The Legend of Vanx Malic: Book 02 - Dragon Isle by M. R. Mathias Page B

saw a fallen stalactite which had obviously been used as a place to rest, he wondered who had traversed this passage enough to wear it smooth, and why. He understood that the kind of wear he could see in the floor and the obvious handholds he’d seen along the way had to have been formed by countless passings, but by whom? None of the Zythian histories spoke of people living on Dragon Isle, and Zythian history went back thousands and thousands of years. Vanx knew that there were underground-dwelling dwarves. He had met a few of them back in Parydon proper, but those dwarves were part of a troop of tumbling mummers. He had played for some of the little buggers in Highlake before all of this mess was started. The underground kingdoms he knew of were in Harthgar and in the far north. Nothing in the histories mentioned any of them settling in this part of the world.
    Vanx sat on the well-worn bench formed of the fallen formation. His body ached, and his back was beginning to feel as if it were broken. He needed to rest and gather his wits. Maybe when he was recuperated the dragon would be gone. Then he could find a way down the cliff face and wait for his friends with the sailors at the beach. If not, he could explore this passage. Maybe it led somewhere. At the moment, though, his body was throbbing and aching and all he wanted to do was lie back and rest.
    As he slipped away, the idea started to form in his head that his sudden drowsiness was caused by something in the venting air; then he heard a sound that let him know he wasn’t alone in the cavern. He could do nothing about these things, though, because unconsciousness was already overtaking him.



The king saw the wizard and the wizard looked tired
    “You might be a king, but you’re not so admired.”
    “True,” said the king. “But that is why you’ve come.”
    “They’ll love me by your magic, or I’ll feed you to my wyrm.”
    – The Weary Wizard

“H ow much farther?” Trevin asked in a soft, breathless whisper. “The moon is coming up as we speak.” He pointed toward the east where the faint silvery eye of Aur was gaining form a handbreadth above the deep blue horizon.
    “We will be atop the ridge before it’s over our heads,” answered Zeezle. “But we have to keep moving. We’re running out of dusk light. Soon Aur’s glow will be enough to make us look like a meal.”
    “Will they be all right there?” Trevin asked as he started back up the steep, narrow ledge behind the Zythian. The “they” he was referring to was Yandi and Darbon. The seaman had volunteered to stay behind and watch over the injured boy.
    Darbon had tried to keep up at first. It was a noble effort, but the blow to his head affected his balance to the point where he was a danger to himself and the others. Yandi had been happy to stay with him in the small crevice they chose. Zeezle and Trevin piled up brush and scree in front of the hiding hole before leaving.
    Trevin hoped that Zeezle didn’t go the way of Sir Earlin and Vanx. Without the Zythian, he might not ever find Darbon or the skittish seaman ever again.
    He reminded himself that Darbon and Yandi could wait until daylight and easily kick away the pile that concealed them. They could make their own way back down to the rowboat. Still, the idea of them being buried, as if they were dead, was unsettling.
    Trevin tried to push away the growing sensations of doubt that were taking root in his guts. The thought of not succeeding here, of losing Gallarael because he failed to attain the dragon’s blood, was unbearable. Already it had cost his friend and the prince’s man their lives. He suspected that, even if he succeeded, he might not ever recover from the guilt. This endeavor was exacting a price from his soul that he might not be able to repay. He couldn’t give up hope, though. To do so, as Vanx had put it in telling the story of Sir Earlin’s gruesome death, would cheapen the sacrifice of those who had chosen