother Dorlan, who died from dragon’s breath in a field near my home—well, they jumped me. I was young then, and they got me down. They called me names like ‘half-breed’, and ‘mud-blood’. Then Dorlan started booting my face. Zeezle saved me from him, but I got my revenge and embarrassed them by calling them each to the fighting circle, one at a time, at a huge festival.”

  “Obviously, you won, but why do they all remember?” Thorn asked, and Chelda put her ear even closer to hear his response.

  “Zeezle’s brother had called my mother a whore, which everyone assumed true, because she was on a ship full of men for most of her life. I made him beg me not to kill him, and I made him recant his lies. What was so remarkable about all of it, I guess, was that they used real swords when we faced off, and I used a practice blade made of iron oak. They were so covered in welts and bruises that they were unrecognizable for half a year.”

  “What about you?” Chelda asked as they came into view of a mass of glittery-haired Zythians, all screaming and betting over whatever was happening ahead of and below them. It was the dugout kanga track they were approaching, and Vanx started looking for Zeezle as he absently answered. “Zeezle got one cut in, but it wasn’t more than a scratch.”

  “If you jumped at those Zythians and shook your tongue, I bet they’d flee.” Chelda indicated a group of them, all dressed as if ready to go to battle.

  “War came to Parydon, and the foe is not yet understood. If they come at Flotsam, these Zyths will defend our land to the death. They’ve already moved all the good-folk inland. Have you seen a gypsy child or a whore since we’ve been here?”

  “No,” Chelda answered, and began looking even closer at the situation brewing around them.

  “What did that strider captain say about them?” Thorn asked, with a glance at Chelda. “Enough of the bantering over Vanx’s past.”

  “He said they’ve a black scar at the center of their forehead, and one on each cheek. The dots form a perfect equilateral triangle. They’ve eyes, blades, and arrow-tips that glow the same dull shade of blue, and that penetrate steel, be it chain or plate, as if it was soft leather. Some of them have small dragon mounts, and they all move and function in cohort, as if they are being controlled.”

  “He saw them firsthand?” Chelda asked. “Do you believe him?”

  “Why would he lie?” Thorn snapped. “Is it not just like Vanx saw in the witch’s mirror?”

  Vanx waved off their argument. “He saw the attack on Parydon firsthand, but his ship was already fleeing the harbor. They came straight here days ago to warn Zyth. What I wonder is, if the Trigon’s ships sailed from Harthgar and attacked Parydon, does that mean the kingdom is at war with all of Harthgar, or just with the Trigon?”

  “What?” Thorn asked, still miffed at Chelda’s disbelief. “The Trigon is rooted in Harthgar, but I doubt they represent all of them? That’s like assuming the will of the skmoes is the will of all the northern tribes and communities.”

  “I think you are right, my friend.” Vanx reached down and gave Thorn’s shoulder a squeeze. “We are here now, and time is wasting. Zeezle will be here somewhere. Look for the blue, dragon-skin jacket he wears. It will distinguish him from the others.”

  Chapter

  Nine

  I cast this wreath into the sea,

  to satisfy Nepton.

  Shelter well into your depths,

  those souls you’ve taken on.

  – A prayer to Nepton, God of the sea.

  Making the journey skirting the ice falls was taxing for Darbon, and for the two men of Prince Russet’s crew who crossed. Quazar levitated himself and Salma across, and offered to do the same for the other four shipmen, but they were simple, superstitious sailors. They were way out of their element, and they would have nothing to do with it. Gallarael was surprised they had made it this far into the frigid mountains. Most of them never stood on land for more than a week or two at a time, and the climate was far different from the tropical sea air they were used to.

  Once she had Russet across, while the others were still dallying, Gallarael cornered her brother and half shifted forms right in his face.

  Gallarael had been trying to intimidate and harass Russet for the knots he’d put on Darbon’s head, and the bruise on Salma’s cheek, but to her great surprise, Russet fell to a knee before his sister and apologized profusely. Not only was he sorry for using suspect tactics to find out where she was, he was even more regretful over not being able to save her from the unexpected result of the dragon blood they had procured for her.

  “You didn’t even leave the ship!” she chided, which only caused Russet’s guilt to overwhelm him, and he sobbed into her waist. Gallarael realized then that her brother wasn’t mean, or cold, or anything like her father—no, Duke Martin was not her father, even though he still held that place in her heart. Russet Oakarm was like she had been before the dragon blood transformed her into what she was now.

  “I didn’t go ashore because my guardian pulled liege law on me.” He wiped away his tears and sniffled. It was as cold as could be, right there, with the wind blowing off of the frozen waterfall right at them. Russet’s nose was cherry-red, and he looked more like a frightened boy than the Crown Prince of Parydon. He rose, giving her standing, black-skinned, half-feline form a sincere hug. “I swear the plan was for me, Vanx, and Zeezle to go.”

