The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (13 page)

7

There was a fierce, frostbitten wind pummeling Fanzool, but he
didn’t feel it. Sardach was keeping him warm. It was a strange sensation to
have Sardach within him, but he was grateful for it. Without Sardach, he would
have frozen long ago. Still, it felt—and smelled—like smoldering ashes had
flung themselves into his lungs. Too bad Sardach couldn’t do anything about the
treacherous footing or the buffeting of the wind; Fanzool was finding it very difficult
to walk.

You should not have left my staff behind
, he thought
to Sardach. He wasn’t sure if Sardach would hear or not, but he thought it as
loud as he possibly could.
I will slip off the mountain before were through!
How strange it was for him to scold Sardach like this! Not long ago, Sardach
had
terrified
him, and now? Now he was glad Sardach was with him!

The road was dreadful. He had followed it up the side of the
mountain for nearly a day, and he was making little headway. Spring was
creeping into the air, and it was warm enough at midday to melt the snow. Small
waterfalls cascaded down the slopes in the late afternoon, and they needed
somewhere to go. The unfinished roadbed was perfect; it was a shallow depression
that hugged the mountain’s edge, and the water followed it like it would a
streambed. In late afternoon, when it began to cool again, the water froze.
Slowly. Walking on the ice was bad enough, but with the film of freezing water
on top of it, it was nearly impassable. He had finally resorted to walking on
the berm next to the upslope, since it was mostly free of ice and water—except
for where the waterfalls ran.

If he wasn’t terrified of slipping, he would have found the
scene quite beautiful. Crisp new ice, mottled patches of snow and clear rock,
steep mountain slopes and precipitous drop-offs, the sound of rushing water, of
ice cracking, of
rocks
cracking as the ice in them thawed and froze. But
he was terrified of slipping, and those sounds and sights only magnified his
fear.

Then he came to a strange sight, a tunnel through an old
lava field. It was a fresh tunnel, by the look of it, and whoever had crafted
it had made perfectly smooth, conical walls, but they intersected in the
weirdest way. Still, it was passable, and he made his way through it and onto
the lava flow blocking the road. It was easier going than the road; the water
rushed off to the sides and there were few places that he lost his footing.

He paused for breath at one of the dry spots and looked
around. The wind was blowing hard from the west, but there was no snow, no
sleet. Not yet, anyway. It was just a strong mountain wind, the kind that warns
of a coming storm. The dark gray clouds on the horizon just past the mountain
peaks confirmed that storm, and Fanzool frowned. Then he dropped his gaze and
squinted.

Across the canyon was a plateau—
the
plateau, the one
he had seen Angus on. He knew it was the right one because he recognized the
three distant mountains at the other end of it. That was where Angus was going
when Fanzool’s spell had found him; he had heard them talking about it. Some
kind of temple ruins. He turned and studied the terrain, wondering how it was
that they had gotten across the canyon by climbing this mountain. Then he saw
it: a thin ledge halfway up the mountain to the north. It was a thin line of
snow that would be very difficult to cross. Huge icicles dangled above it, and
if one of them gave way….

It will take me a long time to reach that plateau by foot,
Fanzool thought.
I should have bought a horse.
He paused and sighed.
I should have gone to Hellsbreath.
Then, as an afterthought, he added a
question,
Sardach? I don’t suppose you could get me to that plateau a little
sooner, could you? It will get us much closer to our goal. I hope
. He
hadn’t intended to add that last bit, but he was thinking, and thinking tended
to be more free than speaking, and it was just there before he realized it. He
also hadn’t expected Sardach to do anything, but Sardach did. Sardach pulled
out of his body, leaving behind a wretched vacuum that was quickly filled by
the blustery wind.

Fanzool gasped and huddled in upon himself as his lungs
filled with the icy air. He began shivering almost at once, and wondered how
long it would take to get frostbite, to freeze to death. Then Sardach was
before him, a thin, dark gray, almost black amorphous shape that looked like a
dense puff of smoke with eyes as red as glowing charcoal. “W-Why?” Fanzool
began, his teeth already chattering.

Then Sardach did something that he had never seen before: he
solidified. Not completely, it was just a long, hook-like tendril that
thickened considerably as he watched, going from a gray-black vapor to a thick
soupy smoke, to something very like a piece of charcoal, both in texture and
color. Then Sardach plunged forward, toward Fanzool, with that hook-like
appendage stretched out before him like a scythe.

“Sard-d-ach!” Fanzool cried as he cringed, waiting for the
impact that would cleave his chest in two. But instead of slashing him with it,
Sardach enveloped him and wrapped the tendril around his chest, just below his
armpits. A moment later, Sardach lifted him from his feet and was carrying him
rapidly across the canyon.

