The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (5 page)

3

Fanzool shivered and leaned heavily against his staff to
brace himself against the howling wind, the driving sleet, the bitter cold. It
was a horrid blizzard, one of the worst he had ever seen, and there was nowhere
for him to take shelter. Even if there was shelter nearby, he would never have
seen it in this storm. If it weren’t for the clacking of his staff on the
cobblestones—a muted, barely audible muffled click quickly swallowed up by the
storm—he wouldn’t even know he was still on the road to Wyrmwood.

He stumbled, fell to one knee. He was spent, and he knew it.
But he couldn’t stop. He was too close to Wyrmwood to succumb to sleep, the
cold sleep that would smother him. He should have stayed in Tyrag until spring,
but Argyle….

No recriminations. He had done what was necessary—was
doing
what was necessary—and there was no help for it. If he had not left Tyrag at
winter’s outset, he would have died by winter’s end. Argyle would have seen to
it. It was better to die in the snow alongside the road, just one more foolish
traveler for the scavengers to feast upon.

He struggled to his feet and stumbled forward a dozen paces
before his knee gave out again. This time, the wind caught the hood of his robe
and wrenched it away from his face. He took a breath and almost gagged on the
brittle cold, the sharp pain in his lungs. He huddled down upon himself and reached
back for the hood. It billowed out and flapped wildly about, and his fingers
were cold, clumsy, almost useless. It took too long to catch it, and by the
time he did, his ears were already numb.

Winter in the plains was supposed to be mild. A little snow,
a little wind, a bit of rain, chill but not cold. But he was too close to the
foothills, and the cold wind from the mountains merged with the moist air from
the swamps to form horrid snowstorms. He knew how it happened, but that
knowledge didn’t help him cope with it.

Still the mind. Still the body. Still the body.

The body’s too cold to move anyway. Why do I need to
still it?

He crumpled forward, idly wondering how close he was to
Wyrmwood, to warmth, to safety. Perhaps he should climb to his feet again? But
he didn’t have the strength, the energy. The raging storm had drained him
completely.

He began to crawl and made it a few more feet.
What’s the
point? I’m dead anyway
. He sighed, reluctantly took in another painfully
cold breath. Another. It was difficult now and he closed his eyes, let the air
ease out of his lungs. One more? He struggled against the urge to let it go, to
stop….

No.
It was not his voice, not his thought.

A warmth descended upon him, enveloped him. It was a strange
kind of warmth, almost like a fire without flame, without pain. But it wasn’t
gentle; it wasn’t kind; it wasn’t
friendly
.

His lungs expanded, and the cold air entered into him again.
Why was he breathing?
How
was he breathing? Another breath. It was not
as sharp, not as demanding. Another….

His hands moved, pulling his arms behind them. They pressed
upward, pushing him up to his knees. Then his legs moved, levering him clumsily
to his feet, as if they were unaccustomed to supporting his weight. He stumbled
forward, the staff forgotten behind him.

But Fanzool wasn’t thinking about the staff. He wasn’t even
thinking about walking, about how to put one foot closer to Wyrmwood, then the
other. He wasn’t thinking about anything. He had already fallen into a deep,
unrelenting sleep, one he should never have woken up from.

But he would wake up.

Sardach would make sure of it. It was what Argyle wanted….

4

Angus approached Ortis with trepidation. His companion was
roughly the same size as he was, and his clothing was fairly normal for a
woodsman: gray-green tunic and breeches, heavy brown winter cloak, and leather
boots. He had set the cloak carefully on the ground and put his bow and quiver
of arrows on it. These weren’t what troubled Angus; it was the leather harness
he held in his hand. It looked stable enough, but he didn’t feel at all
comfortable trusting it with his life. Still, there was something more to it
than that, something that had been bothering him since they had first met half
a year ago. It was his eyes. They were catlike, orange-tinted things that held
a strange cast, a kind of stoic, violent wisdom—and something else he could
never place. A sense of mystery? Secrecy? They were guarded, silent, intense
eyes that missed very little of what happened around him.

