The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (10 page)

1

Angus stirred, and a damp cloth fell from his forehead. It
was cold.
He
was cold. Why was he cold? His robe always kept him warm.
It merged with the magic within him and stoked the flames that were there when
it was needed, calmed them when it wasn’t. Voltari had seen to that, hadn’t he?
It was a necessary precaution for casting flame-based spells. A little backlash
of flame was always a risk, and it dealt with that little backlash—and bigger
ones too, but only if he were wearing it. He sighed and rolled over.

He was on the ground, and it was cold too. He did not like
the cold, so he rolled back and settled into the small cocoon of warmth his
body had built up while it had lain there. Lain where? What was he doing? Where
was he? He frowned and opened his eyes a bit.

Daylight. He couldn’t see the sun; there were trees in the
way. But it was daytime. He frowned. Had he been sleeping? Why would he be
sleeping on the ground? He liked the hard stone shelf he slept on in his
cubicle, so why wasn’t he there? Why was he outside? He never went outside;
there wasn’t any need to go outside. Voltari brought everything they needed
inside.

He struggled to sit up, but someone held him down. “Be
still,” the someone said. “Try not to move.”

Voltari? No, not him. The voice was kind, a gentle tenor
full of concern. No, not concern, something else. Boredom? Weariness? He lay
back and opened his eyes again, and met the earnest gaze of a cat, a very large
cat with white fur and—

No, not fur, skin. And it wasn’t a cat; it only had a cat’s
eyes. Its face was almost human, and when it spoke, it told him to be still
again.

The plains folk!
he thought suddenly. He had been
captured by them! He tensed, and then settled back down into the warm cocoon.
But his eyes never wavered from the orange-ringed ones that held concern—but
not compassion. Who—

“Angus?” the chalk-white face asked. “How do you feel?”

Trapped!
Angus thought at once, and then felt the
furrow in his brow dip toward his nose, like it always did when he was puzzled.
How do you know my name?

Someone with heavy metal feet plodded closer, and he
reluctantly glanced over at him. The sun was behind him, and it made a strange
halo around the wavy blonde hair that glistened on the armored shoulders. The
grass stains were gone. He couldn’t see the face clearly, but something about
him was familiar. Did he know him? Had he met him before? Yes, there was
something, a name. What was it? He had seen him write it once, very carefully,
methodically tracing each letter out as if it were a work of art. It was on a
scroll wasn’t it? He focused on the memory and the name reluctantly came into
focus. It was written in block letters with very sturdy, strong, thick lines
punctuated with blobs of ink. He smiled; he knew this man’s name, and he said
it, “Hogbart.” Yes, that was it; his name was Hogbart; that was the name he
wrote on the injunction.

Injunction?
Angus thought.
What injunction?
He
looked at the name in his memory and forced his gaze upward. There were other
names, but he wasn’t interested in them, not yet anyway; he wanted to remember
why Hogbart had signed the injunction.

Hogbart stopped and looked at the pasty white one with the
strange eyes. If they were owl-like eyes, he’d be a plains folk, and that would
be bad. But they were cat-like, so he wasn’t. Was he? Why would it be bad if he
was the plains folk? They were a kind, peaceful people when Urm massacred them.

“He’s still a bit confused, Hobart,” another one said as he
approached. He was like the first, dressed in a gray-green tunic and—

Like the first?
Angus questioned, then the answer
came suddenly to him:
There are three of them!

“How much longer will he be that way?” That was Hogbart.
There was concern
and
compassion in his voice.

Not Hogbart
, Angus thought.
Ho-bart. The g is
silent.
Why was it silent? What was its etymology? How had Hobart lost the
g-sound? “Hobart?” he muttered, his lips playing with the sounds. He squinted
up at the pale white face, the strange eyes, and tilted his head sideways.
“Ortis?” he asked, still uncertain.

