The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (26 page)

He handed it to Giorge and turned the scroll tube over to
open the other end.

Giorge’s eyes brightened as he felt the weight of the pouch,
and a moment later, he dumped two round dark blue stones into his palm. They
were about half the size of hen’s eggs, and when he turned them over, they had
star-like white streaks in them. “Star sapphires,” Giorge whispered, his tone drenched
in greed and admiration as if he had forgotten the curse embedded in them.

Angus dropped the scrolls into his palm and glanced at each
one separately. The first one was inert; the yellow-green magic was gone, and
he was confident it would not return. The second one no longer held any of the
blue-white magic within it, and it wasn’t on Giorge, either. It may have briefly
migrated to Giorge, but it wasn’t there any longer. Where could it have gone?
What could it have migrated to, instead? He quickly surveyed his companions and
himself, but it wasn’t on any of them. Had it already dissipated? He
had
seen the aura; he was certain of that. Had his spell destroyed it? No, it was
still there after the last burst of heat. When the yellow-green magic had left
Giorge, it was to urge the giant snake to attack. Had this energy done the same
thing? Was it bringing a giant snake to attack them? “I think we need to keep
watch,” he said. “Even during the day.”

“Why?” Giorge asked, looking up at him for a brief moment
before returning his gaze to the Eyes and becoming absorbed by them again.

“Whatever the magic of that second scroll is going to do,”
he said, “it’s already doing it.”

“I’ll patrol the perimeter,” one of Ortis said.

“I better finish repairing my armor,” Hobart said. “If we get
in a fight, I’d rather have it on.”

“Yes,” Angus agreed.
But a fight with what?
“Keep an
eye out for snakes,” he said. It wouldn’t be too surprising if they were
attacked by another one; Symptata’s crest had three….

“Did you prime for that spell? The one that killed that big
snake?” Giorge asked, tearing his eyes off the star sapphires for a brief
moment and then quickly returning his gaze to them. He seemed to be lost in
their beauty, almost as if he were entranced by them.

Perhaps the spell had gone into the stones? Angus focused on
them, but they didn’t seem to have any magic at all—at least, not the magic he
recognized and understood—not even the normal array of earth threads found in
other stones. Angus frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t need to,” he said. “I
have a better one.” Yes, and it was a dangerous spell to cast. He held out the
scrolls and scroll tube to Giorge and said, “Hold these for a minute.”

Giorge dropped them into the box so he could keep staring at
the star sapphires that seemed to be staring back at him. Angus shook his head
and removed his robe and draped it over the well wall. He took his tunic off
next, and set it next to it. Then he put the robe back on and started
scratching as it attempted to graft its magic to the magic within him and found
it wasn’t aligned properly. His frown deepened as he wondered once more why it
was doing that. It shouldn’t be doing it; he had added it as a precaution to
make it itchy only for others, just in case someone stole it. Voltari had told
him he was a fool—no one would dare to steal anything from Blackhaven Tower—but
he had done it anyway, in case
Voltari
might be tempted to borrow it. Had
he made a mistake? He shook his head; he had worn it for two years before the
accident, and never once did it cause him to itch. But after the accident?

The first time he had put it on after the accident, it made
him scratch furiously, and it was only after considerable effort that the
itching had become manageable. So, something else
had
happened when he
miscast the spell. But what? How could it have reorganized the patterns of his internal
array of magic? He knew of nothing that could have done that. The magic within
him was as much a part of who he was as his thoughts and body. Did the accident
change them
that much
? It had changed his thoughts, hadn’t it? Could it
have also changed his body? And if it changed them, it could have changed the
magic within him. But how? What could have done something like that? At least
now he was getting accustomed to the itching and didn’t need to scratch much
after the first few minutes.

“What is it?” Ortis asked, taking the bow from his shoulder.
“Do you see something?”

