speakun tha tunga o’ Zwarvy?” the older of the two asked.
“Un mannish,” the younger one responded nervously. “Draconish behim.”
Vanx’s gaze slid to the younger of the two for an instant. Did this thing actually think he had dragon blood in his veins? He dismissed the notion and looked to the older man. “Half mannish, half Zythian.”
“Ah.” The pale little creature scratched a clump of stuff in his beard. A few flakes of it fell away.
“Un fro islana gilden eyes,” the older thing said to his nervous companion.
The little guy, a Zwarvy, his friend had called them, lowered his guard and squinted his tiny, glowing orbs at Vanx. “Inna eyes steren’t gilden.”
“I am only half Zythian," Vanx repeated. "My father was a human."
“Inna,” the older one nodded. He pointed to his suspicious companion and said, “Ootlin.” He then pounded a fist on his chest and said, “Olden Pak.”
“Olden,” Vanx knew, meant elder. This only confirmed what Vanx had surmised from the valuable and most likely enchanted staff Olden Pak was carrying.
The sound of scuffling feet and grunted effort came to Vanx’s ears from behind him. He turned and saw three more of the short albino Zwarvy dragging what was left of the devil goat carcass behind them. As it came into the glowing light of the cavern’s stalagma, Vanx realized that he didn’t smell musty almonds anymore, and the air that had been warm and venting outward earlier now seemed still and cool.
He glanced at Olden Pak’s staff and remembered what the elder had said earlier: “The secrun, shant’ve slumbered the mannish.”
Vanx nodded with respect to the cleverness of these creatures as it became clear to him. These little folk had used heat to vent the air out of the chambers below, and with the aid of some incensed herbs, and possibly a little magic, had put the dragon in the cavern outside to sleep. Then they stole its meal, or what was left of it. Apparently his Zythian blood caused the sleeping secrun to affect him. He understood now why they had accused him of having the blood of dragons in his veins. The notion triggered a memory from his music lessons.
One song, a legendary ballad of old called “Forbidden”, said that a dragon had fallen in love and turned itself into a man with its magic. It mated with a Welven princess, thus creating the Zythian race; but that was just an ancient tale, a minstrel’s saga meant to entertain. At least Vanx thought it was. Maybe there was a bit of truth in this story.
The puppy reached up and licked Vanx’s stubbly chin again. This time Vanx nuzzled it and began scratching it behind the ears. “Can you help me get to the great fire-breather’s valley?” he asked Pak, who was explaining his presence to the others.
The old Zwarvy barked out some orders to the wide-eyed ones dragging the devil goat carcass and then looked at Vanx with stern, curious eyes. By the time Vanx realized he was being magicked it was too late to do anything about it. He was glad it had only been an unmasking, a spell cast to reveal his intentions and the motives behind them. It could have just as easily been a debilitating spell the strange elder cast on him.
Using broad hand gestures and stunted speech, Pak told him that Pyra would defecate, then feed this night, and defecate again early the next. The old man had literally read Vanx’s mind and understood now why he was here. He seemed to respect the reasoning and determination that brought Vanx here, but he crudely conveyed that he thought the rest of Vanx’s group would be killed during this night of the full moon.
He explained that the dragons would battle each other with tooth and claw, and even magic. The strongest of them would mate as the stars circled the moon. Ootlin moved over to the others to apparently oversee the skinning of the remaining goat meat. He returned with a small bit of gristle in a hand that looked black with blood in the strange greenish light.
“Un mannish,” the younger one responded nervously. “Draconish behim.”
Vanx’s gaze slid to the younger of the two for an instant. Did this thing actually think he had dragon blood in his veins? He dismissed the notion and looked to the older man. “Half mannish, half Zythian.”
“Ah.” The pale little creature scratched a clump of stuff in his beard. A few flakes of it fell away.
“Un fro islana gilden eyes,” the older thing said to his nervous companion.
The little guy, a Zwarvy, his friend had called them, lowered his guard and squinted his tiny, glowing orbs at Vanx. “Inna eyes steren’t gilden.”
“I am only half Zythian," Vanx repeated. "My father was a human."
“Inna,” the older one nodded. He pointed to his suspicious companion and said, “Ootlin.” He then pounded a fist on his chest and said, “Olden Pak.”
“Olden,” Vanx knew, meant elder. This only confirmed what Vanx had surmised from the valuable and most likely enchanted staff Olden Pak was carrying.
The sound of scuffling feet and grunted effort came to Vanx’s ears from behind him. He turned and saw three more of the short albino Zwarvy dragging what was left of the devil goat carcass behind them. As it came into the glowing light of the cavern’s stalagma, Vanx realized that he didn’t smell musty almonds anymore, and the air that had been warm and venting outward earlier now seemed still and cool.
He glanced at Olden Pak’s staff and remembered what the elder had said earlier: “The secrun, shant’ve slumbered the mannish.”
Vanx nodded with respect to the cleverness of these creatures as it became clear to him. These little folk had used heat to vent the air out of the chambers below, and with the aid of some incensed herbs, and possibly a little magic, had put the dragon in the cavern outside to sleep. Then they stole its meal, or what was left of it. Apparently his Zythian blood caused the sleeping secrun to affect him. He understood now why they had accused him of having the blood of dragons in his veins. The notion triggered a memory from his music lessons.
One song, a legendary ballad of old called “Forbidden”, said that a dragon had fallen in love and turned itself into a man with its magic. It mated with a Welven princess, thus creating the Zythian race; but that was just an ancient tale, a minstrel’s saga meant to entertain. At least Vanx thought it was. Maybe there was a bit of truth in this story.
The puppy reached up and licked Vanx’s stubbly chin again. This time Vanx nuzzled it and began scratching it behind the ears. “Can you help me get to the great fire-breather’s valley?” he asked Pak, who was explaining his presence to the others.
The old Zwarvy barked out some orders to the wide-eyed ones dragging the devil goat carcass and then looked at Vanx with stern, curious eyes. By the time Vanx realized he was being magicked it was too late to do anything about it. He was glad it had only been an unmasking, a spell cast to reveal his intentions and the motives behind them. It could have just as easily been a debilitating spell the strange elder cast on him.
Using broad hand gestures and stunted speech, Pak told him that Pyra would defecate, then feed this night, and defecate again early the next. The old man had literally read Vanx’s mind and understood now why he was here. He seemed to respect the reasoning and determination that brought Vanx here, but he crudely conveyed that he thought the rest of Vanx’s group would be killed during this night of the full moon.
He explained that the dragons would battle each other with tooth and claw, and even magic. The strongest of them would mate as the stars circled the moon. Ootlin moved over to the others to apparently oversee the skinning of the remaining goat meat. He returned with a small bit of gristle in a hand that looked black with blood in the strange greenish light.
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