“Yes,” Ortis said, a bit of relief in his voice. But he
didn’t smile, and there was no pleasure in his eyes; they were filled with a
strange, deep sadness. “Do you remember where you are?”

On the ground
, Angus thought, then chuckled to
himself. He should say that, but he knew Ortis wanted a different answer. Was
there a different answer? He knew where he
wasn’t
—he wasn’t in
Blackhaven Tower any longer—but where was he? The injunction said Hellsbreath,
but it banned him from there. Why? What had he done in Hellsbreath? They didn’t
need the whole wall anyway, did they? It could be—it
was
—repaired. But
that was—how long ago was that?

“Angus?” Ortis prompted, squeezing his shoulder.

“Ortis?” Angus said. “What is it? Why did you wake me?”
Angus frowned. No, that had happened when the Truthseer had visited with him, had
drawn him out of his shell. That was a torturous experience; he hadn’t wanted
to come out of his shell. But she had made him, had tinkered with him until she
coaxed him out. But then he went back again. He had to….

“Let me up,” he demanded as he tried to sit up. Ortis didn’t
impede him this time, and when he was sitting up, the blanket covering him
slipped away. He looked down and saw the singed pockmarks in his tunic and
frowned. Why was he wearing that thing? It wasn’t his, was it? And the burns—

Yes, it was his. It had gotten burned when he cast Lava Man
in the Angst temple. But that had been months ago, before wintering in
Hellsbreath. Then Hogbart—
Hobart
—had come to get him and—

“Fletching eggs,” he muttered. He looked around. He was
alongside a line of budding maple trees, and in front of him was a narrow open
area at the end of which was a cliff. “We came here for fletching eggs. Then—”

Surprise!

“Giorge!” Angus cried, throwing off the blanket.

“He’ll be all right,” Ortis said as he put his arm on his
chest to restrain him.

Angus instinctively brought the magic around him into focus
and
almost
reached for a strand of flame before he remembered Ortis did
not pose a threat, at least not yet. If he ever would.

“Easy,” Ortis said. “He’s resting over there.”

Angus looked where he pointed. Giorge was at the edge of his
ability to see the magic, but he had no trouble seeing the pulsing green curling
into his chest like a fletching claw digging into the flesh of a fish. “The
curse,” he said. “Symptata’s curse.”

Hobart nodded. “He told us he was cursed,” he said. “But he
didn’t tell us how or why. He said we’d have to wait until you were awake so he
wouldn’t have to explain it twice.” He looked over at Giorge and frowned. “He
hasn’t said anything else since then. He just sits there rubbing his chest and
shaking his head once in a while.”

“And looking in that box you brought up,” Ortis added. “I
don’t know how many times he’s read those scrolls.”

The scrolls,
Angus thought.
I need to look at
them.
He stood up, and aside from being hungry and a bit weak, he felt
fairly well. “Is there anything to eat?”

“Yes,” Hobart said. “Ortis went down for some of the
fletching eggs while you’ve been out. That trick you showed us made it a lot
easier and faster than we expected. We’ll throw a couple in the fire for you.”

Angus frowned, “How long was I out?”

“All night and much of today,” Ortis said. “I went down this
morning.”

“It will take about fifteen minutes for the eggs to cook
through,” Hobart said. “That will give you some time to catch your bearings.
Head wounds like yours are unpredictable. We’ll have to watch you for a while.”

Angus nodded. He didn’t remember any head wound, but his
right temple was tender to the touch and he had a bit of a headache. It wasn’t
a painful headache, more like a distraction, a nuisance. “What happened?”

Hobart shrugged. “We don’t really know,” he said. “But
whatever it was, it happened while you were fighting the fletchings.”

Fletchings?
Angus wondered.
When did I fight them?

2

“Will you tell us what’s going on now?” Hobart asked Giorge
as they gathered around the fire they had built at the edge of the trees. It
was late afternoon, and the sun would soon be passing behind the mountains.