“Hmmm?” Angus replied, bringing his focus back to the
present, back to his surroundings. “No,” he said, rubbing his right forearm.
“The magic in this scroll—” he lifted the one tied with the blue and white silk
threads from the box “—has migrated or dissipated. I don’t know which. It surrounded
Giorge for a short time, but it isn’t there any longer. I don’t know where it went—if
anywhere—but it didn’t stay with Giorge for long. The magic from the first
scroll only left him when it had found the giant snake. Since Symptata’s crest
is a three-headed snake, it wouldn’t surprise me if the magic from this scroll
has already found a second giant snake.” He paused and shrugged. “Or something
else,” he finished.

“All right,” Ortis said as he turned toward Giorge. “Is
there anything else you need to get out of that well?”

“No,” Giorge said. “This box was under another chest.
Someone had broken the lock on that one, and whatever was in it is long gone.”
He paused and turned his gaze to the east. “But I think we should go in that
direction—” he pointed east by northeast. “It isn’t a strong feeling, though.
It’s more like the feeling I had when we first found the Viper’s Breath. It
will probably get stronger as I get closer to it.”

“It?” Angus prompted.

“One of the Viper’s Fangs,” Giorge said. “I don’t know why
it is just one of them, either. Maybe when we get there, we’ll find out.” He
paused and frowned. “I think it will be made of jade and have intricate designs
carved on it. At least, that’s the impression I’m getting from it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a weak vision,” Angus mused.

“The impression of the Fang is pretty strong, but the
direction is weak.”

“Then we may have to go a considerable distance to reach
it,” Ortis said. “We may not get there in time.”

“We will,” Giorge said. “There’s nearly a week left, and I
didn’t have a strong sense of direction for these Eyes until we were almost
upon them.” He turned his gaze to them, marveling at the star-pattern embedded
in them as if they were a lover’s open gaze staring back at him.

“I’ll get the horses ready,” Ortis said. “We’ll break camp
as soon as Hobart finishes repairing his armor.”

Angus nodded, fighting back the urge to give Giorge a not-too-gentle
shove into the well. Instead, he said, “Let’s see if the map has changed.”

Giorge nodded and reached into the box for the first scroll.
But when he unrolled it, the map was no longer there. It was as if the magic
had never been in the scroll to begin with. But when Angus handed him the
second scroll and he unrolled it, there was a new map. This time, it clearly
showed the well as the starting point, and at one edge, there seemed to be a deep
chasm, like the cliff where the fletchings nested. Across the chasm was a
mountain with a pair of overlapping circles on it. Or in it? It was difficult
to tell; they seemed to be stacked almost on top of each other, and the map was
crudely drawn with little indication of distance or height.

Angus sighed and set down his backpack. He took out his ink
and quill, and the map he had copied from the first scroll, and set them on the
well wall. The ink was frozen, but he used the Lamplight to heat up enough of
it to use, and he quickly sketched out the important parts of the map, leaving
the details for later. When he finished, he shook his head and said, “If we’re
going to that mountain, we’ll have to cross over the chasm somehow. I could fly
across, of course, but I wouldn’t be able to take any of the horses with me,
and Hobart will be a challenge to carry.”

“There has to be a way across,” Giorge said with confidence,
“or a way down. We’ll find it when we get there.”

Or not
, Angus thought as he put his quill, ink, and
map away.
This could be another test of your thieving abilities.
He
folded his tunic and set it on top of his backpack before closing it. He was
warm enough in his robe without it, and if he had to cast Lava Man, he didn’t
want the tunic to catch on fire again. He left the breeches on, though; they
had barely smoldered the last time, and he didn’t like the way his saddle
chafed without them. Then he reached for the Lamplight and hesitated before
extinguishing it. “Are you warm enough, Giorge?” he asked.

Giorge grinned, “Too warm, really. Whatever you did that
dried me off left my clothes toasty. After they’ve cooled down, it’s going to
feel colder than it is, but at least I’m not freezing to death.” He paused,
laughed, and suggested, “Maybe you should prime for that spell every day. It
would make our journey a little more hospitable.”