  “I believe you, brother,” she growled. “But you’ll never lay a hand on Darbon or Salma again, or I’ll return the slight tenfold, and I swear that on everything I love.”

  Prince Russet nodded that he understood. The situation was saved when Darbon appeared and pointed to where Quazar and Salma were watching from a distance on their side of the gulch.

  The next morning, Gallarael, in her most human form, led her brother out behind the ramma rider cabin on the Heart Tree’s side of the ice falls. After learning from Moonsy about Vanx, Thorn, and Chelda, she felt she had to at least offer to lead the group back to Orendyn, where their ship might take them to join the battle.

  “Where is Vanx?” Russet’s regret from the day before was gone. But Gallarael still sensed it hidden in his demeanor. He wasn’t a bawling boy this morning, though. He was determined to finish the task his father had given him.

  “You don’t understand. The Trigon will be attacking Parydon Isle soon. They will attack Orendyn here, and Zyth as well.”

  “How can you know these things?” Russet squeezed the bridge of his nose and then pulled his furred, long coat more tightly around him. “How?”

  “Vanx snared the fabled Hoar Witch. He has her spell books and potions, and even her memory to dig through.” Gallarael gave her brother a look that conveyed her aggravation over his disbelief.

  “Listen to her, my prince, for I’ve just a moment ago received a sending from home that confirms the tale.” This from Quazar, who looked warm under his cloak as he rounded the corner. “A hole opened up in the sky above the sea, not far from Parydon Isle, and through it came ships full of dull-eyed warriors with magic blades, and a score more of the like riding dragons.”

  “Can we commandeer some ships and men in Orendyn, come in behind them and surprise them?” asked Russet.

  Quazar’s head fell forward. “Parydon has been taken, son. Your father is either a prisoner or dead.” Quazar took a knee then, which put him waist-deep in the powdery snow. “You are acting king now, Russet Oakarm. The wizards of the Royal Order are yours to command. At the moment, they are defending the evacuation of innocents from the island, but even those not fighting back are being killed or captured in droves.”

  “Where is Vanx?” Russet yelled at the dreary, cloud-filled sky. “What do we do?”

  “Luckily, the enemy seems content to hold the island, but they will no doubt fortify it, and then start ranging out to take the nearby ports.” Quazar looked at Gallarael. “The enemy is the Trigon, you say? And Vanx has gone to warn his kinsmen on Zyth?”

  “Aye,” Gallarael responded.

  “I wish there were a way to communicate with him.” The old wizard let out a huff.

  Gallarael thought about it for a moment, and her sad eyes lit up. “There is.” She turned and started hollering into the trees, “Streak! Someone go fetch Streak, and I mean now!”

  The silent and mostly still morning forest erupted around them. Even one of the trees uprooted itself, shook the snow off of its leafless branches, and started down into Saint Elm’s Deep to find the little sprite for her. The sailors who’d crossed the gulch with King Russet Oakarm both eased closer to Quazar.

  “What is Streak?” Russet asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough.” Gallarael gave the terrified men a hard look. “I wouldn’t want one of these scalawags to shit their britches.”

  Chapter

  Ten

  Now it seems like a million years have past, and I’ve been lost always searching for that one song.

  The dreams of youth make everything seem like its going to last.

  But now I wonder where all the time has gone?

  – A Zythian bard’s song

  Neither Thorn, nor Chelda, nor even Vanx could pick Zeezle out of the rowdy crowd watching the kanga races. The speedy creatures were tearing around the track with so much speed that they were high and sideways to the ground all the way around the three corners of the triangular track. Then they leveled off into the long straightaways on either side of the berms. As exciting and nostalgic as the scene was, Vanx kept looking for Zeezle and his dragon skin jacket.

  It ended up being Zeezle who found Vanx, and when he did, he whispered in hushed tones so that the other Zythians around them didn’t hear.

  “How’d you get here?” Zeezle was intense. His eyes held contempt, and a hint of vengeful excitement. “Are Russet and his crew with you? We need to get to Dragon Isle fast.”

  “Dragon Isle?” Vanx couldn’t fathom why.

  “Pyra promised us her aid if we were in need. Remember?”

  After a few moments, Thorn and Chelda found the two childhood friends, but instead of bothering with the gargan or the elf, Zeezle fell to a knee and greeted Sir Poopsalot as if he were royalty.

  “We’ve no time to sail that far.” Vanx knelt and scratched Poops behind the ears, too. He almost laughed at Thorn’s scowl, but the situation was too dire for mirth. Only after Chelda squatted down and joined the group did he continue. “I’ve seen the future, and those bastards that have taken Parydon Isle are coming here next.”

  “It will take those dazed skags days to sail here, and we have watchers on the lookout.” Zeezle cocked his head, as if he understood Vanx knew more. “What? What is it?”

