The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (32 page)

15

Sardach rose high into the sky and spread himself out as
widely as he dared. The winds were strong and cold, but they passed through him
without causing more than a little discomfort. There was still no hint of the
hated creature, but there was more sign of the wizard, of the flame magic. An
outcropping at the edge of the plateau had been scorched and the snow melted.
Why?

He hovered like a cloud, letting the wind push him forward
at a leisurely pace. There was more sign of flame magic next to the
outcropping, but whatever had been there was gone now—or had been destroyed.

As he floated further, he noticed the glow of flame magic as
it emitted a small sphere of light, and he slowly descended and drew himself
more tightly together. But the light kept its distance, and he had to increase
his speed.

He drew closer, but was still quite far away when he saw his
prey:
Typhus
was at the edge of a platform, perilously close to falling
off. A little nudge….

But Argyle didn’t want Typhus dead. He wanted him brought
back to Tyrag. The others….

He
almost
descended further, the lust for destruction
upon him, but he didn’t. Instead, he sent his senses out once more, testing for
the presence of his mortal enemy. But there was nothing. Still, he didn’t descend.
There was magic there, and some of it might hurt him. He needed to be cautious,
stealthy. He floated out further, letting the wind take him past the chasm and up
against the mountainside. He rolled down its surface until he was almost level
with the wizard, and then condensed himself into a more compact size, the one
that Typhus would recognize.

He shot forward, across the chasm, at his swiftest speed….

16

Angus turned his head sharply toward the mountain and his
eyes widened. Mixed in with the normal patterns of the magic was a strange
array of deep red, almost black magic that rippled across them like a kind of
malevolent vibration. Its amorphous mass was collapsing in upon itself,
thickening into an almost solid form. At its core, visible to him despite the
magic around it, were two embers that drilled into him with an intensity that
surpassed even Voltari’s rigid, unforgiving stare.

Sardach!
Typhus screeched in his head, and suddenly,
his right hand shot upward, blocking his view.

“Stop the lift!” Hobart shouted. “Prepare for battle!"

“Sardach,” Angus groaned, trying to see past his hand so he
could at least try his spell.

But Typhus was screaming in his mind and he staggered
backward along the railing, toward the horses.

“Get away from me!” Typhus shouted, waving his right hand as
he continued to back up.

Control yourself!
Angus shouted in his mind.
Let
me cast my spells!

The lift came to an abrupt stop, and Angus lost his footing.
He fell backward, and the ropes parted. He slipped through and would have
fallen if he hadn’t latched onto the top rope with his left hand.

I’ll let us fall!
Angus shouted to Typhus as he let
go of the rope. He slid through the ropes and tilted backward.

“No!” Typhus screeched, and Angus’s right hand shot out to
snag the bottom rope. It pulled Angus back onto the platform with such force
that it nearly dislocated his right shoulder and twisted his elbow.

Sardach was much closer.

Angus reached out for a sky blue strand of air, then an icy
white one. He had noticed the umber one earlier, and he reached for it next.

Hobart lurched forward, his sword held out in front of him,
and took up a position between him and Sardach. “Where is it?” he called, shifting
from one leg to the other as his head darted from side to side.

Ortis moved in behind him, forming a phalanx with his bows,
his eyes looking out into the night sky.

“Find the eyes!” Angus yelled. “Red—”

“No!” Typhus cried. “Your weapons are useless!”

Angus let Typhus kick backward, toward the center of the
platform as he focused on the knots for the Cloaking spell. As the translucent
blue sheen began to form, Ortis shot three arrows, their trajectory
triangulating on a point much closer than Angus had expected.

Angus finished the spell and staggered sideways until he was
standing almost directly above the Lamplight spell. He could see Sardach
now—and he was almost upon them!

More arrows flew, passing easily through Sardach’s ghostly form.

Angus reached for another strand of air.

Hobart braced himself and swung his broadsword like it was
an axe and he was about to split a huge log.

Angus made the knot for Puffer and added a few more knots to
it, like he had done against the blanket creatures in the clearing. It would
create a strong breeze, and with luck, it would push Sardach away from them and
delay his assault.

Sardach flew through Hobart’s blade, his smoke-like
substance parting easily around it. The blade slashed forward, cut deep into
the platform, and stuck there. Sardach came to an abrupt stop a few feet behind
him, exactly where Angus had been when he had cast the Cloaking spell. He
hovered there for a long moment—

Typhus?
the thought was not his. It was not Typhus’s.
But it was in his head.

Sardach slowly turned toward Angus and fluttered forward as
if he knew exactly where Angus was.

Angus released Puffer and directed it at Sardach, trying to
blow him away from the platform. His aim was off, and it struck only part of
him, and the cloudlike shape recoiled and stretched out like a fraying rope
that was about to break. Angus stepped forward, intensifying the breeze—

Sardach snapped suddenly backward and reformed himself
several yards away, out of range of his spell. He condensed even further, as if
he was trying to hold himself together, and became almost solid. He braced
himself and flew into the wind Angus was making.