Angus shrugged. He could prime for it each day, but he was
sure there were other spells he would need before this so-called journey was
over. Flying, for instance, was high on his list for the next day’s spells.
Despite Giorge’s optimism,
he
was not going to plunge to his death over
the side of a cliff. He would have to replace one of the more combative spells,
but that was worth the risk, wasn’t it? Giorge wasn’t being attacked by animals
anymore, so he had enough combative spells in his arsenal, didn’t he? Lava Man
alone was worth five of them….

13

Sardach paused in his pursuit. The trail was several days
old. There was a faint, lingering residue of Typhus, but it was muddled with
the overpowering stench of the others. They had spent time here. Why?

Sardach followed the trail down the side of the cliff to a
small cave. Typhus had gone into the cave, but Sardach didn’t; it reeked of
evil magic. Sardach didn’t mind evil magic—it was part of his essence—but there
was no point in exploring it. It hadn’t attached itself to Typhus; it had
attached itself to someone else in the group. That would make the trail easier
to follow: the evil magic had left its mark, one powerful enough for Sardach to
sense from a distance.

Sardach studied it, became familiar with it, and sought out
its presence. Then, hesitantly at first, and then with growing confidence,
Sardach flew south over the road, and then east over trees. The trail was
leading him toward the plateau where Fanzool had found them, and from there, it
would be easy to track….

14

No giant snakes attacked while they were breaking camp and
preparing to leave.

No giant snakes attacked when they left.

No giant snakes attacked while they rode slowly across the
plateau.

But it snowed. Big, heavy, wet flakes that clung to them as
it accumulated. It started before they broke camp, and it continued through the
rest of that day and into the next. And the next.

It wasn’t a blizzard. There were no winds at all, just the
heavy flakes falling silently about them like a misguided spring shower. The
amount of snow was barely more than a few inches each day, but it simply
wouldn’t stop. And at night, it clogged the tent’s smoke hole almost as soon as
it was cleared. What’s more, it seemed to be following
them
—following
Giorge
.
The trees even noticed the connection; they kept dumping the snow that had accumulated
on their branches onto Giorge as he rode around them. Some even dipped toward
him to do it, as if a strong wind had gripped their tops and pulled them over,
one tree at a time.

Was the snow another plague of woe? If it was, it was a weak
one; all it seemed to be doing was delaying them and keeping Giorge chilled and
wet. Angus thought it was related to the scroll’s missing magic, but every time
he tried to locate it, it was beyond the range of his abilities to detect it.
It was as if the magic was staying just beyond that range, as if it
knew
he would see it if it got too close. Or was he anthropomorphizing? Was he giving
the storm
human
motives,
human
intellect? No, the motives and
intellect were Symptata’s, not the storm’s; the storm was just the
manifestation of them. Wasn’t it? It certainly felt that way, but it could be
something else entirely. But what?

Then, on the morning of the third day after they left the
well, the snow stopped falling around them. It was still snowing to the east—perhaps
even heavier than it had on them—but the sun slipped past the clouds and shone
down on them. It was warm and comforting, but it didn’t sit well with Angus. He
knew
the weather was being caused by the magic of the scroll, but he
didn’t know
how
it was doing it. And they were heading straight into it.

Before they left, as he had done each morning and evening,
Angus had Giorge look at the scroll so he could see the map. Each day, they had
progressed a significant distance across the plateau despite the snow, and the
tracing of Giorge’s trail grew closer to the edge. On this morning, they were
very near that edge, and if it weren’t for the snow, they might even be able to
see the mountain drawing Giorge to it. It had to be close, but how close? He
pointed out where they were on the map, and they moved cautiously onward, with
Ortis in the lead and Giorge sandwiched in the middle. It didn’t really matter
where he was though; the trees continued to dump snow and ice on Giorge—to
throw
it on him. Even when he was some distance away, a breeze would rise up suddenly
and the trees bent over just far enough for the snow and ice to land on him.