Angus stared at Giorge’s chest. What were those green
things? They were magical, but they didn’t look like any magic he had ever seen.
The color was off, and they were much too large for the filaments of life that
he knew. And what was in the bag? That was where the energy was coming from.
Giorge clutched it protectively to his chest as if it were a precious family
heirloom.

“Here,” Giorge said, shoving the box toward Angus. “Read
these.”

Angus frowned and reached for the box. It was a pretty
box—or would have been if there hadn’t been dried blood caked on it. Still,
that could be cleaned off and the chocolate brown lacquer would have kept it
from seeping into the wood grains. He unlatched the lid and opened it. There
was a six-inch ivory scroll tube engraved with magical runes.
I remember
that,
he thought, picking it up and twisting its end to open it.
The
scrolls—

He had read one of them already, the one with the
yellow-green tie that had animal magic in it. At least, that’s what he thought
it was. He slid them out of the scroll tube and frowned. What had happened to
the animal magic? The scroll was still there, tied with the yellow-green cord,
but the magic permeating the scroll was gone. Where was it? Had it escaped? How?
Why? He was certain it had been there when he put it back away, but now it was
gone. It didn’t make sense—

Unless Giorge had it. But there was no sign that it was in
him or on him or anything of the sort. The only magic was the strange
apparition that writhed around and through his chest. So where had it gone? Why
hadn’t the magic in the others gone with it? He frowned and asked, “Did you
read these?”

Giorge shrugged. “Yes,” he said. “Why?”

“What do they say?” Angus asked.

“Read them and find out,” Giorge said, leaning his head back
against the tree and waiting for him to continue.

Angus didn’t want to read the scrolls, but he needed more
information. The right information would lead to the right questions, and the
right questions would lead to the right answers. If those answers were
available. But the scrolls were dangerous, cursed, and he didn’t want to risk triggering
another one of them. What if reading it would release the magic? Scrolls often
had that quality when they were read aloud, and he had been horrified the first
time he had seen the runes disappearing as he read them. Voltari had simply
been angry, and his punishment had been weeks of research to reconstruct the
spell he had accidentally released. He was still in his first year when it had
happened, and it wasn’t until the end of the second year that he had finished
reconstructing it. But the effort had taught him a great deal about magic.

The scrolls would have information, and that information may
help them learn more about the curse. At least Giorge thought so, and he had
read through them. But what did Giorge know about magic? About curses?

He decided to read the one he had already read, the one
whose magic had already been drained. It could do no more than it already had,
and he couldn’t recall what was written on it. That puzzled him; he usually
remembered everything he read. He unrolled it and read through the archaic
language, the creative spelling. When he finished, he frowned and read through
it again.

“What does it say?” Hobart asked.

“Sorry,” Angus said. He cleared his throat and read from the
scroll, projecting his voice as Voltari had taught him.

A fool has gained a fortune

and lost much more.

Greed is a fickle slave

and more a fickle whore.

When once possessed,

the Viper’s Breath

can only be lost

in the finder’s death.

But long before

that death will come,

a plague of woe,

and ill fortune done!

Symptata the Beggarman

When he finished, he handed the scroll to Hobart and pointed
at the symbol beneath the poems, the three-headed snake poised to strike.
“Giorge said that was the family crest of Symptata. Do you recognize it?”

Hobart studied it and shook his head before handing it to
Ortis, who also studied it and shook his head.

“Giorge?” Ortis asked. “You know of this Symptata the
Beggarman?”

Giorge smiled, a wistful, knowing smile. “Oh yes,” he said.
“I know much about him.”

“Would you like to tell us about it?” Angus asked.

“Like?” Giorge chuckled and closed his eyes. “No. But I will
anyway.
After
you have read all of them.”

“What is this fortune you’ve gained?” Hobart asked. “And this
Viper’s Breath?”