Three arrows struck him.

Hobart repositioned himself and lifted his sword.

Then Sardach dropped straight down as three more arrows passed
harmlessly through the air above him.

“Where did it go?” Hobart demanded, rushing up to the rope
railing and leaning forward. “Do you see it?”

“No,” Ortis said, his arrows aimed into the darkness.

Typhus,
the voice in his mind was sweet, almost
playful, like a cat’s purr while it patted a mouse around.
Where are you?

Typhus screamed and tried to run—and Angus lost control of both
Puffer and Cloaking.

Angus flicked his wrist and flexed his arm, and the wand
popped into his grip. He made the first movement and shouted, “Move!”

Typhus tried to run.

Angus staggered forward and made the second movement.

Hobart turned and his eyes grew wide.

Sardach shot up through the floor of the platform directly
beneath Angus and engulfed him. It was a strange feeling, as if hot soot was oozing
into every pore of his body and filling his lungs. Then Sardach smothered the
magic within him and pulled on it from all directions.

Angus’s vision swam as Hobart stepped up to him and dropped
his sword.

His spine rattled as it split apart and the two halves of
his body began to fall to either side. The two
wholes
of his body.

17

Sardach ignored the arrows. They could not harm him.

Sardach ignored the sweep of the sword as it passed
harmlessly through him.

Sardach ignored the man playing with the sword as it passed around
him.

Sardach’s attention was on one objective: Typhus. Only Typhus
wasn’t where he had been, and Sardach couldn’t see him.

But he could sense him.

Typhus?
he sent the thought out, following where it
went. It settled in a pool of magic. Air magic, the kind that could harm him,
confuse him. He moved cautiously toward it—and a painfully cold wind struck him
and pushed him away from Typhus.

More air magic.

He reached out for the parts of him that had almost been
dispersed and brought them in close together. He was susceptible to spells like
that, but it hadn’t been powerful enough to cause any real damage. Still, he
would have to compact himself even more to withstand it, and that is what he
did. Then an arrow struck him.

It hurt, but it didn’t do any real damage.

Two more arrows—little more than nuisances, but if he moved
in closer, the sword could become problematic. Three more arrows flew at him,
and he ducked. Deep. He dropped almost thirty feet in a few seconds, and then
shot rapidly forward until he was directly under them, shielded by the thing
they were standing on.

He moved upward until he was touching the wood, and then
sent out another probing thought:
Typhus? Where are you?

He felt the scream, and moved quickly toward it, spreading
himself out thin enough to pass through the gaps in the old wood. He quickly rose
up through it and engulfed Typhus, reaching out to find him, but the other one was
in the way. He would have to get rid of the other; Argyle didn’t want him. But
how?

He reached into Angus to try to find Typhus. The two networks
of magical threads were knitted together so tightly that they overlapped
completely with each other. The knots were small, complex patterns, but he
could tell the difference between the two patterns. One reeked of Typhus, and
it was buried beneath the one that was Angus.

Argyle had told him to bring Typhus back alive. But he could
do what he wanted with the others.

The wizard had magic that could harm him. The others did not.
They could wait.

He began peeling apart the two sets of threads, careful not
to damage the ones that were Typhus but paying little attention to the threads
of Angus.

There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of knots,
but it didn’t matter. Sardach didn’t have hands, he didn’t need eyes—he had
them, but only because he felt the fear they brought to his victims—in order to
sense the knots. He untied dozens at a time.

He was almost finished when an intense burst of pain struck him.

He screamed and turned toward the source of the pain—and screamed
again.

18

Hobart stared into the darkness, trying to find the thing
Angus had seen, but there was nothing there. “Where is it?” he shouted without
turning away from the darkness.

The familiar footfalls of Ortis moved into flanking
positions, and he half-whispered, “Do you see anything?”

Before Ortis could answer, Angus yelled, “The eyes! Red—”

Red eyes?
Hobart thought as his eyes scanned the dark
sky for two red spots.

“There,” Ortis said, shifting his bows and firing arrows
into the darkness. They disappeared into that darkness without striking
anything, and Hobart held his broadsword over his shoulder where it could
quickly be redirected to fend off an attack or to make one. He flexed his
fingers, testing the grip, and when the second volley of arrows flew, he watched
them closely and saw the glow of the red eyes. They were coming straight at
him, and he braced himself for the impact—but with what? There was nothing
around the eyes but the blackness of the night. He had no idea how large the
thing was, or what its vulnerabilities were. But he knew one thing: it had two
eyes, and if he slashed between them, he would cleave its head in two.

He shifted his position, timed his strike, swung—and
encountered no resistance at all! His sword cut through it like it was slicing
through air, and it buried deep into the platform and stuck there. Then a warm,
sooty breeze swarmed past him as if he wasn’t even there.

He staggered against the hilt of his sword, driving it even
deeper in the platform, and by the time he recovered his balance, the thing—whatever
it was—was past him. He pried his sword free from the old planking—it gave
fairly easily—and turned to face the creature.