Angus glanced at Ortis’s other two constituents and frowned.
One was near Hobart, who was kneeling by the winch mechanism, and the other was
tending to the horses. They looked identical to the one he approached, but he
knew they weren’t triplets—at least not in the sense of
human
triplets.
His milky-white skin and cat-like eyes could never be mistaken for human. But
what was he? He said he was a Triad and that there weren’t many of his kind
left, but Angus wasn’t sure if he believed him.
Are you of the plains folk?
Angus
wondered again as he came to a stop and dropped his gaze to the harness.
A
survivor of that long-ago massacre?

Ortis held out the harness and bent down so Angus could step
into the loops for his legs. As he straightened up, he guided those loops past
Angus’s knees and said, “Remember, the trick is not to let go.” Angus nodded
and wiggled around in the loops, trying to find a comfortable position. But
there was no comfort here; the loops were too tight for that! He might have
felt better—and warmer!—in his robe, but the harness had not been made for
wizards. It did fit over the form-fitting black breeches fairly easily, but not
over his thighs. The harness was clearly made for someone smaller, like Giorge.
At least the straps around his chest and waist were adjustable.

“I thought the trick was not to look down,” Hobart offered
from where he knelt by the winch. The winch was attached to a tree trunk, and
he said it would belay the ropes easily and, if needed, arrest a fall. It had a
brake, and there was a crank on one side that could be used to reel the ropes
in if needed. The ropes were coiled up in two large piles, one on either side
of Hobart, waiting to be fed through the winch mechanism. Angus eyed the ropes
suspiciously; they had been spliced together and he would have preferred to
have tied the knots himself. They
said
they knew what there were doing….

“What’s wrong with the view?” Giorge asked as he once more
walked over to the precipice and leaned dangerously forward. “All this open
space is exhilarating!”

Hobart’s armor clattered softly as he shrugged and fed the
slack end of one of the ropes through a hole in the side of the winch and
wrapped it around the spool. “I hope this is the way it’s supposed to go,” he
said.

Giorge laughed. “Don’t worry Angus,” he said. “You only live
once.”

“Usually,” Ortis and Hobart said in unison.

Giorge grinned and protested, “That’s my line!”

Hobart shrugged again and fed the second rope through another
hole on the side of the winch and wrapped it around the spool beside the first
one. He made sure they didn’t overlap with each other, and then adjusted his
position so he could guide the ropes as they went around the spool. When he was
in place, he nodded to the third Ortis, who picked up the loose ends of the
ropes and pulled. The spool emitted an ear-splitting squeal and barely turned.

“Sorry,” Hobart said. “I forgot to free the brake.” He did
something to the winch and the spool turned freely as Ortis pulled on the
ropes. Ortis nodded and carried the ropes to the edge of the cliff and dropped
them. Then he took a few paces back toward Hobart, bent down to pick up the
ropes again, and walked to the edge. He handed one of the ropes to Giorge, and Giorge
dangled it over the side. He studied it for a few seconds and then turned to
Ortis.

“Four or five more feet ought to do it for now,” he said, tugging
on the rope for the span of his arms. After Ortis had done the same thing,
Hobart reset the brake.

“Set it firm!” Giorge called. “He doesn’t know what he’s
doing yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Angus muttered, wondering if
they
knew what they were doing.

“Hobart’s going to set the brake to make sure the ropes
don’t slide when you fall,” Ortis said from beside him. “
If
you fall,”
he corrected himself, a tight smile toying at the edge of his lips.

“And if I don’t fall?” Angus asked. “How are we going to
descend?”

“Simple,” Ortis said. “Hobart will release the brake
mechanism in increments until Giorge is comfortable with your progress.”

