The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (16 page)

“Well, gentlemen,” Angus said, rising. “I believe it is time
for me to speak to Ned.” He stood and moved the chair back to the other table,
but as he passed, he paused and said, “But you are mistaken about one thing. It
is not just your problem.”
Yes,
he thought,
there is much more going
on than just the disappearance of the fishmen. But their reappearance beyond
the reach of Tyr is a most interesting piece of the puzzle, and only the
dwarves could have managed it. But why? What is it all about?
The pieces
were beginning to fall into place, but the picture was still incomplete, still
out of focus. As he sat down to discuss terms with Ned, he wondered once more why
the fishmen hadn’t attacked the villagers….

12

The negotiation with Ned had been simple: Ned said he would
do it for five silver and no less. No haggling, no counteroffers. Nothing.
Angus had readily agreed and got up to leave. He had expected Ned to follow
him, but he stayed seated and looked at the minstrel. She had finished her stew
and was strumming her lute again.

“Tomorrow,” Ned said as the minstrel teased a melody to life
and worked her way into a song. It was a slow, repetitive melody, at first, and
gradually became more complex.

Angus looked from one to the other, and then nodded. “At
dawn,” he said. “We’ll meet here.”

Ned nodded, and Angus moved to the counter. As the minstrel
began singing, he asked for stew and a room. Once he had paid for them and eaten
the tasty, hardy stew, he sought out Ortis.

He hesitated at the door, looking back at the minstrel and
wondering at how beautiful her voice was and how much it contrasted with her
shabby appearance. Still, that voice had a great deal of appeal, and when she
caught him staring, she grinned—half her teeth were missing—and winked at him,
but her voice never wavered, never faltered. He smiled, pushed the door open,
and walked down the hallway to the other side of Dagremon’s.

This time when he opened the door, there was little warmth
and no music. Instead, the chill air held a slightly musty, mostly dusty flavor
to it. There were rows on rows of shelves, and most of them had an assortment
of goods travelers or trappers might need. A number of them were almost empty,
and there were several assorted large piles of animal hides along one wall.
Ortis was near the back, pointing at this or that as Dagremon nodded and added what
he pointed out to a cart she was pushing around beside him.

As Angus approached, he said, “I found a guide who will take
us part of the way. None of the others were willing to take us even that far.”

Ortis looked up and asked, “Why not?”

Angus shrugged. “They think the plateau to the east is
haunted.”

Ortis raised his eyebrows and turned to Dagremon. “Is it?”
he asked.

Dagremon shrugged her tiny shoulders and chirped, “I do not
know. I have never traveled that far east.”

“There is a problem,” Angus added. “He won’t leave until
tomorrow.”

“That will be fine,” Ortis said. “We need to rest for the
night, anyway. We’ve already made camp about half a mile or so east of here.”
He turned to Dagremon and asked, “Is that far enough?”

Her eyes grew distant for a long moment before she answered,
“Yes.”

“I got a room for myself,” Angus said. “I need to do a
little studying. Ned and I will catch up with you in the morning.”

Ortis looked as if he were about to say something, and then
shrugged instead. “We’ll be easy to find. Follow your nose.”

Ortis pointed at a dressed carcass hanging from the ceiling.
It was a fairly sizeable one that looked like it had been rolled in salt. “That
should last us a while,” he said. “We’ll take that, too.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Angus said. “I’m going to get
some sleep.”
But not yet
, he added to himself as he turned and walked
out the door. Once he was in the hallway, he paused and cast his Cloaking
spell. What he had in mind would require some stealth, and the spell should
provide him with ample concealment—
if
he had cast it properly. He would
have to check on that, first.

He turned around, stepped quietly through the door, and walked
up behind Ortis and Dagremon. If it had failed, Ortis would see him and
recognize him. If not, he wouldn’t even notice that Angus was there. All he had
to do was wait until Ortis looked his way.

But it was Dagremon who turned sharply and took up a
defensive position. It was one Angus recognized immediately, and when her
fingers began tweaking the strands for a spell, he cried, “Hold! I mean no
harm!”

Ortis whirled around and began looking for the source of the
voice he recognized. When he couldn’t find it, he asked, “Angus? Are you
cloaked again?”