What he saw in the eerie yellow glow of Angus’s spell looked
like a little gray cloud, the puffy kind that was heavy with moisture. But it
wasn’t a cloud; it was smoke, and it was alive. Angus had said so, and he had
learned long ago to trust in the judgment of wizards when they talked of magic
and creatures conjured by it. Then the creature stretched out like a horse’s tail
caught in a stiff wind, with the tip whipping madly about.

Before he could do anything more than take a half-step
forward, the creature retreated so quickly he had difficulty following its
movement. It took up a new position a few dozen feet from the platform and drew
in upon itself like a cornered mountain cat about to pounce. He hurried to
stand between it and Angus—wherever Angus was—and lifted his sword. It hadn’t
done any damage before, and it probably wouldn’t this time, but what else could
he do?

Ortis turned and fired arrows at it—and they stuck! Perhaps
he would be able to use his sword after all!

Then it sunk, but not like a fallen foe; it was more like it
was fleeing from them, but it had gone so fast that Hobart lost track of it.
“Where did it go?” He demanded moving quickly up to the rope railing and
leaning over to look beneath them. When Ortis joined him, he asked, “Do you see
it?”

“No,” Ortis said, fanning his arrows out toward the darkness
around them, below them, looking for a target.

“Move!” Angus shouted, and Hobart turned to see Angus
pointing the wand at him. He stepped quickly sideways, shoving Ortis away from
where Angus was pointing.

Angus lurched forward like he had an arrow in the back of
his thigh, and then smoke seeped up from the floor beneath him, gathered around
him, coalesced into a thick smoke that obscured everything but the wand jutting
out.

“Angus!” Hobart cried, stepping rapidly forward and looking
for an opening—but there was no opening! The thing had wrapped itself so
tightly around Angus that any thrust or slash he made would wound Angus, too.

He dropped his sword and stepped forward, intending to grab
Angus by the shoulder and pull him free from the creature—but stopped. There
was something wrong; it was as if he had been struck soundly on his head! There
were
two
of Angus—only they weren’t two of him. He had seen a calf with
two heads once, and it was like that. Angus had two heads, but they weren’t the
same.

He cringed and stepped back as the sound of bones ground together
and Angus suddenly had two torsos and four arms.

“By the gods!” Hobart gasped, backing even further away. He
had faced magic before, and he knew there was nothing he could do—

A horrid screech erupted from the smoke; it was like the
high-pitched sizzle of fat dropping into the fire, but much louder, much
shriller. He clamped his hands to his ears, but it did no good. The sound
wasn’t in his ears; it was in his head.

Then he heard another high-pitched screech from his left—and
recognized it. It was Giorge.

As he turned, the thing picked Angus up off the platform and
carried him past Hobart. He reached out for a passing limb, but the thing was
too quick and his hand barely passed through the hot smoke.

When he recovered his balance and twisted around, he saw
Giorge surrounded by a whirling snowstorm. It was as intense as any blizzard,
but barely covered the corner Giorge had taken refuge in. Giorge was already
covered in ice as the thing drove him toward the ropes.

“Giorge!” he shouted, running to pick up his sword.

Ice formed on the ropes, and Giorge staggered back into them,
his gait stiff, as if his legs were already frozen.

Hobart swung his sword into the twisting wind, and the blade
turned in his hand as the wind took hold of it. He gripped it more firmly and
tried again, even though he knew it was useless. What good was a sword against
wind and smoke?

The top rope snapped.

Giorge fell stiffly backward, tipped.

Hobart dropped his sword and dove forward, grasping for
Giorge’s feet. A blizzard’s gale struck him and sent him rolling to the side.

Giorge dropped off the platform.

The storm followed him, keeping him in the center of its
tiny maelstrom.

Hobart reached for the rope railing as he slid toward the edge,
but it shattered in his hand. He tried to catch the edge of the platform, but
it barely slowed him down. His head and shoulders were dropping into the
darkness when someone grabbed his foot. It slowed him, but didn’t stop his slide.
Then someone else grabbed his other foot, and between them, they pulled him
away from the rime-covered edge.

He rolled over and sat up, casting his eyes over the
platform.

Angus was gone.

Giorge was gone.

The horses were almost frantic—all but Gretchen—and Leslie
was nipping at them to keep them from getting in the way.

Two of Ortis were holding onto his feet, and the other was
staring eastward.

He rose to his feet and stepped carefully up to the corner
that hadn’t been touched by the freakish little storm, gripped the post, and
looked down into the darkness. “Giorge,” he whispered. But he was gone, and
there was nothing he could do about it from up here. He set his jaw and turned
around.

“Where’s Angus?” he asked.

Ortis pointed to the mountain and said, “It took him that
way.”

Hobart looked where Ortis pointed, but he saw nothing but
darkness.

He turned to the horses and said, “Help me calm them. Then
we go down to find Giorge.”

He ignored the look Ortis gave him and stepped up to Leslie,
patting her on the neck and saying, “There’s a good girl.”