Angus frowned and shook his head. “If I fall,” he muttered
again, his lips pressed tight. He wasn’t going to fall. How could they think
that? If he was going to fall, he wouldn’t even try it. Still, he had to admit
that the precaution was a good one, and he wasn’t going to complain about it. Instead,
he would just have to prove them wrong. If he could. Otherwise he would fall.
But not too far; the rope would stop him.

Ortis brought the rope from the cliff and handed the end of
it to himself before returning to help Giorge into his harness. “Turn around,”
Ortis said. “I need to loop the rope around that big ring on the back of the
harness before I tighten the straps.”

Angus turned around and tried to follow Ortis’s movements by
feel as he manipulated the rope and harness, but all he really noticed were
Ortis’s knuckles when they gouged into his back. After several seconds, Ortis’s
movements slowed and then stopped altogether. Then he felt the chest strap
tighten uncomfortably around him as Ortis pulled on the strap and secured it
behind him.

“All right, Angus,” Ortis said. “You can turn back around.”

Angus tried to tug on the chest strap but he couldn’t get
his fingertips under it. He frowned and asked, “Does it have to be this tight?”

“Yes,” Ortis said. “You don’t want it to slip when—
if
—you
fall. Also, it needs to stay in place while you’re climbing.”

Angus frowned and shook his head. “It’s going to impede my
maneuverability.”

Giorge was already in his harness when he came over to join
them, the rope trailing behind him like an endless tail or umbilical cord.

“Did you tie the same knots for me as you did for Giorge?”
Angus asked.

“Yes,” Ortis said. “They are the knots the egg hunters use.”
Angus frowned. Were the egg hunters’ knots to be trusted? Surely they had the
experience and the knowledge for climbing down the cliff face, but when it came
to knots, he was an expert. He had to be; the spells he cast were all intricately
knotted together, and mistakes could be deadly. Or cause you to forget who you
are. His frown deepened, pulling his eyebrows toward the bridge of his nose. He
turned to Giorge and said, “Turn around so I can see them.”

Giorge shrugged, pivoted so his back was to Angus, crossed
his arms, tapped his toes, and began to whistle. Angus ignored him and focused his
attention on the knots—and quickly grew appalled by their simplicity. They were
reminiscent of spells that came apart rather quickly because their knots only held
together for a short time before unraveling. And they
always
unraveled.
Would these do the same? Or would they hold together better? At least they
didn’t have the magical energy fighting to be free from them; that always made
the knots unravel more quickly than they otherwise would. But what would happen
if he brushed up against the cliff face the wrong way? Would these knots hold?
Or would they come apart? He shook his head and said, quite loudly, “Sheer
madness. I would have preferred to tie those knots myself,” he said. “I know
several that are more stable and secure than the ones you’ve used.”

Ortis nodded. “As do I,” he said. “But these are the ones
the egg hunters use, and they rarely have accidents.”

“Rarely?” Angus snapped, turning sharply to study Ortis as
he replied.

Ortis shrugged, “No more than one or two a season,” he said.
“The careless or inexperienced ones sometimes fall.”

“They bury them where they land,” Giorge added as he turned
back around. “They aren’t easy to move after they land.”

“How far down are the aeries?” Angus asked, wiggling in the
harness. The leather was stiff, and the straps scrunched up uncomfortably under
his buttocks and across his groin, as if he were wearing a smaller man’s
breeches.

“We won’t go down more than fifty feet this first time,”
Giorge said as he moved behind Angus and tugged on his harness. “This harness
needs to be tight in case you slip. If it’s loose, it causes a lot more damage
when it settles into place. Trust me on that. You don’t want a loose harness
snuggling up against you when you reach the end of that rope. A tight harness
is better.”

“All right,” Angus said. “Are we ready, then?”

Giorge playfully jiggled the rope dangling behind him and
said, “I hope it holds. I would prefer not to die here.”

Ortis chuckled and said, “We all must die somewhere.”

Giorge grinned. Then his grin faded, and he looked closely
at the rope securing Angus to his harness. He studied Ortis’s knots for several
seconds and then tapped them and shook his head. “Your rope looks a little
loose, Angus,” he said.

