The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (9 page)

8

Angus stared as the large, brown-feathered bird clawed at
Giorge’s chest with its talons as if it were trying to reach in and rip his
heart out. They were sharp talons, and the thin leather of his armband was
already showing signs of shredding. At the same time, it flapped its wings and tried
to peck at Giorge’s head.

As the second fletching passed, its wingtip struck Angus’s right
temple and he sagged to his knees, dazed. The scrolls slipped from his fingers
and rolled away. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared he saw
the second fletching heading for the writhing bundle of Giorge and the first bird.
It was a noisy bundle, with Giorge’s screams and the fletching’s screeches
merging into a strange harmony. The bird screeched and pecked at Giorge, and
then Giorge would scream. Another screech, another scream….

The second bird hopped around, pecking at Giorge’s legs and
feet as it tried to find an opening.

Angus chuckled—or thought he did; the bizarre sound seemed
to melt into the hideous squawking of the fletchings and Giorge’s frantic,
pain-wracked squeals as they echoed off the cave walls.

Angus blinked several times, but a gray haze swarmed through
his head, mocking him. He shook his head—and fell forward, barely catching
himself with his hands.

The sounds of thrashing, squawking, squealing, screaming
were furious, intense. Then some of the squawks deepened and gurgled and the
others redoubled in intensity….

Angus gasped and pushed himself backward until he was
kneeling unsteadily. His torso wobbled about like a lopsided dagger twirling on
its point. He blinked. Those daggers always fell.

Why was Giorge wrestling with a bloody bird? He was still
wobbly when Giorge slammed the bird against the wall and plunged his knife into
its chest. The other bird jumped up and clawed at his chest, its beak slashing
upward for the eyes.

“Someone should help him,” Angus muttered, looking around.
Then he realized it should be him. But what could he do?

Giorge was stabbing at the thing with a knife. He had a
knife, didn’t he? A stiletto? Yes, it was in his boot. He had two of them. He
could throw them, couldn’t he? He didn’t have to stand for that, which was
good, since he didn’t know if he could stand. He reached down and lifted the
stiletto from his left boot sheath and threw it.

It was a weak toss, poorly aimed, and clattered against the
wall.

No matter, he would throw the second one, and it might hit
something. Hopefully, it would be the bird clawing at Giorge’s arm. The other
one was flopping about, blood squirting from its chest. It was dead, or close
to it. He took aim and threw the second stiletto as hard as he could.

The fletching squawked, more from anger than pain. The
stiletto had struck a wing, near the joint connecting it to the bird’s chest, and
stuck there. It did a little damage but not enough. Even as he watched its
frantic attack, the stiletto slipped out and fell to the cave floor.

Angus struggled to his feet and wobbled into the fray. His
arms felt lazy as he grabbed at the long brown and white tail feathers. When he
caught a grip, he pulled. The bird’s claws slashed at Giorge’s body, and it
slipped free from his grasp. Angus took a deep breath and snatched at it again.
He caught the tail, and this time his grip was firm—but not his footing. As he
pulled backward, his feet slipped out from under him. But he held on to the
fletching’s tail as he fell backward. It was like hanging onto an ill-trained
guard dog’s collar when the dog wanted to bite something. The bird’s muscles
rippled as it fought against him, stretching its neck out and snapping its beak
at Giorge. But he held on.

Why isn’t it biting me?
Angus wondered, chuckling
again. It was funny, wasn’t it? The bird wasn’t trying to bite him, and every
time the bird lunged at Giorge, it dragged Angus a little closer to Giorge.

Giorge drew his short sword, and swung.

The bird suddenly snapped back, and Angus fell backward onto
his back. The bird’s momentum carried it over him, and he let it go. It landed
at the opening, flopping around and spraying blood in all directions. Then it
flopped over the edge and was gone.

Angus lay there for a few seconds, and then sat up slowly.
He blinked and took several deep breaths to try to clear his head. By the time
he noticed Giorge grabbing at his blood-soaked leather tunic but not quite
getting a grip on it, he was almost himself again. Then he chuckled; Giorge looked
like a puppet whose strings weren’t working properly. Or was he grabbing at the
strange green thing eating his chest? Angus frowned. He had seen that green
thing before, hadn’t he? Yes, that was right; Giorge had opened a pouch—

He took another deep breath, and his vision cleared
considerably. “How bad?” he gasped, shuffle-crawling toward Giorge.

“I’ll live,” Giorge rasped, “if you stop the bleeding.”

