The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (19 page)

“All right,” Giorge said, holding out the scroll. Angus
carefully drew a very small X where the line ended, then blew on it. “Don’t
roll up the scroll for a little while,” he added. “The ink needs to dry.”

“That would be the plateau,” Ortis suggested. “Notice how
the terrain shifts? There must be another cliff not far from here. How are we
going to climb up to it?”

Angus shrugged. “That’s what Ned is for, isn’t it?”

“Where are we going?” Hobart asked suddenly. “If this is a
map, shouldn’t it show us that much?”

Angus frowned, studying the lines he had drawn, and
shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might be just showing us where we’ve
been.”

Giorge frowned, pressed the scroll against his thigh, and pointed
to a spot near the center of the scroll. “We’re going there,” he said, frowning.
“That’s where we’ll find the eyes.”

“Where?” Angus asked, looking at the map on the scroll again.
Giorge’s finger was over a mark that looked like a pair of small, overlapping
circles set side by side. He turned to his copy and pointed them out to Hobart
and Ortis. “How do you know we’re going there?”

Giorge shrugged and half-grinned. “Just a feeling,” he said.
“When I look at the map you’ve drawn, it catches my eye and holds it there.
None of the rest of the map does that.”

Angus frowned. It wasn’t a very helpful response. But then,
they wouldn’t have the map at all if Giorge hadn’t touched the scroll and he
hadn’t noticed the magic emanating from Giorge. “What if it leads us to
something else instead?” he asked.
And do we really want to follow the map
on a cursed scroll?

Giorge shrugged. “I still sense where we’re going,” he said.
“If it leads us astray, I’ll know it.”

“What about the others?” Hobart asked. “Do they have maps,
too?”

“Let’s find out,” Giorge said, reaching into the box and
taking out another scroll. He untied it and held it out for Angus to see.

There was magic in it, but that magic was writhing around,
as if it had not yet settled into its final form—or found its target. There was
no map, no hint of one; all that was there was the tightly constrained energy.
He shook his head. “I don’t see any map, but the magic is still there. Maybe
after we have the eyes it will transfer to you and we’ll be able to see it
then?” He wasn’t entirely confident that it would happen, but it would be worth
checking if they made it that far.

“We have to stop it from transferring,” Hobart said. “There
must be a way to stop this curse before it does.”

Angus shook his head and said, “Short of Giorge dying, I can
see none.” He
almost
regretted saying it when both Giorge and Hobart
stiffened, but it was true, and there was no sense in pretending otherwise. But
there were other possibilities, and he offered one to temper the blow, “Perhaps
when we have the eyes, we’ll learn more.”

After checking the other scrolls, it became clear that only
the first one held a map, and they decided to rest until morning.

Ned, remarkably, had slept through everything, wheezing away
as if nothing had happened. Perhaps to him, that was true.

1

Fanzool hurried to the temple compound without worrying
about being seen. It was foolish, he knew, but there had been no sign of
anything noticing him while he crossed over the snow-covered valley
and
a storm was approaching. A bad one.

Still, as he approached the crumbling wall, he slowed. There
were massive drifts that started at either side of the wall’s remnants and joined
together in the middle well out in front of it. It looked a lot like the closed
mandibles of an ant pinching off a bit of leaf. Its surface, like the snow
about him, had melted and refroze several times, making it so slick that it was
almost impassable. If it weren’t for the spiked poles he had fashioned from a
couple of pine branches, he wouldn’t even have tried to go over it.
Yes I would
have,
he thought to himself.
I’ll crawl if I need to! I’ve come too far
to be stopped by a snow drift, even one more than two dozen feet high.

It was exhausting work to break through the ice with the
poles, and once they went through, they bit deep into the snow. He fell forward
on his knees each time, and the icy surface of the snow would crackle like
celery stalks beneath him. Then he would drag himself a little further up the
slope.

It was easier to get down the other side. All he had to do
was sit down and slide.

Then he was inside the temple grounds plodding through
hip-deep virgin snow again. No tracks at all, human or animal. This time, he
used the poles to probe the ground in front of him to make sure he didn’t
stumble into a well or trip over a boulder. There was no question about where
he was going; he needed shelter from the storm, and that meant he had to find a
way inside the part of the temple that was still standing. The most likely
place to enter was where the walls had fallen away from a large room. It was
difficult going, and by the time he settled on its rough floor near the
soot-covered back wall, he was exhausted. Again. He
really
should have
brought a horse. Or asked Sardach to carry him. But he had been too stubborn
for that.

