The Golden Key (Book 3) (5 page)

He grunted and strained against the chain, trying to will it
to come apart more quickly.

4

Angus sighed and looked up the ice shaft. He would have
liked to have slept longer, but he had already spent far too much time trapped
in the ice. He was ravenous, and there was no food to be found. Water was not
an issue, but a man can only live so long licking moisture from the ice. He
needed food, and he needed it soon.
Any
food. Even Voltari’s horrid
cooking would be welcome.

He stood up in the narrow confines of the shaft and turned
until the wall facing him was only a few inches from his face. It still
stretched out to either side a foot or so, but he only needed to be able to
reach the walls in front of and behind him. He leaned back and gripped the
smooth, slick edge of the second handhold he had made. He would have to be
careful; it would melt quickly, and his hand could easily slip out of it. Then
he positioned his left leg so that it was up against the back of the shaft and
lifted his foot up about six inches. He pressed his left thigh against the wall
and clung to the handhold as he lifted his right foot off the shelf. His left
leg stayed where it was, and he had no trouble keeping it there. In fact, he
felt much lighter than normal, and he decided to find out if the breeches could
support his full weight. He braced himself for a fall with his right foot ready
to catch him and then slowly brought his hand out of the handhold. He clung
there, hanging by his left thigh as if it had merged with the ice and frozen
into place. He put his right foot down and peeled his left leg off the wall. It
came free easily, and soon he was standing on his own again.

He completely ignored the handholds he had patiently made
and lifted his left leg until the knee contacted the ice in front of him. It
stuck there, and he brought his right one up next to it. He pressed his back
against the bumpy ice and steadied himself with his left hand, then easily
peeled his left knee free, lifted it, and stuck it to the ice again. It was
difficult climbing at first, since he had to keep from jarring his right
shoulder against the ice, but once he developed a rhythm, he was sliding easily
up the convoluted shaft. He moved quickly, more quickly than he probably should
have, and emerged from the shaft less than a half hour later.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was half-hidden behind
the mountains to the west. There was still plenty of light, but there wasn’t
much to see. He was in a valley between two mountains, and the thick ice was
covered with a thin layer of loose snow. At any point, it could collapse
beneath him and drop him into a crevice tens or hundreds of feet deep—just like
the one he had just found himself in. It would be better to go higher up on the
mountainside, and the breeches would help him do that. But which way should he
go?

Sardach had taken him east, away from the lift. That meant
he needed to go west, toward the lift. But how far had he been carried? Had
Sardach veered north or south? Was he still close enough to be able to see the
lift when he neared the cliff face? Was the mountain behind him the same one
with the cave in it? Or was it the one on the other side of the valley? Or another
one, further away? If it was on the other side of the valley, could he make it safely
across the ice?

He frowned and looked to the west. He could see a small part
of a cliff face, but not any details; the mountain behind him was obstructing
his view too much. But the small sliver he could see seemed to be much closer
to the mountain to the north of him. If it was, then the chances were it was
the mountain with the cave. The bridge between that mountain and the plateau
was only about a hundred feet long, and he wasn’t sure if the mountain behind him
got that close to the cliff. He would have to get past the outcropping blocking
his view to make sure, and he was already exhausted.

He looked around to find more secure footing, and made his
way slowly up the steep slope until he nestled in a small crack in the stone
not far above the snowline. It wasn’t a cave, exactly; it was more like a perch
a fletching would use for its aerie. But it was wide enough for him to squeeze
into it without bumping his right shoulder, and once he was inside, the
breeches clung to the sides and held him in place. He leaned back and closed
his eyes.

5

Typhus lurched forward as the last chain fell from his
ankle, but quickly corrected his momentary imbalance by hopping rapidly forward
and to the side. Then he turned around and hurried back to the Lamplight spell.
It hadn’t burned itself out yet, and he reached out with his right hand—no
sense burning the fingers on his left hand—and grimaced as he enlarged it to
its normal size. Then he put his fingers in his mouth, turned, and walked up to
the table. The chain links dragged noisily on the floor as he took the first
step, and the chain links dangling from his arms clinked as they jostled each
other. He would have to do something about them if he could.