Fanzool took a deep breath, one that was warm and full of
smoke. He was elated by the warmth, but a new fear crept in, and he quickly
thought,
Please don’t drop me, Sardach.

He didn’t expect a response. Sardach had been with him for
nearly four months and had said nothing. Sardach had been
inside
him for
weeks, and had never intruded on his thoughts. But this time there was a
perverse sense of laughter followed by a thought that was not his own. It was a
single word:
Where?

Fanzool pointed at the plateau. “There,” he said. Then, as
an afterthought, he brought to his mind the image of Angus and his friends
talking in a small clearing next to a bridge. He held the image in sharp focus
for as long as he could and then thought, quite strongly,
That is where I
wish to go.
It was where he
had to
go. His spell would take him that
far and no further, and he would have to use the coin to guide him from there
on. Where it would take him, he didn’t know, but he hoped it would not be far.
He would need food, soon.

8

“What are those?” Angus asked as they began to break camp
the next day. He pointed to a small group of animals with small horns, pudgy
bodies, and long, thick gray-white fur.

Hobart’s hand went to his sword hilt as he turned, but he
left it in his sheath and chuckled when he saw what Angus was looking at. “Call
them mountain goats if you want to,” he said. “It’s as good a name as any. They’re
a lot like sheep and just about as harmless. There are quite a few of them in
these mountains, and they come down here to get at the fresh blades of grass. A
few of the trappers herd them during the summer and shear them in the fall when
their fur grows out. A few hunt them, but the meat has a strange flavor that
makes it difficult to stomach. There isn’t much demand for it.”

“Oh?” Angus said, watching as one of the mountain goats
lifted its head and looked their way. It bleated, a sound very much like a
sheep’s distress call, and the rest of the small herd looked up sharply. Then
the first one bleated again, more shrilly, and turned toward them. “Are you
sure they’re harmless?” he asked, bringing the magic into focus. He saw what he
had expected to see: a yellow-green snake biting at the angry mountain goat.

“Harmless,” Hobart reassured him, but he drew his sword and
took up a defensive position.

The noisemaker took a step forward, pawed at the ground,
lowered its head, and—bleating wildly—charged. The others—at least a dozen of
them—followed it at a brisk pace, bleating like sheep being chased by wolves.
Only these sheep were attacking the wolves.

“What?” Hobart cried. “They
never
attack—”

The mountain goats rushed toward them, and Ortis took up his
bow—only one was strung—and fired a quick shot, striking the frontrunner in the
shoulder. It bleated, a high-pitched sound that rose sharply as it continued to
charge forward. The other mountain goats were working themselves into a frenzy,
bleating wildly as the fell rapidly in behind the first.

“Spread out!” Hobart yelled. “We should be able to sidestep
them if we can break up the group!” He moved quickly to the left, and the Ortis
with the bow followed him. His other two constituents moved to the right,
trying to draw the mountain goats’ attention their way while they strung their
bows.

Angus paused. He knew it was pointless to try to lure them
away, and he was certain it would be easy to avoid them. All he had to do was
go where Giorge wasn’t, and the mountain goats would leave him alone. At least,
the one leading the stampede would; it was being drawn to Giorge by the magic,
and there was nothing short of death that would stop it. Angus turned to see
where Giorge was, not sure if he would run away from him or run to his
assistance. He could cast a spell, of course; Lava Geyser would work well on
the herd—but only if they stayed together. He needed time to prepare it, and if
they turned abruptly, the spell would miss them completely. It worked best on
stationary targets, since it caused the ground to melt and—

Giorge was standing close behind him with his short sword in
hand. He looked unsure of himself, as if he didn’t know whether to run or stand
his ground. “They’re after me, aren’t they?” he asked.

Angus nodded. They were after him, and in less than a minute,
they would be upon him. Upon
them
. Then he saw the pouch. It was in
Giorge’s left hand, the drawstrings loose, the yellow-green magic streaming out
of it. “You opened the pouch, didn’t you?” Angus demanded.

Giorge frowned and shrugged. Then he started running away through
the trees.

The mountain goats followed him.

“Run, Giorge!” Angus cried as he watched the stampeding
goats shift again as Giorge veered from right to left and back again. Was there
something Angus could do to help him? Lavacluster would work, but he wasn’t
primed for it. Lava Bubble was pointless; they were too far away. So were
Arclight, Friction, Puffer, Lamplight, and his new Cloaking spell. Firewhip? It
was a minor spell for minor nuisances; it wouldn’t have much effect on the
mountain goats. It might
frighten
them, but the one that was cursed
would ignore it. Flying? If he were to cast that and lift Giorge from the
ground, what would the mountain goats do? The enraged one would follow, but how
far? Was there a limit to how far the curse could reach to antagonize the
animals and draw them in? If he carried him far enough, would it break the link
between him and the mountain goat?