Giorge laughed and looked at him. He opened the black pouch
and dumped a huge stone into his hand. It was a sickly chartreuse, and there
were small snake-like tendrils writhing all over its surface. It was almost
like looking at a whirling ball of flame.

Angus frowned. It hadn’t been chartreuse when Giorge had
found it; it had been a deeper green, like the streams eating into his chest.
Was that where the magic from the scroll had gone? It was the right color,
wasn’t it? Animal magic of some sort—at least, it would be if he had—

One of the snake-like tendrils separated from the cluster
surrounding the Viper’s Breath and began to grow and elongate. It opened its
mouth as if it were flexing its jaw muscles and turned around in a full circle.
“Put it away!” Angus cried, backing hastily up as the tendril turned toward him
and paused. “Now!”

Giorge shrugged and did as he was told, but it was too late.
The tendril had escaped from its confinement in the Viper’s Breath and did not
return to it. Instead, it stretched out from the pouch’s opening and shot rapidly
southward, disappeared into the trees beyond the range of Angus’s vision. Its
yellow-green tail clung to the stone in the bag, rippling as it flowed outward
and stretched taut. What would it do? How would its powers manifest? When? Could
it be stopped? Angus had no answers; he only had questions. The magic was
different from any he had studied, and he had no reference point to draw upon.
The only thing he
thought
he knew was that it would relate to animals in
some way, and that was only if it followed the normal range of colors of
his
magic. But
how
it would relate to them was beyond him. At least for now.
Once the power manifested, he might be able to decipher its purpose, but by
then it could be too late.

“Go ahead,” Giorge said, almost nonchalantly. “Read the one
with the blue and white strings next.”

Angus frowned. If he had chosen one to read next, it would
have been that one. It was the next safest color. There was still magic embedded
in it—powerful magic that he didn’t comprehend—and he was reluctant to tempt
its release. Still, Giorge had handled it without triggering whatever it was it
would do, and he might be able to do it, too. Or it could be waiting for
someone else to release its energy.

“Don’t worry, Angus,” Giorge said. “It’s my curse, not
yours. You’ll be fine.” Then he paused, and said, “Unless we’re related on my mother’s
side.”

Angus frowned. Were they related? It was unlikely—almost
impossible—but what if he were? What would happen? He didn’t know who his mother
was, or his father, or any other relatives for that matter.
Could
he be
related to Giorge? And how did Giorge know that he wouldn’t be affected by the
magic in the scroll—the curse? Why did he think—
know
—it was
his
curse? He sighed, lifted the scroll and carefully unwound the cord. As he did
so, he kept careful watch on the magical energy of the scroll. If there were
any changes….

But there were none. The scroll unrolled and the magic
within it remained dormant, silent, restrained. On the scroll was another short
poem:

Once breathed in,

the Viper’s Breath

Can never be exhaled—

except in death.

It cannot be gifted;

It cannot be stolen;

You cannot cleave in two

this magical token;

For you and the gem

are one and the same

and none but you

can shoulder the blame.

Symptata the Beggarman

When he finished reading it aloud, Ortis said, “A strange
portent, if written badly.”

Giorge laughed, not the lilting playful laughter they were
familiar with, but a harsh bark of laughter that shattered the tranquility of
the small wood. “Its message is clear enough to me,” he said. “I’m stuck with
this thing until I die, and it’s going to make sure that happens soon. But only
after a plague of woe and misfortune has descended upon me.”

“Surely not,” Hobart said. He stood, walked quickly up to
Giorge, bent down, and grabbed the pouch. Giorge offered no resistance, and
Hobart carried it to the edge of the cliff and threw it over the side. He stood
watching it for several seconds and then came back to sit down. “There,” he
said. “It’s gone.”

Giorge smiled and held up his hand. The pouch dangled from
his fingertips.

“What? I—”

“It’s the curse,” Giorge said. “When I opened that pouch, the
Viper’s Breath attached itself to me. There is nothing you or I can do to
change that.”