While he rested, he took out the gold coin. It had brought
him this far, and he wondered how much further it would take him. He cleared
the snow and ice from a small section of the floor and frowned. It was charred
black, and the pockmarked surface felt like it had melted and resolidified. It
was recent, too.
Lightning?
He looked up at the gaping hole in the ceiling.
It was charred, too.
No
, he thought.
Lightning wouldn’t melt rock
like that.

Lava?
He looked down at the floor again.
No,
he thought.
The hole would be in the floor, not the ceiling.
He cleared more
snow from the floor and found the edge of a smooth impression in the surface.
He kept clearing the snow and ice until he exposed the whole impression, and
then he sat back.
A footprint? A spell did this?
He had heard of
flame-based spells that could hold lava at bay—Hellsbreath used them
extensively—but to
create
lava? Surely, that was possible; it was
probably a simple matter of switching around the knots, maybe even reversing just
a few of them. But that wasn’t what had happened here. Lava hadn’t melted this
stone, had it? Lava didn’t have footprints, and the footprints were
in
the flame! How had the wizard survived such heat? No, not survived,
spawned
the flames that were hot enough to melt stone?

“Angus did this?” he said, his voice filled with awe and a significant
amount of terror. How foolish was it to track a wizard with this much power?
Still, he had come this far, and there was no harm in going a little bit
further. Besides, it might not have been Angus at all. He frowned and looked
around at the soot-blackened walls speckled white with the snow clinging to
them. If it wasn’t Angus….

He set the coin on end in the footprint’s impression and
spun it. He waited several seconds for the spinning to stop, but the coin did
not even begin to slow. It kept spinning and spinning, as if it were confused,
as if it didn’t know where to direct him, as if—

Had the coin found Angus?

Fanzool frowned. It wouldn’t be the first time a spell had
consumed the caster, and it wouldn’t be the last time either. He had heard more
than one horror story about ill-prepared apprentices dabbling with magic that
was much more powerful than they were. Wayfair had almost been destroyed on
more than one occasion because of it. But that was long ago, before the
kingdoms demanded restrictions be placed on what could be taught. No one
trained in the schools nowadays would be so foolish—

But Angus hadn’t been trained in the schools. He had been
trained by Voltari, and Voltari
always
pushed the boundaries of magic
beyond the point the conservative Wizards’ Schools were willing to take it,
beyond the limitations imposed upon them by the kingdoms. It was one of the
reasons Voltari had left those schools in the first place; they were too confining.
Had he taught such recklessness to Angus?

No, Voltari wasn’t reckless; he was brilliant, even beyond
brilliant. He understood magic in a way that no one else could, and when he
cast a spell, he
always
knew what would happen. Fanzool frowned. At least,
Voltari
thought
he knew what would happen, and that had troubled the
other Masters. He was, as Fanzool’s mentor had described him, “A bent arrow
waiting to go wide of the mark.”

The coin was still spinning. It should have stopped minutes
ago—and would have if the magic wasn’t sustaining its momentum. The magic
should
have
pointed the coin toward Angus, toward the wizard who had sold it those
many months ago. It was connected to him, and that connection was not easy to
break.
Voltari could do it….

He reluctantly reached out to pick up the coin. Its edge was
warm to the touch, and he quickly cooled it in the nearby snow. Then he stood
up, put his boot in Angus’s footprint—they were roughly the same size—and took
a step back. He marked the spot with the toe of his boot and began clearing it
away.

Once he had the second footprint clear, he put the coin in
it and set it spinning. He watched it spin for a very long time before he
finally shook his head and picked it up.

“Only one way to make sure,” he muttered. “I’ll have to cast
a locator spell.”

He brought the magic around him into focus and frowned.
There was a rich supply of powerful flame-based magic, sky magic, and earth
magic, and that was to be expected high in the mountains of a volcanic region
like this. But what he hadn’t expected, what worried him greatly, was the death
magic surrounding him. It was still fairly fresh, and it had a consumptive
quality to it. It was as if several things had died at once, and their deaths
had been violent and swift.

Had Angus been one of them? Had he stood in the footprints
of a man consumed by the flames he had conjured in a mad attempt to defend
himself from overwhelming odds? Had Angus risked too much because he
had to
risk too much?

Fanzool reached into one of his pockets and brought out the
seed. There was life encased in that seed; it was dormant but the magic within
it was still very fresh and strong. He hated to use it now; it was supposed to
be for the spell he would cast when he had caught up with Angus. But that
wasn’t possible now, was it? If Angus was dead, there was no point holding onto
the seed. If Angus were somewhere else, there was no way to know unless he used
the seed to help find him.

