The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (28 page)

3

Embril hesitated at the top of the spire stair and focused
on her breathing.
Still the mind
, she thought, wringing the colorful
scarf in her hands and lifting it to her lips. It still smelled of him….

Still the body.

She continued the mantra until her fingers relaxed and her
mind was clear, and then took another deep breath and opened her eyes. She reluctantly
put the scarf in her sleeve and smoothed her robe. After another deep breath,
she lifted the latch and eased the door inward. It was the south door, and the
Watcher on duty didn’t even turn to acknowledge her presence. That was as it
should be: his task was to keep close watch on the protective dome’s magic. But
she knew he knew she was there, as she had been on each of the three previous
days. She stepped out onto the balcony and moved quietly up beside him.

He acknowledged her presence with a slight nod, but his eyes
never wavered from their task. She nodded in return, the rustling of her hair
against her robe’s hood unnaturally loud in her ears. She turned her gaze southward,
following the road with her eyes until it became obscured by the trees. She
could see for a distance of at least two days easy ride, and there was still no
sign of the Banner of the Wounded Hand.

She had known there wouldn’t be. Commander Garret had sent
riders south to find them, and they had gone as far as Dagremon’s Inn before
returning with the news that they had gone to the haunted plateau. Upon hearing
the news, Commander Garret had decided to leave without them. It was not
surprising: No one ever returned from that dreadful plateau.

But Angus would. She had to believe that. Otherwise….

Still the mind.

She bit her lip. Not hard, just enough to keep her mind from
wandering too far into all the myriad possible places it had already gone. She
had heard the tales about the plateau, about how it claimed victim after
victim, but none of them were like Angus. None of them were Master Wizards who
flew with the stunning grace of a songbird after only a few weeks of practice.
She had watched him longingly from the library window, certain he couldn’t see
her, and imagined him there, now, just inside the dome, circling the school
with uncanny precision. No one else could fly like that, not even Master Ollis….

Still the heart.

But how could she? She was smitten with the roguish mage,
his tangle of black hair, the rough edges of his unkempt beard, the depths of the
torture in his anguished silver-blue eyes. How she longed to hold him to her,
to comfort away those demons before they devoured him…. He was so different
from the priggish apprentices and Masters in the School!

Still the mind.

He would return. She knew it. He had to. But she wouldn’t be
there to meet him. The scout had returned from the west with word that the trail
was clearing. Commander Garret’s men were ready to leave, and she had promised Angus
that she would go with them.

She took a deep breath, bowed her head to hide the tears
threatening to cascade down her cheeks, and walked calmly back through the
spire door. She took each step of the stair slowly, breathing carefully and
repeating the mantra in her mind until she had her emotions held firmly in
check. When she reached the bottom, she lifted her head and strode with purpose
to her chambers. Once inside, she went to the secret panel at the foot of her
bed and opened it.

The scroll was there, where she had put it that day he had
told her about the nexus. Her hand shook a little as she reached for it and
carried it to her desk. She removed the Angst bracelet, as she had done a dozen
times before, but this time she didn’t slip it over her hand and let it dangle
loosely on her wrist. It was an ungainly thing, really, and more than a bit
ugly. But it was silver, and he had given it to her, and she loved it even if
she would never wear it in public. She had even looked into the symbol of the
Angst, but found almost nothing about it in the library. What she had found, Angus
had already read.

This time, she set the bracelet aside and turned to the
scroll. It had remained rolled up since he had given it to her, but now? He
wasn’t back, and Commander Garret would be leaving tomorrow morning. She
unrolled it as a mixture of dread and excitement tried to overwhelm her. She
didn’t want to read it because that would mean he wasn’t coming back, because
she didn’t want to know where the nexus was, because she wished he hadn’t told
her about it—and because it would mean she would have to leave Hellsbreath for
the first time.

She sighed. He had told her about the nexus, and he had done
so because he trusted her. He
trusted
her! And she would not betray that
trust. Besides, she was curious. She loved knowledge more than anything else,
even more than magic, and there was rare and precious knowledge in this scroll.
She carried it to her desk and sat down. Her fingertips quivered as she
unrolled it far enough to slip the corners in the clamps at the top of the desk,
and then she smoothed it out and gasped.

His penmanship was immaculate! Each strike of the quill was as
dainty and precise as the well-ordered mind behind it!
And it was written in
ancient dwarf!
Why hadn’t he told her he knew that language? It was her
specialty! Only a handful of scholars and students could read and write it, and
none of them had such an elegant command of the language! His prose was as
gruff as any dwarf’s guttural slang, but it was written in a style that
tempered the intense, adversarial nature of the language and even made it seem
poetic
.