“There must be something,” Angus muttered, but he had no
idea what that something might be. A spell, perhaps? Surely there would be one,
but he didn’t know it. The spells he knew were pointless; they related mainly
to offense and defense. Why was that? Why had Voltari taught him those
particular spells? Was he expecting Angus to face danger? Was it his plan to
cast him out from the beginning?

“Yes,” Giorge nodded. “Keep reading. The green and black one
next.”

Angus picked up the next scroll and unrolled it. It was a
bit reckless, but he didn’t think much of it until after he was reading it. He
was still wondering why Voltari had taught him
those
spells and not
others
.
He only stopped thinking about his own spells when he realized how carelessly
he had treated the scroll. Its magic was deadly—at least, he
thought
it
was deadly—the green and black merging together reflected dying or killing. When
he read it aloud to the others, his voice held a tremor of confusion in it that
had nothing to do with the uncertainty of Symptata’s creative spelling:

There is one chance—

and only one—

To lift this burden

and be undone

When the Viper’s Breath,

the Viper’s Fangs,

and the Viper’s Eyes,

are found again

and once more merged

with the Viper’s Skull,

The curse will end;

the quest fulfilled.

Symptata the Beggarman

“Well,” Hobart said, “that’s plain enough. We have to find
these fangs and eyes and put them in the skull.”

“And where do you propose we look for them?” Angus asked.
“We happened upon this one by chance.”

“Not by chance,” Giorge said. His voice was soft, little
more than a whisper, but it was easy enough to hear.

“What do you mean?” Angus asked.

“The curse sought me out,” Giorge said, then waved his hand to
stop Angus before he could ask some more questions. “Read the last one. It’s
the best of all.”

Angus did not want to read the last scroll. The magic wasn’t
the normal black that clings to every dead thing after the magic within it
transforms from living energy to dead energy. No, it was the
consumptive
black, the kind of death magic that reaches out to touch everything around it.
It
spread
death, poisoning everything that came into contact with it.
That would be enough to give him pause, but there was another reason for his
hesitancy: What if the magic was released
only
after all of the scrolls
had been read?

He turned to Giorge and said, “You are certain this curse
will only affect you?”

“Very,” Giorge said.

“All right,” Angus said, reluctantly untying the cord and
unrolling the scroll.
Stay away from death magic
, Voltari had told him.
You
are not ready to master it.
But his master wasn’t here, and he had to deal
with it.

When he had deciphered the poem, he was still somewhat
confused by it. But he read it aloud, anyway:

Symptata’s heart

was pure and true

until her poison

ran him through.

She left in darkness

but not alone,

his coin and jewels

were also gone.

He cursed her line

of thieving whores

and lies in death,

awaiting yours.

Symptata the Beggarman

A squirrel chittered angrily above them, and Angus looked
up. It was bouncing from one branch to another, and as it approached he noticed
it wasn’t alone.

“Why must curses always come with bad poetry?” Giorge idly
wondered. “As if the curse wasn’t bad enough on its own, they have to torture
us with all these ominous warnings.”

Angus frowned. The snake-like chartreuse tendril was biting the
squirrel’s tail, driving it forward, driving it toward—

“At least it tells us what we need to do,” Hobart said. “We
just have to find—”

“Giorge!” Angus shouted, pointing up at the squirrel. It was
descending rapidly down the tree, chattering madly as it came.

“What?” he asked, and then looked up when he saw what had
grabbed Angus’s attention. “It’s an angry squirrel—”

Angus reached for a strand of flame and tied the knots for
his Firewhip spell. It was a quick and easy spell to cast, and he was ready
with it by the time the squirrel leapt from the last branch. The flames struck
out from his fingertips and flashed forward with a great deal of speed. He had
aimed not far above Giorge’s head, and as the squirrel dropped through the
writhing whip-like cords of flame, it squealed and thrashed. But it didn’t die.