Angus reached for Giorge’s tunic, but Giorge shook his head.

“My arm,” he said, gesturing at his right forearm. “It needs
a tourniquet.”

“But your chest—”

“Superficial,” he said. “They barely got through the
leather.”

Angus shifted position and picked up one of his stilettos.
He made a slit up the sleeve of Giorge’s tunic and peeled it open. There were a
number of short, deep gashes in his forearm, and they were bleeding a lot. “It
kept biting me while I was killing the other one,” Giorge said. “I couldn’t let
go or the other one would have gotten my eyes.”

Angus cut a strip of cloth from Giorge’s sleeve and slid it
under Giorge’s right arm, past the elbow and well above the wounds. He tied a
firm knot and twisted it tighter.

Giorge grimaced, and Angus said, “It will have to be
bandaged before we climb back up.” Could he climb back up? He was still woozy,
and his balance was off. What if he lost consciousness? At least it was a good
sign that he was thinking about the possibility; before, he wasn’t thinking
clearly at all.

“Ortis can stitch it up,” Giorge said. “But you’ll have to
get me up there first.”

“Or bring him down,” Angus said, looking at the harness. “Can
you keep this tight while I go get him?”

Giorge nodded and lifted his hand to the knot. When he had a
good grip on it, Angus let go. “I can climb if you get me into the harness,” he
said. “My legs aren’t too bad. The leather is thick there, like on my chest. It’s
thin on the arms so I can maneuver.”

Angus looked him over and shook his head. “No,” he said.
Giorge’s arm was the worst of it, but it wasn’t the only injury. There was
blood seeping through the cracks in the leather covering his chest and thighs,
and his short black hair was streaked red where the fletching had bitten him. Part
of his left ear was gone, and there was a gash on his left shoulder. He would
need a lot more than the stitches on his arm. “It will be better to bandage you
down here. I’ll be back with Ortis soon.”

He cleaned the blood from his stiletto and put it back in
its sheath. Then he picked up his other stiletto and did the same. When he went
to pick up the other harness, he noticed that one of the scrolls was resting
against it, and he picked it up, too. Then he gathered up the other scrolls.
The box and scroll tube had been kicked to the side and the dead bird had fallen
on them. He should take that with him too, shouldn’t he? No sense making
another trip, and it would be a good way to carry the scrolls. He lifted the
bird and carried the unwieldy mass to the opening and tossed it out. Then he
returned for the box. He put the scrolls back in the scroll tube and put it in
the box. Finally, he turned to Giorge and said, “I should take that pouch with
me.”

Giorge shook his head. “No,” he said. “It stays with me.” He
smiled, a sad, knowing smile, and added. “It will come back to me anyway.”

Angus frowned, wondering what he meant by that. But he
didn’t have time for questions; Giorge needed stitches, and Ortis was the one
to give them to him. He needed to leave. He should have already left. Why
hadn’t he? Why had he taken the time to pick up the scrolls and box? Why hadn’t
he left the dead bird where it was?

Itchy fingers burn
, he thought. It was a quiet,
unfriendly thought, one he was almost ashamed of having. He would have been ashamed
if there hadn’t been truth to it. After all, if Giorge had just waited a little
longer before opening the pouch….

He tucked the box under his left arm and threw the other
harness over his right shoulder. “We’ll be back as soon as we can,” he said.

Giorge nodded and closed his eyes.

Angus moved to the entrance and leaned out to find a
foothold and handhold. Then he stepped out and shouted “Reel me up! Quickly!”
As he climbed, he continued to shout until the rope grew taut, and then he
walked quickly up the cliff face.

“Faster!” he yelled as he neared the top. “Giorge needs
stitches!”

“What happened?” Ortis asked as he helped him over the lip.

“The fletchings attacked him,” Angus said, handing Ortis the
harness. “There are gashes on his forearm, and you need to go down and sew them
up. Take bandages with you. He also has minor cuts on his thighs and chest, and
part of an ear is missing. He may also have a head wound; I couldn’t tell.”

As Ortis slipped on the harness, another of his constituents
ran over with a small bag, and the third brought a pair of waterskins. Angus
exchanged the box for the waterskins and said, “Put this by my gear.” When
Ortis unclasped the lid, Angus put out his hand out to stop him. “Don’t open
it,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to look through all of the scrolls, and
it may be dangerous.” He paused, shook his head and felt a brief wave of
dizziness. He gulped and took a breath. “No,” he corrected, “it
is
dangerous.”