Dagremon paused, but Angus knew she could resume her spell at
any time. Elves didn’t have the same risks that humans did; their control over magic
was phenomenal.

“Yes,” Angus replied, “I—”

“Magic is not allowed here!” Ortis scolded. “Dagremon—”

Angus frowned. He had intended to use the spell to eavesdrop
on the men from the Lake of Scales, to find out more about what they knew. But
he hadn’t anticipated Dagremon’s reaction—and he should have! Ortis had said—

He sighed and let the spell dissolve. As he reappeared, he explained,
“I need to practice it. It is a new spell for me, and sometimes when I cast it,
it creates an aura about me that makes it seem like I’m a ghost. Also,” he
looked at Dagremon and added, “I needed to clear my mind of it so I could prime
for a spell that may be more useful in defending Giorge from his curse.”

Dagremon continued to hold her pose for a few more seconds,
her wide violet eyes studying him intently, as if they were boring into the
depths of his being, into his essence. Then she smiled—not a friendly smile,
but one of mirthless satisfaction—and gradually relaxed. “You are most
strange,” she muttered. “So full of magic, and yet it is all in such a confused
state.”

“My apologies,” Angus continued. “I had forgotten about the
restriction on magic use. I will not make that mistake again.”

Dagremon smiled and turned to Ortis, effectively dismissing
Angus from her interest. “If I may,” she said, “You should have heavy cloaks
for the plateau. It is still winter there.”

Ortis shook his head. “We have them. But if you have
snowshoes….”

Angus turned and walked out. He headed for his room,
regretting the fact that he should have trusted that the spell had worked. Now
it was gone, and he couldn’t eavesdrop on the men who were no doubt still
talking about the fishmen—perhaps even talking about himself. What should he do
about the fishmen, anyway? He didn’t
know
it was the fishmen they had
been talking about, but he was quite confident that it was. Why? He had no
proof. He had no evidence other than a snippet of a conversation, and that
snippet was vague and uncertain. Was he jumping to a conclusion? It wouldn’t be
the first time, and sometimes he was wrong when he did it. Voltari had always
punished him for it. But how could he find out for sure? Was there something
else he could do?

He sighed. At least he could prime for a more combative
spell to replace the Cloaking one. Skulking in secret wouldn’t really be needed
for a while, and there would be more animals attacking soon….

13

The next morning, Angus ate a quick, warm meal in his room
before heading down to the common room to meet up with Ned. As they headed to
the front door, the old man tending the counter called, “Your supplies will be out
front shortly.”

Ned nodded and kept walking.

Outside, the sun was still hidden behind the mountains to
the east, but it was far from dark; it was more like walking inside one’s own
shadow. In places, the sunlight swept between the mountains and cast long,
glimmering streams on the mountains to the west. It would still be hours before
the sun finally rose overhead enough to illuminate this side of the mountain,
but he was quickly becoming used to the seemingly perpetual twilight.

Ned stepped to the side of the door and leaned back against
the wall as Angus turned to the post where his horse had been tied the night
before. When he stepped around the corner, he found her waiting, fully saddled,
and frowned. He had taken the saddle off the night before, hadn’t he? Who had
saddled her? Had they gone through his saddlebags? After a brief examination,
he decided they hadn’t—or, if they had, they had not taken anything. Still, it
was a bit unnerving, and he was still not sure what to think about it as he
mounted her. But his friends were waiting, and he didn’t have time to spend
thinking about it.

As he led her from the post, he noted that the horses from
the night before were gone, and he wondered if they had belonged to the patrol
he had overheard. It didn’t really matter; they—whoever they were—were long
gone by the look of it. They may have even left the night before, after but a
short stay at the inn.

Angus rode back around the corner and jerked back on the
reins, abruptly stopping Gretchen in mid-stride. The ogre had come around the
far corner and was carefully setting down a large, flat sled piled with an
assortment of sacks and crates. He set it down gently, which was surprising
from such a large creature, and then walked back around the corner of
Dagremon’s.