A tear tumbled from her eye as she began to read. He had
written it
for her alone!

My dearest Embril….

4

Sardach slowed as he approached the clearing where Typhus
had stayed. It was not like him to hesitate; other than magic, there was little
in this world that could harm him. Argyle had used that magic to wrench him
from his home, ensnare him, and chain him to this world, and another version of
that same magic was emanating from the well in the center of the clearing. It
was old, powerful magic, and it had been dormant for a long time. Now it had
been set free. But it wasn’t targeting Sardach; it was directed at something
else.

Something like him had come from the well, just as he had
come from Argyle’s chimney. Something like him had been ensnared by that magic
and chained to this world. But what?

Sardach circled the clearing, testing the boundaries of the magic,
trying to determine what had been trapped by it and where it had gone. He edged
closer, reaching out to taste it, and a sudden, fierce wind sent painful chills
through him. He backed away quickly, before it could disperse him, and a
pain-wracked screech of rage reverberating from him, its vibrations tickling
the icicles dangling from the trees until they danced and sang like wind
chimes….

5

Angus was halfway across the bridge when the other voice in
his head screeched,
Sardach!

A wave of pain raged through his mind, echoing the fierce
screech that was coming from him but was not his. He sagged to his knees as an
intense pain burned across his forehead, across the back of his skull, down the
base of his neck. It began on the right side and moved left until it
overwhelmed him.

He fell forward….

6

“Well,” a man said, his voice hushed. “You gave us quite a
fright, Angus.”

Angus?
Who’s Angus?

He kept his eyes closed and listened. There were at least
three of them. This one was hovering over him, calling him Angus.
That’s not
my name, is it?
Two others were near the fire, their breathing—

He frowned slightly, noticeably, and cursed himself for the
betrayal. But the man hovering over him hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. The
other two—their breathing patterns were identical with this one’s!—appeared
equally unconcerned. If he timed it correctly, he could kill all three before
they even suspected. He reached slowly for the stiletto in his belt—but it
wasn’t there!

Captive?
he wondered, feeling for ropes and chains
that weren’t there.
No.

Another one approached, his heavy-footed metallic steps
belying the bulkiness of his armor.
He will be trouble
, he thought,
remaining still.
There will be few openings in the armor. Under the armpit,
the crease—

“He’s awake,” the first one said. “He’s just not moving.”

“Why not?” the new one asked, his voice a hearty baritone,
seemed almost concerned, almost weary.

Barrel-chested? Thick-necked? It will be difficult to
strangle him
. He reached for his garrote—but his tunic was gone! What was
he wearing? A robe? At least his breeches were there, and he could use them to help
him escape.

“I don’t know,” the first man said. “He’s either pretending
to be asleep, or whatever happened to him on the bridge was more severe than we
thought.”

“Do you think it had anything to do with that spell he
cast?” the large one asked. “It was….”

Spell?
he thought.
Since when do I cast spells?

I’ve been casting spells for years.
The voice was in
his head, but it wasn’t his. His left eye opened, and he saw the man hovering
over him. He was as pale as snow and had disturbing, orange-tinted eyes that
reminded him of a cat-like owl. He frowned. Cat-like owl? Nonsense. Cats were
cats and owls were owls.

I don’t cast spells,
he defiantly thought back.
I
pick locks and kill people. It’s a lucrative business, and I’m very good at it.

Just beyond his reach was a giant standing with his massive arms
crossed over the armor plating on his formidable chest.
Yes, he will be
difficult to kill. His eyes are not as trusting as his voice.
The armor had
a reddish sheen to it, as if it were capturing the firelight and holding it
there. It couldn’t be blood—that dried brown.

Who are you?
they thought together.

“Angus?” Ortis asked. “Can you hear me?”

Angus tried to speak, but it came out a gurgle of disjointed
sounds, as if he were trying to talk through a mouthful of ice. He blinked his left
eye and tried to open the right—but it refused to move! He lifted his left arm
to his forehead. It still throbbed, as if tormented by the echo of a vicious
scream in his ear.

“That is not a good sign,” Hobart said in a matter of fact
tone. “I’ve seen it in battle with head wounds. Sometimes they recover, but
most never talk clearly again and half their body lies wasted at their side.
Some just wither and die.”

“Angus?” Ortis asked more urgently, but his voice wasn’t
friendly, wasn’t compassionate. It was clinically detached. “Can you move your
right hand?”

Angus tried, but it didn’t obey him. The left half of his
mouth dipped down. Why not? He could feel his right arm easily enough, but he
wasn’t able to move it at all.