He sighed and set about clearing the snow from a large
enough area for him to set up his gear. With luck, he would be able to have the
spell finished before the storm hit….

2

It was midday when Ned reined in Sam at the base of a
sharply rising mountain slope. It was mainly bare rock with small patches of
lichen, and it looked nearly impassable for the horses. There was a stream that
flowed rapidly down its side, and Ned pointed at it. “That’s the way up,” he
said.

“The stream?”

Ned nodded. “We’ll follow it up most of the way.”

“Is there somewhere nearby where we can camp,” Angus asked.
“Someplace defensible? Where you don’t need me to keep watch?” He was
exhausted, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could fight against it without
getting a decent night’s sleep. If he had to cast a spell in this state, he
could easily make a mistake, and that could be devastating.

Ned thought for a moment, and then said, “I know of a cave
not far from here.”

“Good,” Angus said. “Take us there.”

Ned led them along the base of the sharp rise for nearly an
hour before stopping and pointing up at a small hole in the mountainside.
“That’s my cave,” he said. “I sleep there when I trap this area. We can store
my goods in there, and you can get some sleep.”

Ned unstrapped his sled from Sam and loosened the straps
holding the packages in place. He picked up an armful of them and stepped
cautiously up the steep slope, taking an angular upward path that went back and
forth twice before he reached the cave entrance and disappeared inside.

The others dismounted and began unloading their gear from
the horses. By the time Ned returned for more packages, they had sorted out
what they needed from their gear and followed him up the slope. When they
reached the cave, Angus checked to make sure nothing was being summoned to
attack Giorge, and then went toward the back and lay down. Within moments, he
was fast asleep. He did not wake again until well into the next day, and by the
time he had eaten, the others were already on their horses. They didn’t
complain, but their impatience was clear on their faces, in their demeanor.

“Well rested?” Hobart asked.

Angus nodded, “I should be able to hold vigil for a few more
days,” he said. As he said it, he checked Giorge, but the writhing mass was at
rest—if you could call a writhing mass restful.

“Good,” he said. “Ned says it took him a day to climb up
there the last time, but he didn’t have any horses.” He turned his horse and
followed Ned, who was riding Sam, as he led them back to the stream and up the
side of the mountain.

It was difficult and time-consuming, but there must not have
been any animals on their path—at least, not the kind of animals that were
attracted to Giorge by the curse.

As they neared the top, they came to a broad, flat shelf where
the tiny stream emerged from a large pond. Ned pointed at the pond and said,
“You should fill the waterskins. There aren’t many streams up there. He pointed
up at the icicles hanging from the mountainside. It was a half-frozen waterfall,
and the water dripped rapidly down from them, slowly filling the small lake. The
waterfall covered a wide area, but none of the streams were very large. “The
snow melts up there and water dribbles down. The stream will get gorged this
spring and disappear altogether next fall, not long before the snows start. I
came up here in the fall.”

“I’ll fill them,” Giorge said, carefully dismounting and
going from rider to rider to get their waterskins. When he had them all, he
hurried up to the shores of the pond and began filling them while the others
waited. It was slow-going until he developed the routine of using his injured left
hand to hold the stopper while he thrust the waterskin under the water with his
healing right one.

Ned looked to the west, sniffed the air, and frowned. “Snow
coming,” he said.

“Snow?” Angus asked, turning to look where Ned was staring.
“This late into spring?”

“It’s not that late,” Ortis corrected. “It could easily snow
up here for another month or two, and it’s not unheard of to have snow stay
year round at this elevation.”

“Aaaagh!” Giorge cried, letting go of the waterskin he was
filling and jumping backward. He shook his hand violently for several seconds,
and then brought the thing clamped on his finger to his mouth and bit down on
it.

“What?” Hobart whirled, drawing his sword.

Ortis turned, his hands poised above his arrows for a long
moment before he lowered them again.

Giorge wrenched the little fish from his finger and spit it
out. When it fell to the ground, it flopped toward him. As he backed quickly
away, he sucked on his finger and blood dribbling down his chin.

Angus laughed—until Hobart glared at him, and then he
brought the magic into focus and frowned. One of the tendrils had detached
itself and separated into several smaller bits, and those smaller bits
disappeared beneath the waters. “Back away from the water!” he called, but
Giorge was already doing it. A few seconds later, the surface began to roil and
small fish—barely the length of his hand—started jumping out of the water. They
flopped toward Giorge as he backed away, gasping for breath as they went.
Hobart quickly dismounted and began stomping on them, his heavy, mailed boot
easily crushing each one as it approached.

