The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (11 page)

Giorge rolled out from under the flames and bounced up into
a crouch, his knife in his left hand.

Hobart had his broadsword out and pointed it at Angus. “What
is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Angus ignored him; he was trying to follow the movements of
the squirrel, trying to anticipate where it was going.
It should have died
,
he thought, wondering how it had absorbed the energy without being killed.
Firewhip
kills rats easily enough!
He flicked his finger, sending one of the whips
forward. But his timing was a bit off, and he only managed to singe its tail.

The squirrel squealed more fiercely and leapt at Giorge.

Angus tried to follow its movements, but he couldn’t; it was
too fast. He thought about trying to hit it with another whip, but it was
already on Giorge, scampering up his leg, biting him as it went. He grabbed at
it with his injured arm, and it bit his hand. He tried to throw it away, but it
clung to his bandages and scampered up to his shoulder, then around behind him,
out of sight.

Giorge was screeching, now, and stabbing behind him with his
knife, but he couldn’t keep up with the squirrel. “Get it off of me!” he
shouted, diving forward and covering up his face and hands. The squirrel, its
tail still smoking, danced around on his back, trying to find somewhere to bite
that wasn’t covered in leather. It looked a bit lost and confused as it jumped
from one spot to another, took a bite of the leather, and wrenched its teeth
free again.

Then Hobart slashed down with the flat side of his
broadsword, and there was a resounding
slap!
—followed by a harsh yelp
from Giorge. He started squirming, and Hobart snapped, “Stay still!” He had the
squirrel pinned beneath his blade and edged forward. All the while, the
squirrel gnawed and pawed at the leather protecting Giorge’s back, slowly gouging
out a hole. By the time Hobart grabbed it with his gauntlet, it had drawn
blood.

The squirrel squirmed in his grip, its teeth snapping at
Giorge as Hobart backed away. “What’s wrong with this thing?” he demanded.

“Kill it,” Angus said. “If you let it go, it will attack
Giorge again.”

“Squirrels don’t do that,” Hobart said, holding the squirrel
at arm’s length as it wriggled in his grip.

“That one will,” Angus said. “The curse is controlling it.”

“What do you mean?” Hobart asked, ignoring the squirrel’s struggles,
the tiny bites that couldn’t penetrate his armor.

“It was like the fletchings,” Angus said, vaguely
remembering how they had completely ignored him to attack Giorge. He hadn’t
noticed any of the curse’s magic then, but he was pretty dazed at the time. Had
they also had a chartreuse snake snapping at their tails, urging them forward,
making them angry? Or were they just angry about their nest? “They were drawn
to Giorge. So is that squirrel.”

“You might as well kill it,” Ortis said. “I’ll dress it and
add it to tonight’s stew.”

Hobart shrugged and squeezed his hand. The squirrel struggled
for breath for several seconds before it finally went limp. “At least it won’t
be a complete waste,” Hobart said, tossing the carcass to Ortis.

Ortis caught it and took out a knife.

“Are you all right Giorge?” Hobart asked, a strange
gentleness in his voice. “I tried not to hit you too hard.”

“I’m okay,” Giorge said. “At least that squirrel couldn’t
bite through the leather.”

“Let me look at your back,” Ortis said. “There’s blood.”

Angus stared at the magic around him, looking for the
yellow-green stream that had come out of the bag. But it was gone; even the
tail had dissipated when the squirrel had died. Was that all there would be to
the curse? Or was it a beginning? He would have to keep an eye on Giorge, on
that bag. If another of the snake heads escaped, what would it do next? Would
it bring another squirrel? Something worse? What if it attacked the horses?
Millie? He frowned and shook his head. At least he had some idea about the
curse, now. It aggravated animals and brought them to Giorge in a state of open
hostility. But would it do more than that? What was it that Symptata had
written? “a plague of woe and ill-fortune done”? One squirrel was not a
plague….

“Giorge,” Angus said. “I think it is time you tell us more
about this curse and about Symptata.”

“After I tend to him,” Ortis said. “It’s just a scratch, but
if I don’t clean it, it may fester into something much worse. That squirrel was
not acting normally.”