The right half of his mouth curled upward slightly, and
then, as if on its own, his right hand reached up to touch his chin. It wasn’t
smooth, like it should have been, and he tugged at a tangle of curly, inch-long
hair. He
never
wore a beard—unless it was part of a disguise, and then
he always discarded it during his escape.

“Good,” Ortis said, sighing. Relief? “Can you speak?”

“Yes,” Angus tried to say, but it sounded like a hiss.

Who are these people?
the voice in his head demanded.

Who are you?
Angus countered, his left eyebrow
crouching down.
What are you doing in my head?

It’s
my
head!
the voice countered, its tone
hostile and unrelenting.

The left side of his lips turned down and his left eye
squinted. He moved his lips, and strange noises burbled from them as he tried
to say, “It’s
my
head!”

“At least he can move his arms,” Hobart said. “He might get
his voice back in time.”

“NO! IT’S MINE!” the other voice shouted. It was a clear,
resounding shout that echoed from the walls of the cave.

There was a long silence, both in his head and outside it,
and then Ortis turned toward Hobart, exposing his neck for a quick slash—
Where’s
my stiletto!
—and asked, “Have you seen anything like this before?”

Hobart shrugged. “Head wounds are always different.”

Who are you?
Angus thought again. Then, after a moment,
he tentatively added,
Typhus?

There was a brief pause, and then a tentative response of,
Angus?

How did you get in my head?
Angus thought, not really
directing it to Typhus so much as wondering to himself. Then he knew the
answer:
Voltari.

“I’ll keep watch over him,” Ortis said. “Hopefully, he’ll
show improvement soon.”

Hobart nodded, and then asked, his voice soft, “What about
Giorge?”

Giorge!
Typhus thought with bloodlust in his tone.
You
should have let him die!

Ortis leaned back, frowned, and shook his head. “The curse hasn’t
killed him, yet.”

No,
Angus thought at Typhus.
The curse will do it
soon enough.
Unless he found a way to end it, and that was unlikely. The curse
was of the old, unruly magic from the time before the nexus points tamed it,
fractured it, and refined it into its present array of manageable strands. The
fracturing had stabilized the magic and made it more predictable. But it had
also weakened it significantly. Whoever had contained the old magic in the
curse had been
very
powerful. Perhaps even more powerful than Voltari.

“I can’t believe he’s not completely blind,” Ortis half-whispered,
a strange look in his strange eyes.

Hobart shuddered, looked away, and his shoulders sagged as
if he were an overburdened pack horse.

Giorge? Blind? Had the frost elemental done that much
damage? Or—

The Viper’s Breath had grafted to his chest; had the Viper’s
Eyes—

Angus frowned and tried to sit up. After a moment, Typhus
let him, and he blinked his left eyelid. A second later, his right eyelid
blinked. Then Typhus gave him his voice, and he asked, “What happened to Giorge?
Where is he?”

“Don’t worry about him, now,” Ortis said. “We need to look
after you.”

Angus flexed his mouth for a few moments, and then said,
“Some food would be welcome.”

“I’ve made some stew,” Ortis said. “I’ll fetch a bowl for
you.”

“No need,” Angus said, “I’ll get it myself.” He waved Ortis
off and levered himself up with his left arm and leg, and after a brief lag,
his right side joined him in the effort and he made it to his feet. He tottered
for a few seconds, and his first few steps were bizarre. His left leg plodded
forward with an easy, confident stride, but his right leg snaked forward like
he was a cat on the prowl, the ball of his foot turning slightly inward and the
heel poised off the floor. His left side stood firm and erect, while his right
crouched in a defensive position. It had the strange effect of making him seem
taller on the left than he was on the right, and gave him a precarious sense of
balance that tilted to the right, to the point that he overcompensated by
bending his left knee and tilted to the left instead. But he made it to the
fire and accepted the bowl Ortis held out to him.

Before he took a bite, he asked, “How long was I out?” He
was glad there was no interference from Typhus, but he was a bit troubled by the
sudden silence in his head.

Silence is our closest friend
, Typhus whispered.
Still
the mind and the senses become a powerful ally, one that will stretch around
corners and find the cracks in the wall. Still the body and it is yours to
command.

The left side of Angus’s mouth drooped.
You know about
the mantra?

But Typhus only chuckled, an eerie, sepulchral sound little
more than an uncomfortable vibration at the root of his ear.

Angus held the bowl in his right hand and lifted the spoon
with his left. The stew had a rich, powerful aroma that he didn’t recognize—and
didn’t particularly care for—and before he realized what was happening his
right hand turned the bowl over and dropped it to the floor of the cave.

