The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (23 page)

Giorge and Hobart continued their verbal sparring through
the meal—and beyond. They were still bickering when Angus leaned back to get
some sleep, and he had to use the mantra to focus his attention and force their
voices out of his mind. Then a new voice entered his mind. It was the one he
had heard when he was at the edge of the plateau and a few times since then.
This time, it whispered,
Angus?
just before he fell into a guarded
sleep….

7

His head hurt.

His eyes hurt.

His vision was blurry.

He was dizzy.

He blinked several times. It didn’t help.

He was thirsty.

There was a strange tightness in the back of his neck.

His arms were singed.

He was dizzy.

He frowned. His jaws hurt. Had he noted his dizziness, yet?

He was having trouble thinking.

Why?

What had happened?

A shockingly familiar image intruded into his thoughts. It
was a man’s face, and he was laughing and reaching out for him.

Who was he? Who was this malicious face?

Who am I?

Fazzle?

He shook his head, but it barely seemed to move. Not Fazzle.
Fizzy?

No,
dizzy
.

Don’t shake head.

Fanzool.

Was he the malicious face?

Was that his name?

Sardach?

He shuddered. Sardach was malicious, but he didn’t have a
face.

He tried to swallow, but there was nothing to swallow. His
throat was dry, which was strange because his neck was wet.

He opened his eyes. Still blurry. Blinked again. Still dizzy.
He closed them.

His head hurt.

Where were his legs?

Argus? Algus? Angus? Tangus? Alphus? Tingool? Typo? Tynus? Typhus?

Yes, that was it. Typhus.

Typhus and Angus sitting on a horse.

Who had he sought?

Angus? Typhus?

Who had he found?

Anphus? Tygus?

One man cannot be in two places at one time. Can two men be
in one place at the same time?

Sardach had been inside him, but Sardach wasn’t a man.

His back was wet. Blood? It was oozing from his head. It
hurt.

He was dizzy.

Sardach
, he thought.

Fanzool felt Sardach’s presence within him.

He tried to swallow, tried to speak.

He couldn’t.

He tried to open his eyes, felt them flicker and lay still.

His head hurt. He couldn’t lift his arms.

Where were his legs?

Was he dying?

Yessss.

Did he say that?

Fanzooooollll
.

Sardach?

Yessss.

Am I dying?

Yessss.

An image sprang into his mind. He didn’t
think
it
into his mind; it was just there. He was fleeing a blizzard and looking down at
the mountains, at a valley. He flew up the side of a cliff and hovered there
for a long time. He shot up the mountain and followed a stream up to the edge
of a plateau, slowed down, zoomed in….

Yessss
, Sardach hissed.

Sardach?
Fanzool called.
Sardach? Where are you
Sardach?

No answer.

He was cold.

It had been a long time since he was cold.

It had been a long time since Sardach had not been in him.

He had cast a locator spell. It was a
simple
spell.
How had it gone so wrong?

Sardach?

He couldn’t open his eyes.

His head didn’t hurt anymore.

Sardach?
It was a bare whisper, a mere echo in his hollowed-out
mind.
I don’t want to die alone….

8

His hands were shaking. That was bad; he didn’t need the distraction.

The smell—what was it? Floral. Pungent. Strong. Lilacs?

He slid his hand down the drapery, opened it a slit, and peered
through.

The candle threw too much light around the room. He
squinted, studying the layout he had memorized hours earlier. Three steps to
the bed. Nothing in the way. The door in the far wall was locked from the
inside. His target—

She was with his target! She had her back to him. It was bare,
shapely, and the dimples of her spine undulated as she moved. Her bright red
hair was still pinned up with an eight-inch needle that could be plunged
through an eye, into the brain. If he was quick and had the right angle….

No, she was not his target. The contract was for him.
Collateral damage was frowned upon in his profession, acceptable only when it
could not be avoided. It brought too much attention, too much hostility. He
would have to wait until she left.

He waited. He watched. He listened. He waited. He watched….