He looked at the equipment on the table and smiled. There
was a frayed leather whip that would do nicely, and he reached for it and one
of the small blades. He sliced off the handle of the whip and tossed it aside,
then cut off a length of leather about a foot long. He unraveled the braided
strands and set the chain attached to his left hand on the edge of the table.
He wove the leather through the links and back again, and then pulled it as
tight as he could. He tied it with a knot he didn’t remember learning and shook
his arm. The chain still shifted a little bit, but it made very little noise as
it did so. He nodded with satisfaction and used two more of the strips of
leather to secure the chain to his forearm like a bracer. He used knots that
could be easily released, just in case he needed to use the leather strap as a
garrote, and then did the same with the other chains dangling from him.

He looked at the torture implements and shook his head. Most
of them were useless; he had no clothes to conceal them, and he would have to
move quickly when they came for him. Still, he tied the rest of the whip around
his waist and used the end to make a small loop at his side. Next, he tucked a
mallet that was used to crush fingers or toes into the loop and adjusted it so it
wouldn’t get in the way. He wasn’t intending to use the little mallet in
battle—there was little point in doing that—but it would offer some protection
against the knife he was going to use. He picked up that thin knife and slid it
through the whip’s leather until it nestled against the handle of the mallet. Then
he tied it into place with the last of the leather from the whip. He stretched
and bent and twisted around to make sure the blade wasn’t going to cut into his
thigh when he needed to contort his body during battle, and then picked up
another knife, one with a wide, flat blade about six inches long. Its weight
felt a little off, but it didn’t matter; he wasn’t planning to throw it unless
he absolutely had to. He set it down near the edge of the table and reached for
the vicious-looking barbed hook. It was about a foot long, and the handle made
it easy to manipulate, but it would have limited use. It was too much like a
fishhook; the curved end wouldn’t penetrate very far, but if he hooked it
around someone’s neck and pulled…

He put the rest of the tools that might be useful within
easy reach near the table edge closest to the door and turned to the question
of escape. He needed to get out, but how? Argyle had constructed these rooms so
the door couldn’t be opened from the inside. He would have to wait until they
came for him and then act swiftly and decisively. But who would Argyle send?
Iscara would be one of them. These were her tools, and she wouldn’t let anyone
else use them, especially the barbed hook. He smiled; the first time he had
seen her use it, she had cut a little slit into the man’s belly, wormed it up
inside of him, and twisted it around twice. Then she had given it a gentle,
steady pull…. All the while, she had a hideous grin on her face, one that
reminded him of how she looked later, when they—

He shook his head. He needed to set aside those
memories
and think about what he would have to do when they came. If Iscara was among
them; he would do what was necessary. She would understand that, perhaps better
than most. If their roles were reversed, she’d have little difficulty using the
hook on him, and their roles
were
reversed. She had already healed him
once; how many more times would she heal him before she grew tired of the
torture? His lips tightened; she was insatiable, and that was her problem. Torture
needed to be done with purpose, not pleasure, and was best dispatched with a
cold, efficient hand and a quiet mind. She enjoyed it too much, and that made
her careless. If it weren’t for her healing abilities….

His teeth ground together as he shook his head and vowed,
I
will not be one of her playthings.

Who would Iscara bring with her? Fanzool? No, he was dead,
wasn’t he? Argyle had said something about that, hadn’t he? Who would Argyle
send in his place? He didn’t know, and that worried him. Whenever Argyle had had
Typhus torture someone, Fanzool had been the one who asked the questions,
sought the answers, and tested those answers for veracity. Usually, Fanzool
didn’t need more than the threat of torture to find out the truth, which was a
good thing, since he was about as squeamish as they came. A little bit of
blood, a high-pitched scream, and Fanzool would pale to an almost glossy white
sheen.

Focus
, Typhus thought fiercely.
Fanzool is dead,
and there’s no sense thinking about him. Argyle will send a different wizard.
He glanced at the manacles that seemed to tighten whenever he tried to wriggle
free of them.
A wizard did that; would he be the one with Iscara?