Ortis nodded sharply and reset the latch.

“When we get down there,” he said, turning to the Ortis in
the harness and checking the rope, “don’t touch the black pouch. And if I tell
you to get away from Giorge, do it at once.”

“Why?”

“No time for questions right now,” Angus answered. “Giorge
is bleeding.” Ortis had the harness on right, and he nodded. “Are you ready?”

“I would have preferred some practice,” Ortis said.

“Just walk backward like normal. Jump if it goes too fast. The
only real difference is your body’s horizontal orientation. It isn’t
complicated. I’ll help if you need it.”

Angus turned quickly to the cliff edge and a wave of
dizziness swarmed over him. He gasped, sagged to his knees, and dropped the
waterskins. He put his hands over his eyes and gasped again. He would have
plunged over the edge if Hobart hadn’t still had the brake set.

Ortis stepped quickly up to him and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Angus chuckled and said, “What isn’t?” He was still
chuckling softly as Ortis lifted him up and carried him away from the edge. He
winced when the fingertips began probing his temple, but not long after that, a
gray fog consumed him, stupefied him, held him in its comforting grasp until he
fell asleep….

9

Fanzool waited until both of them were in his room and the door
closed softly behind them. Then he said, “Glad you could join me.” He sat up
and added, “There is a candle on the table to your right. Why don’t you light
it so we can talk?”

“Talk?” one of the men said. He had a wheezy voice, as if he
were trying to talk through his nose and mouth at the same time. That would be
the heavyset one. “We didn’t come here to talk.”

The other one had a lantern, and he opened its shutter and aimed
the beam in Fanzool’s eyes. Before he was blinded, he caught a glimpse of the
clubs they had in their hands. They weren’t the kind of clubs that would be
deadly—unless they wanted them to be—they were the kind that were meant to
subdue or incapacitate.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Fanzool said as they moved apart to
approach him on either side of the bed.

“Why not?” the other one asked. He had a deep, sinister
voice that rumbled like the low growl of a guard dog. That would be the taller
one with the thick chest. “Who’s to stop us? You?” He laughed, a low,
unfriendly chuckle that carried little mirth.

Fanzool smiled and asked, “What makes you think I’m alone?”

That gave them pause, but only long enough for them to throw
the lantern’s light around the room. Then the lantern fell on Fanzool’s face
again, and the wheezy one said, “I don’t see no one.”

Fanzool smiled. It was a grim, tense smile. “I didn’t say it
was a person,” he said. That caused them to hesitate again, and the wheezy one
even took a step back. “Tell me,” Fanzool asked as they tried to decide what to
do. “Have you heard of Argyle?”

One of them gasped. He couldn’t tell which one, but it
didn’t matter.
One
of them, at least, had heard of Argyle. His lips
parted, and he showed them the tips of his teeth. “Yes,” he hissed, “You have,
haven’t you. I am here on his behalf.” The wheezy one took another step back.
So, he was the one who had heard of Argyle. Fanzool’s smile broadened. It was
not a friendly smile or a natural one, and he wondered if his eyes were red
with the fire he still felt within him or black as the tar pits of Inhorn. His
voice was eerily soft, almost smoke-like, as he said, “Sardach is with me.”

The wheezy one’s club fell to the floor and the lantern rattled
as it began to shake. He turned to flee, but Fanzool said, quite pleasantly
this time, “Please don’t go. We have much to discuss.”

The growly one took a step forward and raised his club—

There was a sudden outflowing from Fanzool’s body, and an
ice-deep chill filled the vacuum that was left behind. A moment later, the club
fell to the floor, and not long after that, the man’s body followed. He
struggled, of course—they always struggled—but it was pointless.

Fanzool shook himself, and realized the chill wasn’t the
cold air in the room; it was the sudden loss of heat from the core of his body.
How long had Sardach been so deep inside him? Would he enter him again when they
left? Could he stop him if he did? He looked at the crumpled body on the floor.
Did he dare try? He sighed. No, it was no good to fight; Sardach would do what
he wished and he could not stop him. Besides, it was safer to have Sardach in
him while he was in Wyrmwood; it would draw far less attention.

He looked away from the heap on the floor, idly wondering if
Sardach had killed him. It didn’t matter, not really; he only needed one of
them alive. If the wheezy one didn’t know the answers, he would know someone
who would. He smiled and lifted his gaze to the shaky shadow near the door. “Now,”
he said, “about that candle….”