  “They will sail, but they will use a portal or something of the sort, and the whole of their force will come into Flotsam Bay in a matter of moments. That is how they surprised the Parydonian fleet.”

  “So, how did you get here?” Zeezle asked.

  “When I saw in the mirror how they surprised Parydon, I forced a similar spell out of the Hoar Witch, only we lost several days getting here from there.”

  “Still faster than a ship.” Chelda joined the conversation. Vanx noticed that she couldn’t keep her eyes off of Zeezle’s jacket and shook his head. It amazed him that nearly all women could be distracted by something that glittered.

  “What mirror?” Zeezle’s face went blank. “You mean the Hoar Witch? The one from the songs?”

  “He killed her, but she’s still alive,” Chelda boasted. “I don’t understand it, but that’s how it is.”

  “What’s to understand?” Thorn snapped at them all. “What are we doing, Vanx? We found him.”

  It was a good question, but Vanx didn’t really have an answer. Instead of responding to the elf, he looked at Chelda and then at Zeezle. “I think I know why we lost so much time when we teleported here, but we won’t know until the next time I have to use the spell.”

  “Use it on me.” Zeezle stood and pulled up Vanx with him. “Right now.”

  Zeezle didn’t say aloud where he wanted to go or why, and Vanx, knowing that the enemy had its own aerial threat, decided it might be the best idea he’d heard yet.

  The others stood, save for Thorn, who stayed in his saddle on Poops’s back.

  “Come on, then.” Vanx let out a sigh of frustration. The very same part of the sky where he’d seen the Trigon come at Flotsam was right there above them. “We need to do this elsewhere. I don’t want to have to explain.”

  “Oh, you’ll explain it all when this is done, my friend.” Zeezle jogged over to a shed and grabbed a shoulder pack, then added a sword and bullwhip to his belt.

  “That looks private enough,” Chelda said, indicating an alley formed by two racing-kanga barns. “Go on, I’ll block the way.”

  “Where did you find her?” Zeezle asked, and nodded at Thorn. “And why in the hell is that elf riding the pup?”

  “If we see each other again, Zee, I’ll explain,” Vanx said as he poured a much smaller circle of sand for his friend. “Step in and try not to get eaten or scorched when you get there.”

  Zeezle did as instructed, and after Vanx went through the motions of the spell, modifying them ever so slightly, Zeezle disappeared with a “whoomp.”

  “Where did you send him?” Chelda and Thorn asked in unison.

  Vanx turned to answer them, but just then, the sky opened up out in the bay, and a half-dozen dragon-riding Trigon warriors flew through, blasting everything they could with crackling blue pulses of magical energy.

  Right behind them came three black ships flying the Trigon’s banner, a black flag with three blue dots that formed a perfect upward-pointing triangle. Vanx saw the same three dots on the fighters charging from swiftly opening cargo hold doors through knee-deep seawater. But worse than that were the dozen or more other wyrms and their riders, who were covering the unloading of the fighters with calculated precision.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  Her name was Big Ole Sally, and she served men in the alley, until one day the captain hung his wick.

  Her mouth just couldn’t please him, so he took down her skivvies and, found her cock was twice as big as his.

  – A sailor’s song

  Vanx was searching his mind for a spell that might help the surprised Zythians, but suddenly, Streak’s anxious voice was echoing loudly across the ethereal. Thorn, Chelda, and Poops heard it, too, as did a few of the Zythians who were schooled in the greater arcane arts.

  “Russet is the new King of Parydon, and he and his crew are in the Deep.” Streak was clearly repeating words that either Moonsy or Gallarael was telling him to say. Vanx grabbed the crystal dangling from his neck and called back.

  “Keep them at the falls, and have Gallarael fetch the witch’s spell book from the lookout.”

  “Ahoo,” came the response, which was the fae’s version of “yes” or “aye”.

  Vanx moved to keep the others out of the now heated battle, but Chelda’s big sword was drawn, and so was the Glaive of Gladiolus. Poops was already charging his rider right at the line of black-clad, blue-eyed fighters streaming from the shallows.

  For the first time in a long time, Vanx thought of Xavian and Brody, and wished they were here.

  It was surprising, the way Chelda slashed and slung the charging men away from her. Each blow was a mortal one, if not an instant kill. But when Thorn cut into the first of them, something amazing happened. The Glaive did the expected damage a blade should do, but the moment it touched the Trigon warrior, the dull glow left his eyes. This didn’t register with the elf, who was already urging Poops at another victim. The entranced Trigon fighters didn’t notice, either. Then Thorn’s slice was deflected from doing any real harm to one of them, but it did draw blood. The Trigon man pitched forward, his eyes suddenly clearing. His gaze met Vanx’s, and the man’s expression was one of total confusion.

 

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