The Legend of Vanx Malic: Book 02 - Dragon Isle by M. R. Mathias Page A
Authors: M. R. Mathias
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Vanx shied back at first when the Zwarvy reached his bloody hand toward his face, but the pup got a scent of the morsel and began squirming to reach out for it. Ootlin smiled, showing his own row of pointed teeth as the pup took the meat and began working at it.
“Un efin doogle theren,” he said and then wiped his hand clean on the hem of his smock.
“He,” Vanx wasn’t sure if the pup was a he yet. He thought that it was. “He was beside me when I woke.”
“Choosen un didem,” Pak said, unable to contain a ghoulish smile at the dog.
Vanx hadn’t thought about keeping the pup, at least not until Pak put the notion in his mind. He couldn’t just leave it to fend for itself, could he? It chose him. He considered the idea as he followed Ootlin and Olden Pak down the low tunnel that led away from the entrance. The way was mostly dark, but occasional chunks of the glowing stalagma had been placed every so often. They passed a few areas where the tunnel branched away. One of those shafts dove sharply downward and a palpable humidity seemed to be hovering around its opening. The shaft they were in also went downward, but not at such a stark angle. The descent was slight, almost imperceptible, but Vanx could feel it plainly. It was like some internal pull, just as when he went below the level of the sea in Dyntalla.
Vanx was certain he could find his way back up if he had to, but he sensed it wouldn’t be necessary. He wasn’t nervous about following the strange folk through the depths of the island. He was curious, extremely curious, and a bit worried for his friends’ wellbeing, too. He knew that there wasn’t much he could do for them, and he could almost feel the full moon rising over them. Zeezle wouldn’t lead Trevin and the others into certain danger, though. They were all probably holed up in a cave somewhere eating lizard steaks or boiled nest eggs.
His stomach growled at the thought of food. All of the supplies, save for his dagger and the flask of stout he had snugged in his boot, had been left at the top of the ledge. He was at the mercy of the Zwarvy as far as sustenance was concerned. The eerie creatures began to worry him as he followed along, absently petting the puppy in his arms. His worries evaporated, though, when they emerged into a massive cavern right out of a folk fable. He’d been led to an underground city that was easily the size of Dyntalla, and the fantastical sights and sounds that assailed his senses took his breath away.
She poisoned all the fair-folk.
Doomed them to their end.
That heartless witch, a frigid bitch.
Whats worse? She’ll come again!
They say she’ll come again!
– Frosted Soul
T he intake of Pyra’s breath became a sucking pull against Trevin’s entire being. Dirt and other particles whisked past his face toward her cavernous nostrils and his clothes pulled away from his body as if he were in a gale. He hadn’t opened his eyes. He didn’t dare. He was afraid he would die of fright. Over the whooshing of her breath, he heard Zeezle’s voice. The Zythian was speaking gibberish in a feeble yet rhythmic chant. Pyra’s drawing of breath stopped then and Trevin’s whole body clenched while he waited to be roasted alive.
The heat came now, and a terrible roar with it, but a few seconds into the terrifying sensation Trevin realized he wasn’t being charred to a crisp. He chanced to open a lid and found Zeezle’s red-faced form crouched over him with his hands stretched out toward the dragon. Both of them were being bathed in orange fire, only it wasn’t hitting them directly. It was being diverted around them by some invisible shield that Zeezle seemed to be holding in place.
Suddenly, Trevin felt pain, deep and severe in his left foot. He drew his leg further toward him and found that the tip of his boot, and parts of his toes, were little more than ash and smoke. He screamed out at the intense anguish, but otherwise held still.
Another sound, a
“Un efin doogle theren,” he said and then wiped his hand clean on the hem of his smock.
“He,” Vanx wasn’t sure if the pup was a he yet. He thought that it was. “He was beside me when I woke.”
“Choosen un didem,” Pak said, unable to contain a ghoulish smile at the dog.
Vanx hadn’t thought about keeping the pup, at least not until Pak put the notion in his mind. He couldn’t just leave it to fend for itself, could he? It chose him. He considered the idea as he followed Ootlin and Olden Pak down the low tunnel that led away from the entrance. The way was mostly dark, but occasional chunks of the glowing stalagma had been placed every so often. They passed a few areas where the tunnel branched away. One of those shafts dove sharply downward and a palpable humidity seemed to be hovering around its opening. The shaft they were in also went downward, but not at such a stark angle. The descent was slight, almost imperceptible, but Vanx could feel it plainly. It was like some internal pull, just as when he went below the level of the sea in Dyntalla.
Vanx was certain he could find his way back up if he had to, but he sensed it wouldn’t be necessary. He wasn’t nervous about following the strange folk through the depths of the island. He was curious, extremely curious, and a bit worried for his friends’ wellbeing, too. He knew that there wasn’t much he could do for them, and he could almost feel the full moon rising over them. Zeezle wouldn’t lead Trevin and the others into certain danger, though. They were all probably holed up in a cave somewhere eating lizard steaks or boiled nest eggs.
His stomach growled at the thought of food. All of the supplies, save for his dagger and the flask of stout he had snugged in his boot, had been left at the top of the ledge. He was at the mercy of the Zwarvy as far as sustenance was concerned. The eerie creatures began to worry him as he followed along, absently petting the puppy in his arms. His worries evaporated, though, when they emerged into a massive cavern right out of a folk fable. He’d been led to an underground city that was easily the size of Dyntalla, and the fantastical sights and sounds that assailed his senses took his breath away.
She poisoned all the fair-folk.
Doomed them to their end.
That heartless witch, a frigid bitch.
Whats worse? She’ll come again!
They say she’ll come again!
– Frosted Soul
T he intake of Pyra’s breath became a sucking pull against Trevin’s entire being. Dirt and other particles whisked past his face toward her cavernous nostrils and his clothes pulled away from his body as if he were in a gale. He hadn’t opened his eyes. He didn’t dare. He was afraid he would die of fright. Over the whooshing of her breath, he heard Zeezle’s voice. The Zythian was speaking gibberish in a feeble yet rhythmic chant. Pyra’s drawing of breath stopped then and Trevin’s whole body clenched while he waited to be roasted alive.
The heat came now, and a terrible roar with it, but a few seconds into the terrifying sensation Trevin realized he wasn’t being charred to a crisp. He chanced to open a lid and found Zeezle’s red-faced form crouched over him with his hands stretched out toward the dragon. Both of them were being bathed in orange fire, only it wasn’t hitting them directly. It was being diverted around them by some invisible shield that Zeezle seemed to be holding in place.
Suddenly, Trevin felt pain, deep and severe in his left foot. He drew his leg further toward him and found that the tip of his boot, and parts of his toes, were little more than ash and smoke. He screamed out at the intense anguish, but otherwise held still.
Another sound, a
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