He frowned and looked at the small, chunky, brown puddle.

Ortis is the worst cook I have ever known
, Typhus
said.
I can’t believe you eat that foul-tasting muck.

Angus frowned, shrugged his left shoulder, and said, “It’s
better than Voltari’s cooking.”

There was a brief pause, and then Typhus, using Angus’s
voice, said, “Yes, but that is a very low standard.”

“I’m hungry, and that’s the only food available,” Angus
said. “I’m eating it.” He reached for the pot with his spoon, but his right
hand shot out to grab the spoon away.

“No,” Typhus said. “You can stand to lose some weight,
anyway. You’ll never fit in a chimney flue the way you are now.”

He would have continued the argument, but Hobart stepped
forward and grabbed his shoulders. “Angus!” he half-shouted, shaking him
slightly. “What’s got into you?”

Typhus groped around his belt for the stiletto, a dagger,
anything that he could use—

Angus reached out for the magic around him and quickly
snagged a nearby thread of flame with his left hand. “Unhand me,” he ordered, his
tone imperious as he barely restrained himself from reflexively casting
Arclight.

Hobart let him go and shrugged. “Make up your mind, Angus.
Eat. Don’t eat. It’s all the same to us.”

Typhus reached out for the magic around him and captured
another thread with the right hand, but he didn’t hesitate. He made the quick
loop of Arclight and reached out to touch Hobart’s left arm. The sudden jolt of
magic rattled the metal and caused Hobart to gasp and leap backward, out of his
reach.

“
Never
touch me,” Typhus hissed, his voice finishing
a bit gravelly as Angus thought,
Why did you do that?

Hobart’s eyebrows rose and he shook his arm and flexed his
fingers. “You didn’t need to do that,” he protested, glaring at him. “Do you
have any idea how long that tingles?”

Angus half-smiled and nodded. “Oh yes,” he said. “Voltari
was a most demanding mentor.”

Ha!
Typhus thought, tilting his head to look at his
right hand in amazement.
I did it!

Angus released the thread he had captured and let the magic
slip away from his awareness.
Do not waste magic,
he thought to Typhus.
It
is too precious. Use it wisely or not at all.
It was what Voltari had told
him the first day he had arrived. He was fifteen at the time, and then Voltari began
to teach him
why
magic was precious.
That
training had taken
months.

 What’s the point of having magic if you don’t use it?
Typhus countered, bringing the magic into focus again. His right hand reached
for a strand of flame.

No!
Angus ordered, his left hand reaching out to
force the right one down to his side. He tried to send the magic away, but
Typhus kept bringing it back again.

“Something’s wrong,” Hobart said. “Look at his eyes.”

Ortis nodded. “They’re dilating like they do when he casts
spells,” he said. “But it’s alternating from one eye to the other.” And then he
raised his eyebrows. “The colors!”

Hobart nodded. “One blue, one gray.”

My eyes are blue
, Angus thought.

My eyes are gray.
Typhus thought.

“Maybe we should restrain him?” Hobart suggested, not making
any move to do so as he continued to flex and shake his arm.

“That won’t be necessary,” Angus and Typhus both said. This
time, Typhus allowed Angus to let the magic fade. “I’ll be fine,” Angus added.
“I’m just a little disoriented.”

Ortis looked at him with feigned concern. “What’s going on?”

Angus shrugged with his left shoulder and then, a moment
later, with his right. “Nothing of importance,” he lied. Then, to deflect
attention away from himself, he asked, “Where’s Giorge?”

That idiot? You should have let him fall off the cliff.

Ortis frowned and shook his head. “You’re acting awfully
strange, Angus.”

“Yes,” Hobart agreed. “Even for a head wound—and we didn’t
see any evidence for one of those.”

“Where’s Giorge?” Angus repeated.

“I should kill him,” Typhus muttered.

“Kill him?” Hobart repeated, alarmed, his hand reached his
shoulder before he aborted the movement for drawing the broadsword strapped to
his back. “Why would you want to do that?”

Angus frowned and shook his head as the right side of his
face sneered. “I don’t want to,” he said. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I should have thrown him off the cliff when I had the
chance,” Typhus added, his voice harsh. “It would have saved us a lot of
anguish.”

“I see Angus is awake,” Giorge said as he walked up to the
fire with his eyes closed and held his hands out to warm them.

Itchy fingers burn!
Typhus squealed, reaching for the
non-existent stiletto again. He felt trapped, and not just because he wasn’t in
complete control of his body.