He didn’t have to watch. The sounds would tell him what
he needed to know.

Would she leave afterward?

Yes, she would have to leave. His client would be
expecting her back soon.

Patience. Timing was everything. A well-timed
assassination was an undetectable one. He needed that patience—

If only she wasn’t there!

But she was, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He would have to wait until—

A squeal of delight.

Let her enjoy him one last time. Let him enjoy her.

His client would not be pleased—was not pleased—with her.
Why hadn’t he hired him to kill her instead? It would be so easy to deal with both
of them right now, while they were together, while they were distracted.

I should close the drape and go
, he thought, watching
them.
It’s a distraction.

The drape settled softly into place, and he let his
breath out very slowly. Took another. The lilacs were too close. Their scent
tickled his nostrils, urging him to inhale more sharply. To exhale—

To sneeze.

He fought the urge, but it was too strong. He couldn’t
keep the sneeze at bay!

His eyes watered with the effort.

He would have to act quickly, decisively. But what would
he do with her?

Collateral damage.

Her husband would not be pleased….

He opened the drape a slit, assessed their position,
found his strike path. If he was quick, he could use the sneeze to his advantage,
as a distraction. He stepped forward, through the slit, and the drape
fluttering back together behind him.

The stiletto fit into his palm as if it were a part of
him.

He sneezed.

The man was fast. He tossed her off of him and lunged for
his sword.

But he was too slow.

The stiletto flew with perfect aim….

Angus woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat.

My first contract
. The thought quickly faded as he
became aware of his surroundings. It had been a dream, a nightmare. He wasn’t
in Captain Dierdmont’s chambers; he was in the mountains on a frozen plateau
looking for something. He took a deep breath, and the acrid, smoke-filled air
bit into his lungs.
The tent’s smoke hole is plugged with snow.
He
looked up and wondered how deep the snow had gotten. The storm had lasted
through the night—if the night was over.

He held his breath and made his way around his sleeping
companions. When he reached the tent flap, he opened it and a burst of cold air
assailed him. But it was fresh, crisp, and there was no snow blowing in it. The
sun was out.

He took a breath before turning back around. Some of the
smoke had escaped through the opening, and he went back to pick up his
backpack. He needed to prime his spells before the others woke up and
distracted him with their chattering. But he wouldn’t do it inside the tent. He
went outside and slogged through the hip-deep snow for a few dozen feet, then
sat down in the snow. It made for a comfortable perch, thanks to his robe. He
had made the robe to keep his body temperature stable and moisture out. He
frowned. Why had Voltari claimed
he
had made the robe? He only told
Angus how to do it; Angus was the one who wove together the magic and the
threads. No matter; he had spells to prime for, and there wasn’t a lot of time
for him to do it.

He put his backpack in the snow beside him and opened it. He
reached in for the Lava Geyser scroll and paused. Should he prime for the same
one he had cast? Or should he try something different. Fire Cluster and Lava
Geyser would be formidable enough for most things, but he had an uneasy feeling
that they wouldn’t be enough. Perhaps he should try a more powerful one? Lava
Man was his most potent spell, wasn’t it? It was his masterpiece, the
culmination of his life’s work. Most of his other spells were a part of it,
weren’t they? He frowned. No, he better not. The last time he hadn’t been ready
for it, and it had nearly consumed him in flame. If it did it again, he would
probably die—
and
he didn’t have any more healing ointment. But it was his
most formidable weapon, and it was even more potent against ice, snow, and
frost. If the curse was going to get more powerful as they went, it may be
needed. He would just have to remember to remove the tunic and breeches. No,
just the tunic; the breeches had withstood the fire almost as well as his robe
had.

He smiled and reached deep into his backpack to bring out
the scroll….

9

By the time Angus had finished preparing his spells, it was
nearly midday. Although the others were not happy with the delay, they said
nothing about it. Except Giorge. He had said, “If you primed for the spell you
used on that snake, I can stand the wait.” But it was clear it wasn’t easy for
him, and as soon as he knew Angus was ready, he mounted Millie and forged a
path for the others to follow. They fell into line, each one just behind the
rider in front of him.