Ned barely waited long enough for him to turn before he went
to the front of the sled and strapped himself into a harness. Then, without
looking at Angus, he began walking, the runners of the sled sliding heavily on
the path’s surface. Angus nudged Gretchen in beside him and tried to match his
plodding pace, but Gretchen didn’t seem to be able to do it. She was either too
quick and pranced ahead or had to stop altogether and let Ned get ahead of her.

“We have an extra horse,” Angus said. “I can go get it for
you to ride. I’m sure we can manage something so he could pull the sled.”

Ned kept walking with his head down and eyes on the path in
front of him. Occasionally, he would take a step to one side, but Angus saw no
reason for it. When it was clear Ned wasn’t going to answer, he decided to do
the stop-and-go maneuver.

Several minutes passed before Ned lifted his head and took a
deep breath. He smiled and said, “Skunk. Fresh.”

Angus frowned. It was a very potent stench, one that was
growing as he moved closer to it. It was coming from the north, and he glanced
that way, watching for the rest of his banner as they plodded slowly forward.
The stench was dwindling somewhat by the time he saw them not far from the
path, and he turned a reluctant Gretchen toward them. Ned followed, grunting as
the sled struggled over the half-frozen ground, making it difficult to navigate
around the trees. When Angus finally saw his companions clearly, he laughed
aloud and shook his head.

Hobart was sitting with his armor beside him, polishing it
red with tomato juice.

Giorge was washing his hair and face with tomato juice.

Ortis was wringing a tunic and carefully collecting the tomato
juice dripping from it in the large jar it had come in.

Hobart glared at him but said nothing.

Giorge glanced up, grinned, and went back to scrubbing
himself.

Ortis didn’t even bother to look up.

Angus stopped some distance away. There were three freshly
killed skunks thrown on the ground, and he covered up his mouth with his robe. Ned
stopped pulling his sled and lifted off the harness. Ignoring—or relishing?—the
stench, he took out a knife and headed for the skunks. He knelt down by them
and took out a piece of hide from his pocket. He unrolled it carefully and
spread it over the ground. Next, he picked up the first skunk and made a series
of slits near the back legs. When he finished, he pulled up a small piece of
flesh and held it to his nose. He sniffed it, nodded, and put it on the piece
of hide. Then he turned to the next skunk and did the same thing.

“We’ll ride until we find a stream,” Hobart said. “We need
to wash off the juice before it stains.”

“What of it, Ned,” Angus asked. “Are there any streams near
here?”

Ned looked up and pointed with his knife to the east. “Not
far that way,” he said. “A stream runs behind Dagremon’s.”

“Good,” Hobart said. “We’ve already been attacked by skunks
three times.”

Three times?
Angus repeated, turning toward Giorge.
He brought the magic into focus and gasped. There were writhing yellow-green
snake-like tendrils surrounding Giorge’s torso! None of them were striking out
from him at the moment, but a head would occasionally rise up as if it were
testing the air, seeking for something. Finding nothing, it would settle back
down, joining its brethren as they swarmed over Giorge’s chest.

“There will be more,” Angus said. “We’re going to have to be
vigilant.”

“Why?” Giorge asked. He shook the juice from his hair and
rubbed his hands on his bare chest.

Angus shook his head. There was no point in explaining it,
and it wouldn’t change anything if he did. It was going to be a long trip. He
turned to Ned and asked, “Are there are a lot of animals between us and the
plateau? Like the skunks?”

Ned shrugged. “Not many. The caravans thin them out when
they come through. The good trapping starts a half day from the upslope.”

At least that was something. “Let’s see about that stream,
shall we?” he said. “I’ll fill the waterskins and bring them back.”

“Good idea,” Hobart said, setting down his breastplate and
reaching for a shin guard.

Ortis—one who hadn’t been sprayed—went from one horse to the
next, removing the waterskins and bringing them back to the others. They used the
water that was still in them to rinse what they could, and Ortis gathered up
the empties and brought them to Angus. He handed him some of them and said, “I’ll
go with you.”

Angus waited until Ortis was ready, and then they rode east
at a fairly quick trot until they reached the water. As they filled the
waterskins with the ice-cold mountain runoff, Angus said, “I think I know what
happened to the fishmen.”