Angus nodded. It was true; the squirrel was acting
strangely. But he would be too if he had a snake biting his tail. If he had a
tail. “All right,” he said. “But as soon as you’re done, Giorge is going to
tell us his story.”

3

Fanzool was uncertain which way to go. He—
they
—had
left Wyrmwood and traveled south, following the trail Angus had left. Now he
had come to a side road. It was an old road in disrepair. But Angus had gone
that way. He had also traveled the road to Hellsbreath. That was the problem:
Fanzool wasn’t sure which way was the fresher, and the coin couldn’t tell him.
His
spell
couldn’t tell him.

Should he go to Hellsbreath? That was where Dirk had
acquired the coin. But then Angus had left Hellsbreath, and the Truthseer had
followed him north. He was north of Hellsbreath, and so was this side road. But
it headed west into the mountains, and the snows were still heavy there. At
least in Hellsbreath, he could weather the rest of the winter. But spring was
close, and Sardach was with him. He had already saved him from one blizzard;
would he save him from another?

West on the road to who-knows-what, or south to Hellsbreath?
Why would Angus go west? The Tween was a dangerous place, and not just because
of the snow. There were things in The Tween, unfriendly things. Would there be
anything Sardach couldn’t handle? He would feel much more comfortable if he had
more spells he could use to defend himself. But he didn’t. Most of the magic he
had was related to divination, and the few defensive spells were little more
than tricks. He hadn’t been confident enough to risk learning the powerful
ones. If he had miscast one of them, it could prove deadly
for him
. So,
he had stuck to divination.

What were you searching for, Angus? And who was with you?
The thief, Giorge, surely. The coin had told him that much, at least. But there
were others in the group who passed both ways. He should have asked Wheezy One
more questions, but he hadn’t realized he could be going into The Tween. Maybe
he should have brought Wheezy One with him?

He shook his head. No. This was his task, and he would do it
alone. With Sardach. He would have preferred to do it without Sardach, but he
was getting accustomed to his presence. It wasn’t too bad when he knew Sardach
wasn’t going to kill him, and it was kind of nice to have Sardach’s protection.
Warm, too.

He looked south to the comfort of Hellsbreath. There were
wizards there who kept it safe from the volcanoes and made it a very hospitable
place. He had always wanted to visit it, but that would have meant leaving
Tyrag. He never quite talked himself into doing that. He was comfortable in
Tyrag; it was his home, and he knew the right people to avoid the wrong end.
But he had dreamed about going to Hellsbreath, starting over, making a new name
for himself….

He sighed. It was too late for that. He was already
entrenched in Tyrag, and Argyle owned him. They both knew it. Why else would he
have left Tyrag?
I will kill you if you fail
, Argyle had told him, and
even if he stayed hidden in Hellsbreath, Argyle would find a way to do it. Dirk
would see to it, as a favor for a friend.

West into the unknown, into The Tween. That was where he had
seen Angus when he cast the spell to find him. He was on a plateau, heading
toward the sun. Was it west? Or east? How far had he gone?
Why
had he
gone there? It was late in the year for a trip into the mountains; had they
gone there to winter? Had they kept going all the way to the Western Kingdoms?

South to Hellsbreath. Was Angus there? Would he have
wintered in Hellsbreath? Not with the injunction Wheezy One had told him about.
Unless he had found a treasure trove in The Tween to pay to have it lifted. But
wouldn’t they have sent word to Wyrmwood if he had?

Which way?
he asked himself.
I can’t stand here
forever
. He sighed and took out the coin. He would let it decide. He knelt
on the cobblestones—they were surprisingly clear of snow, even though there was
plenty of it still frozen on the mountainsides and on the side road heading
west. It was starting to melt, but it quickly refroze as ice and became
treacherous. It would be much worse in the mountains.

He set the coin on edge and let the spell take over. The
coin spun for several seconds, then gradually slowed and came to a stop. The edge
was pointing west. He sighed again. He would go west and hope his provisions
held out long enough for him to find whatever it was that was waiting for him.
Hopefully, it would be Angus.