It was slow going. The storm had stacked a thick layer of fresh
snow on top of what was already there, and the wind had built deep, impassable
drifts where it had raged through gaps in the trees. They often had to go
alongside a drift for some distance before they were able to get past it, and
that made a difficult journey even more time-consuming. But the wind also
cleared swaths of snow from the ground, and those clear spots gave them a
chance to rotate the horses so that each one would only be breaking the path
for a short while before being replaced.

Aside from the sounds they were making, they were entombed
in a beautiful, pristine, snow-drenched silence. The new-fallen snow was
completely unscathed until they marred its surface with their unwelcome passing.
There was no other indication of humanity on the plateau, and for two days,
they saw no animal tracks or birds. It was an eerie absence that grated on their
nerves and muted their feeble attempts at conversation. Even Giorge was solemn
and lost in thought, but who could blame him? He was no doubt wondering what
vicious manner of torture and death awaited him. Awaited
them
; Angus and
the others were also at risk from the curse hanging over him. At least there
had been no hint of a return of the yellow-green magic, but Angus still checked
for it every now and then.

Late in the afternoon on the second day, Giorge eased his
horse to a stop in a small clearing and said, “We’re close. I can feel it.”

“Let’s look at the map,” Angus said. “It should give us a
rough idea of how far it is.”

“Good idea,” Giorge said, bringing Symptata’s scroll tube out
through the opening in his gray cloak. Angus frowned, but Giorge shrugged it
off and said, “I thought we might need it.”

“All right,” Angus said, coming up beside him as Giorge
opened the tube and took out the scroll. He brought the magic quickly into
focus, but before he could look at the scroll, he noticed a ghostly green,
almost tangible filament radiating out from the center of Giorge’s chest like a
flaming arrow trailing smoke into the trees. Why was there magic emanating from
Giorge’s chest? It was the same color as the Viper’s Breath, but that was in the
pouch, wasn’t it?

Or was it?

“Giorge?” Angus asked, his voice low, unwilling to disrupt
the quietude around them. “Where is the Viper’s Breath?”

After a moment, Giorge shrugged. “You already know,” he
said, holding the scroll out in front of him. He unrolled it, turned it toward
Angus, and asked, “Well?”

Angus looked at the map drawn in magic and nodded. “We’re
close. The line showing your trail has reached the nearest of the two circles.
We ought to get there early tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” Giorge corrected, “if we don’t delay long here.”

“It will be too difficult to travel through this snow at night,”
Ortis said as he came up to them.

“I’m going on ahead,” Giorge said. “Come with me or not;
it’s up to you.”

“Yes,” Ortis said. “But we will need to make camp fairly
soon.”

Giorge frowned and reluctantly nodded. “I will try to keep
that in mind,” he said, “but the urge is much stronger than before.”

They had only gone a short distance past the clearing when
the trees parted once more. This time, the clearing was a perfect circle and
the snow covering it was much shallower than the snow they had been plowing
through. When Giorge’s horse stepped into it, there was a muffled clack, and
Giorge reined her in. He turned to face the others and said, “That sounds like
cobblestones.”

Ortis nudged his horse forward, and the same thing happened.
“A road? Here? There was no indication of one on the map Angus drew. Did you
overlook it?”

“No,” Angus said. “But it might be one of the overlapping
circles of that symbol. Also, if it is a road, why aren’t there any buildings
or ruins? It could just be an outcropping of stone sticking up out of the soil.”

“Doubtful,” Ortis said. “It wouldn’t be level with the
terrain surrounding it, and it would have been overrun with undergrowth long
ago.”

“If you want to find out what it is,” Giorge suggested, “why
don’t you get off your horse and kick away the snow. If it’s a cobblestone,
we’ll know it fairly quickly.”