Angus frowned and doubled over in an awkwardly scrunched
posture to get a look at the knot, but he only glimpsed a small part of it.

Giorge straightened up, barely avoiding butting heads with
Angus, and slapped him playfully on the shoulder as he laughed. When Angus
glared at him, a toothy grin spread across his boyish face, the off-white of
his teeth contrasting sharply with the soft brown of his skin. The others
laughed as Giorge sidestepped the threatened blow and scurried away, but Ortis
took pains to check the knots again before he let Angus follow Giorge to the
cliff.

“This had better be worth it,” Angus warned as Ortis stepped
back, apparently satisfied.

“Oh, it’s worth it,” Hobart promised, patting his belly from
where he sat. “You’ll see.”

“Trust us,” Ortis said. “We wouldn’t risk this if the eggs
weren’t sensational.” He paused a moment, and then corrected himself, “Giorge
probably would, but Hobart and I wouldn’t.”

Angus frowned. He did trust them—to a point. They had proven
to be capable enough on their journey to the Angst temple and knew the
mountains well, but it had been a long winter, and he had spent much of it in
solitary study. It would take him time to adjust to being around them again,
and for now he didn’t feel like he was a part of the Banner of the Wounded
Hand. But Ortis was right; he needed to learn to trust them. His life might
depend upon it. He glanced again at Ortis, wondering what it was about the
Triad that made him so uncomfortable. Had he said something? Done something? Or
was it just an irrational suspicion? Had
he
breathed in the mushroom
smoke? Whatever it was, it led him to believe it would be a mistake to trust
him.

He frowned. If it were the mushrooms, wouldn’t he be
suspicious of all of them? But he wasn’t; only Ortis made him uncomfortable. Hobart
didn’t bother him at all, and Giorge only irritated him. Perhaps it was his
nature to be reluctant to make friends? Had he always had difficulty trusting
others? He thought so but couldn’t be sure. He had no memory of friends before
his apprenticeship to Voltari, and that relationship had been about as far from
being a friendship as one could be without becoming enemies. Still, it felt
natural for him to be cautious, even if the others—except Giorge—had given him
no reason to be. So why had he let them talk him into doing such a foolhardy
thing? Why had he agreed to climb down the side of a cliff just to steal a bunch
of eggs? If it wasn’t trust, what was it? Curiosity? Was that all it was? Was
curiosity enough to send him over the edge of a cliff?

“We only have an hour or two before the fletchings return,”
Giorge said, interrupting his thoughts. “Let’s get started. It will take that long
to teach you the basics.” He walked over to the edge of the cliff and sat down
with his legs dangling over. Then he lay back, rolled over on his belly, and
slid backward until his lower body pivoted over the edge. He wriggled about until
he found purchase and quickly lowered himself over the side. Several seconds
later his head came back up, and he said, “There are good footholds and
handholds about four feet to my left. You should be able to manage them. But
take it slow and easy. There’s no sense testing the rope’s strength, even this
close to the top. It’s a long way down.”

Angus walked up to the edge and looked over. It was a rough,
nearly vertical surface with lots of protrusions large enough to grab onto, and
about four feet down there was a small ledge, barely two inches deep, that he
could stand on.

“Don’t worry about falling,” Giorge said. “You won’t fall
far before the winch locks in place. It will hurt when you hit the end of the
rope, but you shouldn’t die from it. If it happens, crunch up and brace
yourself in case you hit the cliff face hard.”

“All right,” Angus said, turning around and dropping to his
hands and knees.

“There’s a nice little ledge about four feet down,” Giorge
said. “Can you feel it with your right foot?”

“I saw it,” Angus said as he lowered himself easily into
place.

“Before you move from one place to another, make sure you
test your new perch. Some of this rock will crumble and break loose. Move only
one hand or one foot at a time, and when you do, shift your weight slowly. If
you feel your new perch give, shift your weight away from it.”