Giorge ran out of the last of the trees and plunged
recklessly toward the cliff, and Angus saw an opportunity. He reached for the
magic within him, for the sky threads around him, but he paused. Giorge wasn’t
zigzagging any longer; he was heading straight for the cliff—and the mountain
goats were keeping pace with him, just a short distance behind. There wasn’t
time for the spell; they would be upon him too soon.

Another arrow—the fourth—struck the one in the lead, but it
kept going as if it had not been struck at all. Did the curse add to its
vitality? Did it make it immune to pain? Did it use the pain to drive the
animal recklessly forward? It was as if the goat had gone berserk! How many
arrows would it take before Ortis brought it down? But it was too late for
that, now; the other mountain goats were in the way. He kept firing, of course,
but he didn’t hit the one in front, the one leading the stampede.

Why isn’t Giorge turning? Why isn’t he slowing down?

Giorge ran headlong to the edge of the cliff, and just
before he reached it, he slid on one leg, his hands grabbing at the ground to
slow him down but not stop him. He dropped over the edge and disappeared. The
stampeding mountain goats followed after him….

“Giorge!” Ortis cried, running after them.

Angus reached for the sky strand, and this time he didn’t
hesitate. If Giorge was falling, he
might
be able to catch up to him in
time. But did he really want to? What had stopped him from casting the spell
the first time? What was holding back his hand
this time
? Whatever it
was, he set it aside and cast the spell. A moment later, he was airborne, flying
as quickly as he could through the trees, making subtle shifts with his fingers
to turn left and right to avoid the trunks and branches.

By the time he cleared the trees, there were no goats in
sight; they had all followed their leader over the cliff, after Giorge.

Angus cleared the trees as Ortis reached the edge of the
cliff and dropped to one knee. When he reached the edge of the cliff, Ortis was
holding out his hand to encourage Giorge to climb. Giorge was about five feet
below the top, clinging desperately to the cliff with his left hand. His right
foot was poorly placed on a very narrow crack that crumbled and gave way every
time he put his weight on it. He kept reaching for a handhold with his right
hand, but his fingers had no strength to maintain it long. His left foot was
dangling over the open air below the outcropping.

Angus slowed his pace, but he didn’t stop; instead, he made
a series of rapid, subtle adjustments that left him hovering beside Giorge’s
right side. “Let me help,” Angus said, moving in closer and reaching out for
Giorge’s belt. He got a grip and gently lifted the little man up toward the
top. He did it slowly, letting Giorge get handholds and toeholds until he was
close enough to grasp Ortis’s hand. Once Ortis had a firm grip, Angus rose more
quickly, and deposited Giorge on the top of the cliff.

Hobart’s armor clanked as he lumbered into view and slowed
down.

“Are there any fletchings here?” Angus asked as Giorge lay
sprawled on the ground and Ortis began tending to him. Blood was already
seeping through the bandages on his right forearm, but there was no sign of the
animal magic.

“What?” Ortis asked, barely looking at him.

“If there are, I thought I would check for eggs,” Angus
said. “Giorge isn’t in any more danger right now, and if he doesn’t open that
pouch, he won’t be any time soon, either.”

“I won’t,” Giorge said. “Not for awhile, anyway. The urge
will come back, though, and it will get stronger the longer I delay it.”

“Well?” Angus asked. “Are there fletchings here?”

Ortis shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “If there are,
there aren’t any egg hunters checking them. Most of the aeries are north of
here, where we were yesterday.”

“Whatever possessed them to do that?” Hobart demanded as he
came to a stop several paces from the edge of the cliff. “I have
never
heard of mountain goats attacking. They’re about the most skittish creatures
there are.”

“It’s the curse,” Angus said, his tone more flippant than he
had intended. “It’s getting stronger.”

“They did single you out, Giorge,” Ortis added.

“I know,” Giorge said. “Angus is right. The curse
overwhelmed them. It’s the only explanation for what they did.”

“I’ll have to repair those stitches,” Ortis said as he
lifted the bandage from Giorge’s forearm. “You pulled several of them loose.”

“All right,” Angus said. “That will give me time to look for
aeries.” There was no sense wasting his Flying spell, and if he could find a
few eggs, that would make for a fine meal when they camped later that evening.

“No more eggs,” Hobart declared. “We need to break this
curse. We make double time from now on.”

Angus paused long enough to turn back and ask, “Do you want
Ortis to hurry through the stitches?” Then he flew away before Hobart could
respond. Once he had gone far enough, he turned to face the cliff. He smiled;
there were some aeries along the cliff after all.

They were
good
eggs.