The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (17 page)

14

Ortis paused only long enough to drop off the waterskins
before he rode quickly back toward Dagremon’s. The stench was tolerable, and Angus
moved quickly toward the group. As he passed, he glimpsed the magic around
Giorge, but none of the streams were shooting out from him at the moment. They were
still wriggling about him like a worm clinging to a fish hook. He dropped off a
waterskin for him and moved on to Hobart.

As he held out the waterskin, he asked, “Are you sure you
want to clean that off? Those red stains add a certain aesthetic appeal to the
armor, a kind of perverse charm.”

Hobart looked up, frowned, and shook his head. “No,” he
said. “I need to wash it off and polish the plating with beeswax to prevent
rusting.”

Angus watched for a few seconds, and then looked around to
see what the others were doing. Giorge was still rinsing tomato juice out of
his hair, and Ortis was some distance off, helping himself lather up. Ned had already
dressed the skunks and was sharpening the end of a branch for a spit. Angus
nodded, turned his body to keep the others in sight, and then said, his voice
hushed, “The king’s shield is broken.”

Hobart abruptly stopped scrubbing his armor and looked up
sharply. “What?”

“‘The king’s shield is broken,’” Angus repeated. “Isn’t that
what you told the guard at Hellsbreath when we returned?”

Hobart relaxed a bit and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I
said ‘The king’s shield is
dented
,’ not broken. It’s a code Tyr’s
soldiers use to gain rapid access to the commander in order to relay important
information about potential threats to the kingdom. It is seldom used, and only
when there is a compelling reason for it. The punishment for misuse is quite
severe.”

“Like the fishmen we found?” Angus asked.

Hobart nodded. “The commander needs to be aware of their
presence, but there are other codes used in The Borderlands that tell what kind
of encounter they’ve had with them.”

Angus nodded and scratched at his beard. “What do they say
if they suspect there is a fishmen presence but aren’t certain?” he asked.

“‘Fish in the wind,’” Hobart said. “They are very stealthy
and can conceal themselves easily in the grain. Sometimes the only warning you
have is their stench. It is quite distinctive and carries far. Much like
rotting fish in the hot sun does.”

“I spent some time reading about them,” Angus said. “The
history of their attacks is quite interesting—strategic, you might say.”

Hobart set aside the plate covering for one of his thighs,
and it glistened in the dappled sunlight finally tickling its way through the
branches. He picked up the other thigh guard before he answered. “They have a
certain cunningness to them that makes them formidable opponents in battle.
They are quite battle-hardened, and their generals—if you want to call them
that—are ruthlessly savvy.” He paused in his polishing and said, “We’ve
actually learned a lot about tactics in fighting them. Every time we adapt to
their strategy, they change it. That’s what worries me most about their
disappearance. It has to be tactical, and I have no idea what that tactic would
be.”

“I see,” Angus said. “Would it help to know where they are?”

Hobart frowned. “Of course,” he said. “If we knew their
placement, we could anticipate their attack. And they
will
attack; I’m
certain of that. We’ve been at war with them for generations.”

Angus nodded, “Yes,” he agreed. “The first incursions were just
over three hundred years ago, but they were relatively mild in comparison to
the recent ones. The funny thing is that no one seems to know why they attacked
in the first place.”

“Why does that matter?” Hobart scoffed, turning to his armor
and scrubbing more vigorously. “They attack, we defend, and they retreat. The
next year, it’s the same thing. At least until last year. The question I keep
asking is why they
didn’t
attack.”

Angus frowned, glanced around to make sure the others were
not listening too closely, and then dropped his voice and said, “Fish on the
wind.”

Hobart, without looking up, said, “Fish
in
the wind.”

“Yes,” Angus nodded. “And I think I know where they are.”

Hobart’s hand fluttered to a stop and he slowly looked up.
“What?”

Angus nodded again. “I overheard something at Dagremon’s last
night that leads me to believe the fishmen are at the Lake of Scales.”

“Pah,” Hobart said. “It’s too warm for them there.” He
turned back to his armor and finished with another piece. He set it on the
growing pile of shining metal and turned to pick up his chest plate. He set it
on his lap, but as he began to polish it, his hand slowed and he let it come to
rest on top of it. When he looked up, his eyes were narrowed and his nostrils
flared. He ground his teeth for a few seconds, and then exhaled. “All right,”
he said. “Why do you think they’re there?”