They had travelled nearly two hours before they were
surrounded by a thick swarm of heavy, wet snowflakes that caked to their cloaks
and horses. After a short distance, Ortis reined in his horse and waited for
them to gather around him. They huddled close together, and he shouted, “I
don’t like this. We should have gotten there by now.”

“We haven’t been able to make very good time,” Angus offered.

Ortis nodded. “Nevertheless,” he said. “If that map is
accurate, I would have expected to reach the edge of the plateau and that cliff
by now.”

Angus nodded. “Let’s take a look at it,” he said. “Giorge?”

Giorge frowned and a few moments later, brought the scroll
out from under his gray cloak. A brisk wind suddenly erupted around him and blew
his cloak wide open and tore the scroll from his hand. He shivered, leaned forward,
and draped the cloak tightly around him.

Angus’s right hand stretched out to grab the scroll as it
flew past him, and he brought it back to his chest. He unrolled it and leaned
over to have Giorge touch it.

Giorge’s teeth chattered as he took off his glove and reached
out with a quivering hand to grip the scroll. His fingertips were tinted blue,
the first sign of impending frostbite. It was bound to happen sooner or later;
every time the snow dropped on him from a tree, it invariably found its way
inside his cloak. Then it melted into his clothes and absorbed the cold like a
sponge absorbs water.
I should let him wear my robe
, Angus thought.
Or
let him die
,
the other voice in his head replied.

Angus brought the magic into focus and idly reached for a
thread of flame and absentmindedly tied the knot for Lamplight with his left
hand. Then he condensed its size so it would produce more heat than normal and reached
over to attach it to Giorge’s chest, just below the ghostly green stream now
emanating from the Viper’s Breath. The Lamplight flickered and dimmed
considerably, as if something were repelling the heat and light, and he
condensed it even more. It wouldn’t last long in this concentrated form, but it
was generating enough heat to at least warm Giorge up for an hour or two. With
luck, he wouldn’t lose any fingers.

Giorge smiled gratefully and moved his hands—and the scroll
closer to it. The map flared to life and Angus studied it for a few seconds. When
the edges of the parchment began to crinkle in the heat, he snatched it away
from Giorge and grabbed some of the snow that had settled on Giorge’s horse to
cool it down.

Giorge quickly closed his cloak and hunched over the
Lamplight’s warmth as if he were clutching a valuable relic to his chest.

As Angus rolled up the scroll, he turned to Ortis and said, “You’re
right. Giorge’s trail is at the edge of the plateau, and we should be too.
Also,” he looked at Giorge again, “we’re close enough to the Fang for Giorge to
feel it, aren’t we?”

Giorge nodded. “I feel the same way I did when we got close
to the well. It started not long after we left camp, but I’ve been too cold to
pay much attention to it.”

“Understandable,” Angus said, frowning as he realized he had
cast Lamplight without priming for it. Although it was the first time he could
remember casting a spell without priming for it, it had felt like he had done
it so many times before that he didn’t even have to
think
about the knot
in order to tie it properly. But that couldn’t happen without having
years
of experience with a spell, could it? He knew he had been
close
to
casting it without priming—it was a simple knot, after all—but there always
seemed to be something keeping him from doing it.

“Which way do we need to go?” Ortis asked.

Angus glanced at the faint energy streaming from Giorge and
pointed to the northeast. “That way,” he said.

Giorge nodded in agreement.

“Northeast?” Ortis mused. “We must have veered south at some
point.”

“Take it slow,” Angus said. “We may already be abutting the
cliff.”

“Abutting?” Hobart demanded. “What kind of word is that?”

“When two things are against each other, they abut,” Angus
said.

“So?” Hobart asked.

Angus shrugged and said, “Ortis may have underestimated how
close we are to the cliff. We may already be at its edge.”

“We better take precautions, then,” Hobart said.

“What kind of precautions?” Angus asked.

“The kind that will keep us from plunging to our deaths,”
Ortis said. “Ropes tied to each of us.”

“Why would we plunge to our deaths?” Angus asked. “Won’t we
see the cliff before we get to it?”