“Let me see that hand,” Ortis said, hurrying up to Giorge.
After looking at it, he shook his head and said, “More stitches.” He led him to
the other two constituents, and tended to the injury.

Angus continued to stare at the magic. As the small fish
died, the little tendrils retreated back into the largest one, but the large
one remained under the water. “Be wary, Hobart,” he said. “There’s something
else in that water.”

Hobart continued to stomp, but after each fish was crushed,
he turned his attention briefly to the pond, holding his broadsword out in
front of him.

Five minutes passed like this, and then a large fish—at
least two feet in length—leapt out of the water and wriggled toward Giorge.
Hobart put his foot on its tail, but it slipped easily free. Hobart’s foot slid
out from under him as he tried to hurry after it, and he fell down. The fish
was nearly to Giorge when Ned’s axe slammed into it, slicing neatly through its
spine before sliding past it. The jaws—it had rows of sharp teeth—gnashed
about, but its body was no longer moving.

Hobart regained his footing and stepped gingerly up to it,
pressed his sword tip to its head, and applied pressure. The stream of
yellow-green magic quickly dissipated.

“Thank you, Ned,” Giorge said. “I don’t know how much damage
it could have done, but I’m grateful that you stopped it.”

Ned ignored him and dismounted, and then he reclaimed his
axe and picked up the headless fish. He slid the fish into a large pouch sewn
into the furs draped over him. “Good bait,” he said.

“Fish,” Giorge said, shaking his head. He was a bit pale,
but a wistful grin tried to smother the grimace as Ortis stitched around his
index finger. “If they had killed me, I never would have lived it down.”

Angus chuckled as Ortis said, “They still might, if this
gets infected.”

“Here,” Another Ortis said, handing Angus his waterskin. “I
thought you were watching?”

Angus sighed. “I’ve been checking periodically,” he said. “I
didn’t think there could be any animals up here to worry enough about to keep
vigil the whole time.”

“And now?” Ortis demanded.

Angus thought for a moment before shrugging. “I still
don’t,” he said. “But now that I know fish are affected by the curse, I’ll be
prepared for it.” He frowned and shook his head. “Fish
shouldn’t
be
affected by it, though. There is a different sort of magic that relates to
waterborne creatures, and it’s a sort of sea-green color. The yellow-green
magic shouldn’t affect them.” And yet, it had. How many other differences would
there be between the magic he knew and understood and the magic of the curse?
How much alike were they? How different?

“We need to go,” Ned said, urging Sam forward. “The snow
comes.”

Hobart scraped the soles of his boots on what little
vegetation grew near the small pond, mounted Leslie, and fell into place behind
Ned. The rest of them followed. This time, Angus was directly behind Giorge and
kept a closer watch on the magic surrounding him as they went.

By late afternoon, a strong, chill breeze buffeted them from
the west, and not long after that, they reached the plateau.

“Here comes the snow,” Ortis said.

“I go now,” Ned said, dismounting and handing Ortis Sam’s
reins. He looked uncomfortably at the snow-covered plateau and shook his head.
“Die well,” he said as he turned and started down the trail at a quick pace.

“He won’t get down before the snow hits,” Angus muttered.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hobart said. “He did what we asked of him,
and now he’s on his own.”

“So are we,” Ortis said. “We need to find a place to camp
for the night. Possibly longer, if the snow is bad.”

“Right,” Hobart said, turning to the plateau. “There are plenty
of trees—”

“This way,” Giorge said, guiding Millie forward. “We can
rest later.”

“The snow—”

But it was too late; Giorge was already urging Millie
forward at a quick walk. Hobart shrugged and hurried to keep up to him. Ortis
followed, one of him guiding Sam and the other leading the pack horse.

Angus wondered about the wisdom of following the path set
out by the curse, but what choice did they have? What other path could they
take? What might await them on their way? He sighed and brought the magic into
focus, but the energy swarming over Giorge was dormant at the moment. He sighed
and turned west, staring at the angry gray-black clouds advancing upon them. He
shook his head; it would be a bad storm. Then, as he turned toward the others,
he noticed something unusual, something he shouldn’t be able to see. There was
a thread of magic—the kind of magic he understood—that seemed to be following
with the clouds. No; it seemed to emanate
from
the clouds, as if it were
stretching out from them, reaching for something.

He frowned. He shouldn’t be able to see magic from that far
away! What could it be?