Angus sat down beside him and asked, “How many fishmen do
you suppose there are?”

“Thousands,” Hobart immediately replied. “Tens of thousands,
more like.”

Angus nodded. “And they are no longer in the Death Swamps?”

Hobart frowned and said, “I don’t know about that. But they
aren’t in The Borderlands and the part of the Death Swamps closest to them.
They could be hiding deeper in the Death Swamps and preparing for a massive
attack. That’s what Commander Garret thinks, and he knows more about the
situation than I do.”

“What if they aren’t there?” Angus pressed. “It is a strong
possibility, isn’t it?”

Hobart nodded, “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But I don’t have the
kind of information that Commander Garret does, and he doesn’t have the kind of
information that the commanders in The Borderlands do. They would know best if
the fishmen have fled the Death Swamps.”

“Let’s say that they have left,” Angus said. “It would be
difficult for thousands—
tens
of thousands of fishmen to cross overland
without the soldiers of Tyr noticing, right?”

Hobart pursed his lips, “Not necessarily,” he said. “They
could have gone north. We don’t know what lies up there because the fishmen
never let us get that far.”

“All right,” Angus asked, “what if they didn’t go north?
Would they have been seen?”

“Almost certainly,” Hobart said. “There are patrols,
outposts, lookout towers, villages—someone would have noticed if they left the
Death Swamps by any other route.”

“Any?” Angus asked. “Perhaps, but let me ask you this: Why
do they fishmen live in the swamps?”

Hobart frowned and shrugged. “They need water,” he said. “A
lot of it. If they don’t moisten their skin frequently, it dries up and cracks.
I’ve seen it happen to prisoners when we extracted information from them. They
can only last a day or two without moistening their skin. Three at the most.”

Angus nodded. “Are there any large bodies of water to the
north? Other than the Death Swamps?”

Hobart shrugged. “No way to know,” he said. “There could
be.”

“What if there isn’t?” Angus asked. “Where else would there
be enough water for, say, a thousand fishmen?”

“The rivers that feed the Death Swamps might be enough,” he
said. “But they would have to be concealing themselves pretty well to do that.
The villagers, woodsmen, and others use the rivers too much for them to remain
hidden for long, and certainly not a group of that size.”

“Where else?”

Hobart frowned. “The sea west of the Western Kingdoms,” he
said. “It’s the largest body of water I know of. They could have gone there,
but we would have heard about it from our spies. Besides, the Western Kingdoms
wouldn’t give them safe passage.”

“And,” Angus said, “The Lake of Scales.”

Hobart shook his head. “We would have seen them if they went
there,” he said. “You can’t go from the Death Swamps to the Lake of Scales
without going through Tyr.”

Angus smiled. “We saw them on the plateau.”

Hobart’s eyes narrowed and he studied Angus for a long time
before he nodded. “You think those were only a small part of a larger force, but
we saw no sign—none whatsoever—of any such larger force.”

“Perhaps it was an advance party? Scouts?”

“Possible,” Hobart agreed. “That’s what Commander Garret
wants to find out.”

“There’s another possibility,” Angus said. “They could have
been lost.”

“Lost?” Hobart laughed. “Of course they were lost! They
weren’t even close to the Death Swamps.”

Angus shook his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I
think they got confused and broke away from the main group. Then, when they couldn’t
find their way back to it, I think they climbed out of the wrong tunnel. Once
on the surface, they didn’t know what to do or where to go. So, they found a
place they could stay, one with a well and plenty of nearby food.”

“The wrong tunnel?” Hobart repeated. “What tunnel?”

Angus shrugged, “I think they left the Death Swamps through
the dwarves’ tunnels. From there, they went south through the mountains—
under
the mountains—until they reached the Lake of Scales.”

“Why would the dwarves help them?” Hobart demanded. “They
have no reason to do it!”

“Nevertheless,” Angus softly said, “the ones we saw had axes
made by dwarves.”

Hobart mulled this over for some time, and then shook his
head. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t make any sense. The dwarves simply wouldn’t do
that. They have too much at stake. Their trade agreements with Tyr would be
forfeit if they did something like that, and it could mean war.”