4

“Do we have any wine?” Giorge asked from where he sat near
the fire. The sun was beginning to dip below the mountain peaks to the west and
was casting long shadows over the valley below. It would be dark soon, and the
twilight approaching them brought an eerie quality to the campfire.

“You know we didn’t bring any,” Hobart said.

“Like last time?” Giorge smiled, a bit of his playfulness
returning to his sad eyes, a bit of color returning to his dark skin. “No,” he
said, “I suppose not. There aren’t any dwarves over here anyway.”

“Not that we know of,” Angus corrected. “They could be
hiding in the ground without anyone the wiser.”

“Doubtful,” Hobart said. “They don’t have any qualms when it
comes to claiming territory as their own.”

“The dwarves aren’t important,” Ortis said. “Let Giorge tell
us what this curse is about.”

“It’s about Symptata and one of my ancestors,” Giorge said.
“I only know the story because Auntie Fie told it to me. It was not long after
my twelfth summer, and it nearly ruined me. But then I decided to make the best
of what time I had left and stopped worrying about it. I’ve lived an awful lot
since then.”

“I didn’t know you had an aunt,” Hobart said. “I thought you
were an orphan.”

“I am an orphan,” Giorge said. “Auntie Fie isn’t my aunt;
she was the woman who took me in when my mother died. Everyone calls her Auntie
Fie, and I doubt there is anyone who knows her real name. My mother might have;
they had known each other for years.”

“How old were you when she took you in?” Angus asked. He
wasn’t really interested, but it might prove important to understanding the
curse if he had details, and it seemed likely that the timing of his mother’s
death would be significant.

“I had seen six summers,” Giorge said. “It was in the fall
of that year that my mother left me with her for the winter.”

“Was that when she died?” Angus asked.

“No,” Giorge said. “When she didn’t come back for me the
next spring, Auntie Fie asked around for her. She never did find out what
happened for sure, but my mother never came back. I kept watching for her for a
long time.” He fell silent for a few seconds then shrugged. “She never came
back. That summer, Auntie Fie told me I had to earn my keep or I would have to
go.”

“That must have been rough,” Hobart said.

“Not really,” Giorge said. “I had already learned a lot
about thieving from my mother. She was a master of the craft. She could walk
through a crowd and come out the other side with enough coins to feed us for a
week without taking more than a fraction of what the people had on them. Most
never even noticed the coins were missing. She could tell what kind they were
by their feel and weight, and she never took more than a silver or two, and
only then if they had more than enough to spare.”

“So,” Hobart quipped, “you come by your itchy fingers
naturally.”

Giorge chuckled and nodded. “She wasn’t greedy, my mother; thieving
is a long family tradition. It goes way back, much further back than Symptata’s
time. The woman he mentions in the poem was my grandmother twenty-seven
generations removed, and I can trace the family tree back through a few dozen
more before it goes dark. All of them were thieves, and a few were quite famous
in the profession. So,” he turned to Hobart and a hint of his old smile danced
in his eyes, “you might say I came by the trade honestly.”

Hobart frowned and shook his head, “Then why do I have to threaten
to hire a Truthseer to test you?”

Giorge shrugged. “It’s in my nature to take things,” he
said. “I’ve been doing it since my fourth summer, and by my sixth, I almost
never got caught at it.”

“How old are you?” Angus found himself asking to keep the
conversation going.

Giorge smiled and lowered his gaze to the fire. “I thought
last summer was my twenty-first,” he said. “But it must be this one. I was born
in the spring, and Symptata’s Curse doesn’t strike until the twenty-first year.
I thought when it didn’t manifest last year that I had avoided the curse. Clearly,
I hadn’t. It might have been delayed, though.” He paused and shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s found me, and there are some things you need to know
about it.”

“Like how to stop it from killing you,” Hobart said.

“We know that,” Giorge said. “We have to put the Viper’s
Breath—” he lifted the black velvet pouch and shook it “—it’s the stone in this
pouch, the Viper’s Eyes, and the Viper’s Fangs back into its skull. But we have
a limited amount of time to do it. Auntie Fie was very specific about that. Once
the curse manifests, the victim has only three weeks to complete the task. Any
longer…” he shrugged.