“All right,” Ortis said as one of him dismounted and used
his legs to push the knee-high snow away from his horse. When he had cleared most
of it away from a small patch, he bent down and brushed the rest away with his gloved
hands. He leaned back, shook his head, and said, “It’s just a flat rock. No
mortar.”

“An awful big rock,” Hobart said. “And a pretty smooth one,
too.”

“That would explain why there are no trees here,” Angus
said. “They don’t grow easily on stone.”

“Some do,” Giorge said. “Small ones, usually, in little
crevices that accumulate enough dirt for it. But why hasn’t that happened here?
There should be plenty of dirt blowing across this clearing. Is it a natural
formation or a manmade one?”

“There’s no sign of it being shaped,” Ortis said as he
mounted his horse again. “At least the part I looked at. If it was carved, it
had to be a long time ago. The surface seems weathered and smooth, like stones
at the bottom of river rapids.”

Angus frowned. “We should move on, shouldn’t we? Unless
you’d like to camp here? It is late in the day.”

“No,” Giorge said as he led the way through the clearing.
“We have at least a half hour of riding left before it starts to get dark.”

They had only gotten halfway across the clearing when Hobart
reined in his horse and held up his hand. “Listen,” he asked, “do you hear
that? It’s like—like a tent flapping in the wind.”

“Or bats,” Ortis said as his constituents flanked Giorge and
looked up into the evening sky.

“Or a cloak hung out to dry on a windy day,” Angus added, bringing
the magic into focus and looking at Giorge. But there was no indication that
Giorge was drawing anything toward him. “Where is it coming from?”

“It could be anywhere,” Giorge said. “It sounds like an
echo.”

“Let’s stay close,” Ortis said, moving in front of Giorge.
“I’ll break the trail.” His three constituents formed a wedge with their horses
and moved at a slow walk toward the deeper snow at the far edge of the clearing.
Giorge followed directly behind them, but Hobart and Angus lagged behind.

“There’s something out there,” Hobart repeated, scanning his
surroundings. After a few seconds, he pushed his cloak behind him and drew his broadsword.
Then he nudged Leslie into a slow walk.

Angus concentrated on the green thread emanating from
Giorge. It was steady and unmoving as it pierced through the trees ahead of him.

Two of Ortis took their bows from their shoulders and
readied arrows.

They rode cautiously forward, across the middle of the broad
clearing, vulnerable to attack from all sides, and prepared to face it.

The hooves suddenly fell silently, and Ortis said, “I do not
like this.”

They had gone only a few paces more when the snow rippled in
front of Hobart’s horse and a snow-white blanket of fur erupted from it, rearing
back as if it were a snake about to strike.

Hobart’s horse reared and slipped on the snow, falling
backward and dislodging Hobart from the saddle. The blanket snapped forward,
its long flat form suddenly straightening out like a sheet in a strong wind,
and landed just in front of them. Leslie kicked and wiggled until she found her
footing again, and then ran out of the clearing. Hobart lay stunned for a long moment
with his sword loose at his side, and the blanket lunged forward to smother
him.

“What?” Giorge cried, trying to steady his suddenly skittish
horse.

“Hobart!” Angus cried, staring at Hobart’s silhouette
vaguely outlined beneath the writhing white shape that was swallowing him.

“By Onus’ Blood!” Giorge yelled, trying to control his startled
horse, but Millie was pushing against Ortis’s horses, trying to make room to
get between them.

Ortis aimed arrows at the creature enveloping Hobart, but as
he prepared to release them, a second creature snapped upright next to him. The
nearest horse reared and kicked out at it, knocking Ortis off balance as he
released his arrow. It struck Giorge in the left foot.

Giorge cursed and Millie bolted out of the clearing, taking
him with her.

Ortis’s other two arrows flew wide, and one of them came
uncomfortably close to Angus.

The tip of a dagger burst up from the first creature, and a
small starburst of light blue liquid spread out around it.

