Free That Frigid Fargin Witch (The Legend of Vanx Malic) by M. R. Mathias Page A

asked.
    Poops twisted to look at Vanx and nearly tossed Thorn from his back. A warm, uncertain sense of puzzlement passed from the dog to him. This caused the fae folk ahead of them to turn and gasp.
    “That was the Interpratarion,” Thorn said, while leaning forward to give Poops a reassuring scratch behind the ears. “The speaker’s words find their way to all, and in the language to which they are most receptive. Gnomish, Elven, Spritish, even common trade tongue, Zythian, and all canine variations. It’s a handy device at times like this.”
    “Make way!” the voice called again. “He has returned! General Foxwise Posy-Thorn has returned with the queen’s champion.”
    A cheer rose up then, and the people parted for Thorn and his two giant companions. Many calls of excitement rose through the din of the sad and angry fairy people, and more than a few encouraging battle cries rang out.
    The air in the chamber had a strong, wholesome smell to it, like freshly tilled earth. Vanx glanced behind him and saw that the avenue of people was closing up as quickly as it was clearing ahead of them. When he turned back, he saw the most wondrous marvel of the Underland before him.
    The cavern’s floor was shaped like a deep bowl and was packed with colorfully clad fairy folk of all sorts. Dangling from the roof were what Vanx thought first to be stalactites, but on closer inspection he saw that they were dangling roots. Some of them were thin and spidery and hung almost all the way to the floor, like climbing ropes; others were thicker and twisted around each other. These came all the way down, forming barrel-sized columns that rooted down through the rocky floor. There were seven of these root-formed columns, Vanx counted, and they were spaced in a roughly even circle around a raised dais in the center of the chamber they formed.
    Other roots hung down and branched out, forming inverted candelabra shapes with clusters of glowing, fist-sized purple fruits, or maybe they were nuts. These radiated the bright lavender light that illuminated all but the center area inside of the perimeter of the seven root-formed columns. In some places the clusters of glowing vegetation were held together like giant bunches of grapes. The light under these was brighter and slightly whiter than the rest of the great nexus.
    Centered inside the pillars, atop the dais, was a starkly empty ivory throne.
    A few feet away from the empty seat, an orb the size of a human head was hovering and pulsing a deep shade of blue. Clustered around the orb were seven ancient-looking fae, all of whom were the human-child-size of the elves and pixies. Their expressions were dire, but they didn’t seem to have lost all hope. Vanx couldn’t tell which of them had wings, and the vibrant colors of distinction had been leached from the hair and beards of all but two of them.
    “Welcome home, General Posy-Thorn,” the oldest of the group said with her right hand palming the pulsing Interpratarion.
    Her words found Vanx’s ears in his native Zythian tongue, just as it had earlier. “And welcome, mighty Emerald Eyes. Your arrival has been eagerly hoped for, and we beg of you to hear our need.”
    “Tell them to take me to the Shadowmane, Thorn,” Chelda said.
    “There is no time for this.”
    The group was almost down to the circle of root columns when Chelda drew out her sword and brandished the bright blue glowing blade. A wave of gasps rippled around the nexus.
    “There is your real champion,” Vanx said, as they stepped into the slightly radiant purple field. The voices of the crowd faded slightly and a warm tingling sensation enveloped him. He was in the nexus.

There is a place so gloomy,
    so dark and oh so cold.
    Down in those depths a monster dwells,
    the dungeons of Rimehold.
    – Frosted Soul
    “W e are being peaced,” Darl said in hushed tones as he, Gallarael, and Xavian worked their way up a relatively steep grade toward the last ridge that