“That doesn’t give us much time to find them,” Hobart
muttered.

Perhaps we shouldn’t try?
Angus thought, frowning as
he realized the implications of that thought.

“Symptata wasn’t really an evil man,” Giorge continued. “He
was just heartbroken. He gave all those who were cursed by him that one chance.
So far, none have succeeded.” He sighed and abruptly shifted the subject, “You
know how I’m always saying ‘You only live once.
Usually
.’”

“Yes,” Hobart said. “What of it.”

“I know you don’t take me seriously when I say it, but I do
mean it.”

Hobart frowned. “Mean what?” he asked.

Giorge shrugged and said, “Some people live twice. Or more.”

“Like zombies?” Hobart said. “They’re a myth. I’ve been all
over the Kingdom of Tyr and the bordering lands, and I’ve never seen one.”

Angus half-smiled and held his tongue.
He
had seen
zombies; two very large ones were standing guard beside the doors of Blackhaven
Tower. He even had an idea about how to create one—at least he understood the
basics of how death magic worked, and given time, he could probably manage it.

“No,” Giorge said, “that isn’t what I meant. Not really,
anyway. It’s part of the curse.”

“What is?” Angus asked. He was a bit puzzled by Giorge’s
response. Skeletons, zombies, and other dead-but-nots were familiar enough to
him, and some were quite strange. If Giorge was talking about one of those
dead-but-nots, he wanted to know about it. He had some resources to deal with
them, but he had to know which ones they were, first. If the curse was going to
bring them to Giorge like it did with the animals…. Or did Giorge have
something else in mind?

“Patience,” Giorge said. “You have to know the beginning
before you can understand the end. You see, the scrolls are incomplete. My
grandmother long-removed was Symptata’s consort, and she took more than coin
and gems with her when she left. She took his son.”

“She kidnapped his son?” Hobart said, shaking his blonde
head. “No wonder he was angry. What did she do to him?”

Giorge shook his head. “He wasn’t kidnapped,” he said.

“Wasn’t—Oh,” Hobart muttered. “He must have been old enough
for folly, then, and she led him astray. Is that it?”

Giorge chuckled softly and shook his head again. “No,
Hobart. It was quite innocent, I assure you. Mostly innocent, anyway; there
were the gems and coin.” He smiled into the fire and plucked at his chin before
continuing. “She took his child with her, and when she gave birth, it was a
son. He was furious. The baby was his heir.”

“She was pregnant?” Hobart said. “What woman in her right
mind would leave a man in that condition?”

Giorge chuckled again. “The women in my family are very
headstrong,” he told them. “They bow to no man, and they are quite capable of
procuring a living on their own. Usually, it’s someone else’s living, but
that’s another story. She didn’t suffer from leaving him—at least not in that
way; Symptata had ample funds and she made off with most of them. But she
suffered plenty from the curse.”

“Speaking of which,” Angus interjected, “We are still
waiting to hear what it is.”

“The scroll told you that,” he said. “He cursed her line.
His
line. He went to a witch from the old traditions and used the last of his
wealth to purchase the curse. Then he became a beggar. Some say it was out of
heartache, and others say it was out of penance, but there’s no question that
he died a beggar in the streets of Byrn.”

“Byrn?” Angus asked. “Is that where you’re from?”

Giorge shook his head. “No,” he said. “That was where Symptata
was from. At the time, it was a large port city at the westernmost edge of The
Western Kingdoms. But my grandmother fled south, to Lundrag, the capital of the
Kingdom of Lund, and that was where I was born.”

“All right,” Angus said, “your grandmother stole from him,
took his baby, and left. He was angry and sought out a witch to put a curse on
her line. You believe that curse killed your mother, and that it takes effect
in the twenty-first year. This is your twenty-first year, and it’s found you.
So, what does it do?”

Giorge shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Every generation
is different. Even Auntie Fie didn’t know what it would do; all she knew was
the history of it. Every generation, at some point during the twenty-first
year, the direct successor of his union with my grandmother long-removed would
be given the opportunity to fulfill his destiny by breaking the curse and reuniting
the line with Symptata.”