Angus nodded. “What, if anything, do the dwarves get from
Tyr that they actually need?” he asked. “Wine? Grain? How long did the dwarves
live underground
without
those? Maybe the fishmen offered them something
they thought was more valuable than the goods they get from Tyr. Maybe they
have their own reasons for doing it. Dwarves live a long time, you know, and
some of them might remember the Dwarf Wars.”
Could they live that long?
he wondered. Probably not, but they wouldn’t be too far removed from the
generations that fought in the Dwarf Wars.

Hobart shook his head again. After a moment, he said, “The
dwarves aren’t our enemies any longer, and they know about our war with the
fishmen. They wouldn’t help them.”

“And yet,” Angus said, “I believe they did. I believe the
fishmen are on the western shores of the Lake of Scales.”

“Why?” Hobart asked. “You’re putting things together that
don’t make sense, that don’t fit. What evidence have you got that they are
there?”

Angus frowned. He knew his reasoning was based upon
fragments of information that seemed to him to fit together well, but he also
knew he could easily be wrong. After all, the men hadn’t
said
they saw
fishmen; he only
thought
they had seen them. So, he told Hobart the
truth, and relayed the snippet of conversation he had overheard and the
strained response the men had had when he confronted them. When he finished,
Hobart shook his head and mumbled, “Nonsense.”

“Perhaps,” Angus said. But he knew it wasn’t nonsense. Yes,
he could be wrong, but he didn’t think so. The connections he was making were
plausible, but there could also be other explanations for them. “Don’t you
think it is worth investigating?”

“How?” Hobart demanded. “We have to cure Giorge of this curse.
We don’t have time to go gallivanting around to refute your speculations.”

“Or confirm them?” Angus countered. “What was it you said?
There’s a standing order to report fishmen incursions? That we have a duty to
do so?”

Hobart scowled, turned to his armor and resumed scrubbing it
again. “We do not have the evidence to make such a report,” he said, setting
his jaw. “We have not seen them—
you
have not seen them—and without that
evidence, there is nothing we can do.”

“And yet, if they are there, and if we are here, just a few
days hard ride from them, is it not our duty to investigate? And if it’s true,
what tactical advantage would they have for going there?”

Hobart scrubbed the same spot of his breastplate for several
seconds, and then looked up, his eyes misty, and said, “Giorge comes first. The
fishmen can wait.”

Angus frowned and shook his head. If he had time, he could
find out if they were there. A hard ride, a short flight….

No, that wasn’t true. It would take several days to cross
that canyon, and they didn’t have that much time. “Hellsbreath should know about
this,” he said. “Even if I am wrong, they should know about it. And you know
it.” He stood up and, without looking back, walked toward the fire. Behind him,
Hobart continued to rub the same glistening spot….

15

It had been seventeen days since Sardach had taken Fanzool to
the bridge where Angus and the others had been. From there, he had traveled
west, toward the three mountains, slogging through the deep snow and clambering
over drifts. The occasional wind-swept clearing were a godsend, until he noticed
that he wasn’t the only one traveling through them. Still, winter was coming to
a close, and it had not snowed for over a week, and the storm before that had
been mostly sleet. But it was still not warm enough for much melting, and he
was glad of it. The rivers and streams would be horrid once the melting began
in earnest, and he was sure there wouldn’t be enough bridges spanning them.

Then he exited the pine forest and the coin led him to a
narrow slit between two mountains. It was a steep, difficult climb, and when he
reached the top, he smiled. The valley below was still covered in snow, but in
its center were the ruins of a temple. If all went well, his journey would be
ended soon, and he would have a chance to talk to Angus, to find out if he was
the master forger of the coin—or if he was Typhus. Either way, it would be a
good ending for him, and then he could return to Tyrag, to his comfortable
little home.

He smiled and took his first step down toward the valley. It
was a steep descent, but there was a decent trail. Something besides him had
used this trail, and there were a lot of them. His smile faded as he realized
the implication of the tracks. It suggested that Angus hadn’t wintered in the
temple after all, and if he hadn’t wintered there, where had he gone? Was he
dead?

He frowned. If Angus were dead, how would he find the
answers he sought? Or would it matter anymore? He brightened. If Angus were
dead, then that would mean that
Typhus
were dead if he was Angus, and
then he could tell Argyle what he already believed to be true, and that was
that Typhus was long dead. He wouldn’t have to visit Voltari after all! He
so
hoped Angus was dead!

His pace quickened….