“The snow is deep and the winds generally blow toward the
east,” Ortis said. “It almost certainly wrapped around the edge of the cliff
and concealed it from us. It would be easy to walk out onto a snowdrift and
have it suddenly give way beneath us.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Ortis said. “I’ve seen it happen before. We’re approaching
to the west bank of a chasm. The wind up here almost always blows from the
north or northwest, and when it drifts, they usually grow toward the south or
southeast. Like they did at the well, remember?”

“Yes,” Angus agreed.

“Remember the stream we crossed yesterday? It was completely
covered in snow because it was narrow—maybe three feet from one bank to the
other, right?” Angus nodded. “If it had been wider, it wouldn’t have been
completely covered. The drift going across it would have curled over the west
bank and ballooned outward.”

“Like this,” Hobart said, holding his gauntleted hands out flat,
palms down. He made a looping gesture in which his right hand moved away from
his left, elevated sharply, leveled off, and then dipped downward, increasing
the distance between them. Then he curled his right hand back in, an inch or
two below his left, and moved it closer.

“Yes,” Ortis agreed. “The drifts are like that. They curl
upward and outward and then curve back in upon themselves. If the stream is
narrow enough, and if there is enough snow and wind, then it fills up the gap
completely. But if it is too wide or there isn’t enough snow and wind, then the
drift puffs out as far as it can and stops. Sometimes it will even break off
from its own weight.”

“All right,” Angus said. “The snow will curl around the west
edge of the cliff—the east edge of the plateau.”

Ortis nodded. “There may also be a significant downdraft. If
there is one, there’s no telling what direction the snow has blown.”

Or what has blown it that way.
Angus thought, drawing
in the magic and looking around again. But he couldn’t see any sign of the
blue-white magic. “The ropes may save us,” Angus said, “but what about the
horses?”

Ortis shrugged. “Hopefully, we won’t lose more than one—if
that. I’ll keep close watch for drifts, and if I think we’re at risk of
falling, I’ll dismount and probe the snow ahead of me with a branch.”

“How do we avoid it?” Angus wondered.

“Pay attention to the trees,” Ortis said. “As long as there
are trees ahead of us, there is land beneath us. The problem is,” he continued,
“they will end rather abruptly, usually with branches hanging out over the
drop-off. Sometimes, they even grow out of the cliff face.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about this before?”

Ortis shrugged. “Since I was in the lead, I was the only one
at risk. Now, though, we’re close enough to the edge that precautions are
advisable.” While he had explained it, his other two constituents had been busy
securing ropes around them, and now that they had finished, he turned and moved
to the front again. Hobart was next, and he wrapped the rope around his left forearm
and clutched the reins in his right hand with a very firm grip. A second Ortis
followed him, then Giorge, Angus, and the final Ortis.

They had barely gone a dozen yards when a tree bent over and
showered them with snow, ice, and pine needles. After he had shaken off the
snow, Angus looked up at the tree and concentrated on the magic. This time, he
saw something: a pale blue shadow surrounding an amorphous, fog-like ice-white
shape.

Sardach!
the other voice in his head gasped.

Then the magic was out of his range again.

So that’s it,
Angus thought, ignoring the other
voice.
A frost elemental.
He smiled. Priming for Lava Man was a very
good choice. His smile faded as he wondered how he knew it was a frost elemental—and
that frost elementals were cunning creatures.
There
is
motive and
intelligence behind its actions!
Had he read about that in one of Voltari’s
books? Yes, that must have been it. But Voltari hadn’t taught him anything
about elementals, had he? Not even the ones related to fire, earth, and the
fringe elementals of ash and smoke. The year of his apprenticeship that he
remembered had been completely remedial; it had only covered the things he had
learned during the first few years he had been with Voltari. He frowned. Three
years of instruction in one? How did he know that? What
had
he learned
in those three years? And the others that followed after them?

Then, quite suddenly, he realized what was happening:
he
was beginning to remember!

And those memories had started after the scrying had found
him, after
Sardach
had touched his mind.

And so had the voice….