“You think Symptata is still alive?” Hobart asked.

“Of course not,” Giorge scoffed. “He died centuries ago. I
know
he died. But that doesn’t mean he
stayed
dead.”

Angus looked at him sharply. He knew of several kinds of dead-but-nots,
but he had never heard of one coming back from the dead to live again. It was
possible of course, but the magic involved would have to rejuvenate every
strand of death magic, bringing each one individually back to life as what it
was before the thing had died. It was much simpler just to use the death magic
to reanimate the dead than to bring the dead back to life. It
could
be
done, but even Voltari wouldn’t make the attempt. He frowned. No, Voltari would
try it; he enjoyed a challenge….

Giorge let the silence linger for a few seconds, and then he
said, quite softly, “Neither have I.”

Angus raised his eyes and brought the magic into focus as
sharply as he could. He reached out with his senses to look more deeply at
Giorge, trying to see past the strange magic to study the magical threads he
knew. But they all looked normal; they all looked the way they should have
looked.

“I’m Symptata’s son,” Giorge added. “Not the one he had,” he
clarified. “He died a long time ago. But his essence, the thing that made him
who he was, did not. It was reborn, lived, and died—again and again. Every
generation, there is one son that is born in my family that is him, and he is
the only one who can break the curse. My mother couldn’t do it, and she died.
My grandmother couldn’t do it, and she died too. My great uncle could have done
it—everyone who knew him said I look just like him—but he failed. Now, the
burden is on me. If I can survive long enough to break the curse, then it will
end
forever
, and none of my family will ever have to suffer from it
again. If I fail, then it will continue to plague my family until he—until
I
am able to stop it.”

Angus stared at him. Was it possible? Could he be the
reincarnation of Symptata’s son? Was he the embodiment of the curse? Could he
stop it? Did it matter? He could have avoided the curse altogether if he hadn’t
opened the pouch. But he had opened it, and it was his burden. Why should he
care about what happens to Giorge?

“Well, then,” Hobart said. “What do we do about it? How do
we find the Viper’s Fangs, Eyes, and Skull?”

“Why should we bother?” Angus muttered. “It’s his curse, and
if he hadn’t opened that damned pouch, it never would have struck him.”

Hobart and Ortis turned to stare at him, but Giorge only looked
at him and shrugged. “That’s part of the curse, too,” he said. “Whatever form
it takes when it manifests, the curse tantalizes those of my line into
activating it. If I hadn’t opened that pouch then, I would have done it another
time, and it wouldn’t have mattered what you said to me or where you hid it. I
would have found it again, and I would have opened it. Just like when Hobart
threw it over the cliff. It came right back to me. It’s drawn to me, and I’m
drawn to it.” He paused and frowned. “I was wondering why I wanted fletching
eggs so badly.”

“So now we have to deal with it,” Angus said, his voice
sharp, almost hostile. “Whatever it does to you, it’s also going to do to us.”
Or
would it?
Angus asked himself. The squirrel hadn’t attacked
them
; it
had gone straight for
Giorge
. And the fletchings—what had happened with
them? How had he been injured? Had one of them attacked him? If it had, why
wasn’t he scratched up like Giorge? Perhaps he wasn’t in as much danger as he
thought? Or was he in
more
danger? There were far worse things about
than squirrels and fletchings, and if they killed Giorge they would turn to the
rest of the Banner and kill them, too, wouldn’t they?

“Yes,” Giorge said. “Unless I leave.”

“Nonsense,” Hobart said. “Angus didn’t mean for you to
leave. He’s just worried, that’s all.”

Yes I did!
Angus wanted to shout, but he had already
said too much of what he thought, of what he felt, and he wasn’t even sure why
he thought it or felt it. If he said any more, he would only alienate himself
from the others, and that could prove to be dangerous. What did it matter,
anyway? Giorge would be dead soon, wouldn’t he? He as much as admitted it,
didn’t he? No one had every succeeded in breaking the curse, so why should he
be any different? Three weeks wasn’t that long, but where would they be when he
finally succumbed to it? How many of them would he take with him to his death?