Would Argyle come with them? No, he seldom joined the
festivities before the end was near; he would send his cronies in his place. But
which ones? Thaddius? He was a clod, and Typhus would have no problem dispatching
him. His curved knife
looked
nasty, but he was too clumsy with it for him
to be a real threat. It was a pity Argyle hadn’t sent Thaddius after him when
he had escaped the first time; he would have enjoyed ending that cretin’s life.
But Thaddius was Argyle’s chief henchman, and his loss would have been
difficult to replace. So he hadn’t sent him. Perhaps this time? Who else?

It was pointless to speculate with all the changes that had
taken place in Argyle’s organization since he had left. Most of those changes
were because of him, and if he was ready when they arrived, there’d be more
changes coming. If Argyle wasn’t with them, he should be able to deal with all
of them—
if
he was prepared to do so. Iscara would be trouble, though;
she knew magic. So would the new wizard. But if he was anything like Fanzool,
he would not be a problem for long. Under normal conditions, neither would
Argyle’s other cronies. Except, he was naked, and he didn’t have proper
weapons; he only had a handful of knives, a little hammer, and a giant
fishhook. He needed an advantage, one that would make those weapons more
formidable, would make
him
more formidable. He didn’t need to look
around the room to know he had nowhere to conceal himself; the only thing large
enough was the table, and it would be as much an impediment to himself as it
would be for others. Perhaps there was another way he could conceal himself?

He brought the magic within him into focus and studied the
patterns of the spells he had primed. He recognized Puffer almost immediately,
and even though he knew he could cast it, it wouldn’t be of much use. Friction?
He glanced at the burns on his fingertips and shrugged; it would probably burn
him more than it would anyone else. Flying? No; he would need that after he got
out of Argyle’s dungeon. The last two—Lava Bubble and Cloaking—could prove
useful, but he wasn’t sure if he could cast them. They were a lot more
complicated than Lamplight and Puffer, and Angus hadn’t cast them very much
when he was with him. But if they couldn’t see him when they entered, it would
give him the kind of advantage he would need—perhaps even enough for him to
deal with Argyle.

He turned outward, looking for the magic around him. There
was plenty of magic around him, but most of it was earth magic, and he needed
sky magic. But anywhere there was air, there was sky magic, and he picked out a
pretty, light blue strand and brought it toward him. Then he brought one of the
few icy-white ones to him and paused. The next strand was a problem. It had to
be earth magic of a particular shade, and he couldn’t remember what that shade
looked like. He knew what it was called—umber—but that didn’t help. All the
different strands of brown around him were just that:
brown
. He could
see differences in their shades, but he didn’t know what they were called. They
were all just brown, and brown was a brand new concept to him. If he had seen
the shade of
gray
that corresponded to umber, then he could figure it
out, but he had never heard of umber until Angus had thought about it. He
sighed, trying to remember the strand Angus had brought to him when he had cast
the Cloaking spell on the platform, when he had hid them from Sardach.

He cringed. What if Argyle sent Sardach with Iscara? Sardach
had found him once….

Typhus shook his head. He couldn’t remember the shade of
brown; he hadn’t been paying enough attention to it. He had been consumed by
his fear of Sardach. Give him flesh and blood enemies any time, and he would
face them from behind without flinching, but Sardach? How do you kill smoke
with a blade or strangle it with a garrote?

He reached for a brown strand that looked different from all
the others and pulled it to him. He didn’t know if it were umber or not, but at
least it was unique among those around him, and Angus had said that umber was
rare. If the spell worked, fine; if not.…

He shrugged, took a deep breath, and clung to the magical
threads with a tenacity that made his burned fingertips throb. He slowly tied
the white and blue strands together, taking his time with each knot until he
reached the point when he was supposed to weave the umber strand through them.
Then he paused. How long would it be before they arrived to torture him? How
long would he be able to hang onto the Cloaking spell? Would it even work? Or
would it leave him fluttering about like a shiny blue ghost? If the strand
wasn’t umber, what would it do to him? How would it affect the spell?

He was still considering the possibilities when he heard a
sharp click in the wall. He knew what that click meant and quickly finished the
spell. The door was already opening by the time he reached for the knife with
his left hand and the barbed hook with his right. He moved quietly to the edge
of the opening door, and through the growing crack he saw Thaddius staring
right at him, as if he saw nothing.

Typhus smiled as he lifted the hook and braced himself.