Ortis almost dropped the waterskin he was filling, but he
didn’t say anything until after he had it capped. “Oh?” he asked. “Where are
they?”

Angus half-smiled and tilted his head. “The Lake of Scales,”
he said. “I can’t be certain, of course, but it is the logical place for them
to go—
if
the dwarves are giving them safe passage through their tunnels.
There aren’t any other large bodies of water near here, are there?”

“The dwarves don’t come this far south,” Ortis said. “They
would have to build a tunnel stretching fifty miles just to do it.”

Angus frowned. He was right. By all accounts, the dwarves had
never been encountered south of the mountains near Hellsbreath, and when the
volcanism began, they had moved north and west. But how far west had they gone?
Couldn’t they have dug their tunnels
around
those volcanoes and gone
south as well? Mountains are mountains, aren’t they? Would the dwarves care
which ones they were in? No, they
could have
gone south without anyone
else the wiser if they never surfaced. But what if they hadn’t?

“Possibly,” he said. “There was that road on the plateau,
and that could have taken them partway. Perhaps there are other such roads we
don’t know about?” But there weren’t any, and the road they had been on indicated
no more than a handful of fishmen, and they were all dead. Unless the fishmen
had gone over the plateau
after
their encounter? Or through The Tween?
Was that why they were burning the mushrooms? To conceal the passage of the
fishmen? Angus shook his head. No, there were plenty of people who skirted the
edge of The Tween, and they would have seen them. He would have too, if they
had gone through it when he was there.

He sighed. Was he creating connections where none existed?
Was he seeing fishmen where there were none? The men at Dagremon’s hadn’t
said
they were fishmen, had they? They could have been talking about something else.
But what else could it be that would come from the north and settle on the
shores of the Lake of Scales? Dwarves? Highly unlikely; they stayed below
ground. Bandits? Just about as unlikely; if they were bandits, they would have
dealt with them or asked for help from the Western Kingdoms. No, it had to be
fishmen. Didn’t it?

There was only one way to know for certain, and that was to
go to the Lake of Scales to see for himself. But he couldn’t do that, not while
they were trying to keep Giorge alive when Giorge seemed to be doing everything
in his power to thwart them. Like cutting the drawstrings on the pouch. He
couldn’t have done anything worse if he had intended to. What if they were to
come across a herd of mountain goats again? How many of those tendrils would
reach out to antagonize them into a frenzy? At least Giorge could climb a tree;
Ortis could pluck them off with his arrows while they tried to get at him. If
he had enough arrows.

“How many arrows do you have?” Angus asked as he set aside
another full waterskin and reached for the last empty.

“My quivers are full,” he said.

“How many is that?” Angus asked.

“Three score,” Ortis said. “Why?”

Angus frowned. Was that enough? He doubted it. They were
going somewhere where there were no replacements for lost or broken ones. “Does
Dagremon sell arrows?”

“Yes,” Ortis said, his voice hesitant. “Why?”

“I think,” Angus said, “you should buy some more. Those
skunks are but a trifling of what is coming.” He capped the waterskin and
picked up an armful of full ones. He draped their loops over Gretchen’s saddle
horn and waited for Ortis to do the same.

“That bad?” Ortis asked.

Angus nodded. “From what I saw,” he said. “It could be worse
than that.”

“What do you mean?” Ortis asked as he mounted his horse.
“What did you see?”

Angus mounted Gretchen, idly wondering what he should call
Ortis’s horses. They looked a lot alike—mostly brown with small patches of
white on their forelocks—but there were slight differences. “Do you remember
how I said that there was a snake-like stream of energy that antagonized the
squirrel and the mountain goat?” Ortis nodded. “Well, there was only one of
those streams for each of them. Now,” he paused and shrugged. “I can’t count
how many are swarming around Giorge; there are too many, and they are too
intertwined with each other. There could be dozens of them.”

Ortis looked at him, clicked his tongue and turned his horse
back toward the others. He rode at a brisk pace, and Angus followed after him
at a slower one. As he watched Ortis, he frowned. Why had Ortis reacted that
way when I mentioned the fishmen? It had been a strange reaction, and he didn’t
understand it.