Angus reached out for one of the few available threads of
flame and brought it to him. It was a weak strand, and he was glad for it; he needed
heat but not fire for Flame Bubble, and a stronger thread would make casting it
a rather delicate matter. It was a simple series of knots, and when he was
finished, he held onto the two ends of the string of knots and moved closer to
Hobart before holding it above his head and letting it go. The energy burst outward
from him as a wave of intense heat that quickly diminished the further it got from
him. The heat was visible as a light orange, wavelike sheen, but the brief
burst was not hot enough to ignite anything. It was hot enough to melt the snow,
and the area immediately around him sizzled madly as it turned directly into steam.
Despite the sudden fog, the snow-white creature was now easy to see against the
backdrop of the polished gray-green granite that had been buried beneath it.

Two arrows flew past Angus and struck the first thing not
far from where the blade of the knife had broken through. A moment later, Hobart’s
mailed fist erupted through the hole, and the thing flapped and rolled around,
trying to wrap itself more firmly around Hobart.

One Ortis abandoned his bow and jumped down from his unruly horse.
He slipped on the ice already forming on the wet granite. The second creature
slid off the snow and gradually moved toward him, its movement undulating like
waves lapping against the shore. But he regained his balance quickly and
hurried toward Hobart, drawing his curved knife as he went.

A second constituent spurred his horse down the trail Giorge
had left behind him.

The third one fired arrow after arrow at the creature
pursuing his other self, but the thing seemed almost oblivious to them; it was
as if they were little more than pin-pricks on its back. When it was close
enough to Ortis, it reared back, like a sail billowing in the wind, and its
underside parted and puffed out, revealing a huge cavity that could easily
consume him.

Angus dismounted and dropped the reins of his horse. Gretchen
walked a few yards away and turned to watch. He took a deep breath and plucked
at a sky blue strand and made a quick series of loops with it. Puffer normally
only had one knot, but he was confident his modification would only strengthen
the spell’s power, as if he had cast it multiple times in quick succession. He
threw those knots at the creature as it snapped forward, toward Ortis.

Hobart’s other hand thrust out of the writhing creature
enveloping him, and he slowly pried it apart as if he were ripping a reluctant
canvas cloth.

The creature struggled furiously but could not escape the
foul-tasting morsel within it.

Ortis sidestepped the second creature’s attack—and moved
between it and Angus, directly into the path of his modified spell.

Another arrow struck the second creature.

The knots snapped apart, and a strong wind picked Ortis up and
sent him flying toward the edge of the clearing. He landed roughly in the snow
and tumbled out of sight.

Another arrow….

Hobart’s helmet protruded from the enlarged opening; it was
drenched in blue liquid. The creature was still struggling as Hobart’s
shoulders broke free and he forced himself out.

Another arrow pierced the second creature, and it turned
toward Angus, scuttled forward. He ran as best he could on the slick, ice-and-mist-covered
smooth stone. The creature followed, but its movement was rougher and much slower
on the stone than it had been on the snow.

More arrows struck it, making it look like a giant, flat,
white pin cushion.

Hobart emerged from the first creature, which hung limply
about his knees. He stepped out of it and then reached back into the opening.

Angus stayed within the area he had melted. If the creature
made it back to the snow, there was no way they would be able to see it.

Hobart lifted his broadsword out of the blue-spattered thick
white blanket and moved like a cat toward the second creature. He slashed at
it, the edge of his broadsword ringing out as it struck the stone beneath it. He
held it in place as it struggled to jerk itself free, and the blade tore a
small opening into it. Hobart leaned forward, placing most of his weight on the
hilt of his broadsword, pinning it down.

Angus hurried forward and drew his dagger. He stabbed at it,
but its fur was thick and made it difficult to pierce through its thick hide.
He slashed at it, but it was even less effective.

Hobart wheezed and his knees sagged as he nearly lost his balance.
The blanket suddenly ripped free from the sword, and Hobart fell backward. He
rolled into a defensive position on one knee with his broadsword held out
horizontally in front of him.

The creature whirled around, reared up—

And Hobart lunged forward, swinging his broadsword in a
looping arc to make a high, vertical slash that nearly cut it in two.