The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) (8 page)

Giorge tipped the scroll tube over his palm again, but
nothing more came out. He tilted it completely upright, and still nothing. He
shook it—lightly at first, and then quite vigorously—and still nothing dropped
out of it.

Angus looked up from the scroll only long enough to suggest,
“Why don’t you open the other end?” Then he returned his attention to the
scroll. It contained a short poem written in an old dialect, and at the bottom
was a strange symbol that looked like a three-headed snake. Each of the three
snakes had its head reared back and mouth open as if it was about to strike. He
didn’t recognize the symbol—perhaps it was a signature? He would think about it
later. For now, he needed to find out what was written in the poem; it might
tell him something about the scroll’s magic. But it was difficult to read; he
knew the basics of the old dialect well enough, but whoever had written the
scroll did not know how to spell—even for that time.

Giorge unscrewed the other end of the scroll tube and said,
“Now this is more like it!” Angus looked up to see a strange smile settle on
his companion’s face. It wasn’t at all like his normal carefree grin; it was an
avaricious, greed-induced leer. The only thing missing was the drooling. But
then he noticed what was in Giorge’s hand. It was a small black pouch that
seemed to hold a roundish object about the size of a hen’s egg. As Giorge
tested its weight, Angus was drawn to something more disturbing: the pouch
showed no signs of magic. None. Perhaps it was made from the same material that
lined the scroll tube? If it was, what would it contain? Was there magic inside,
like the scrolls? If so, what kind of magic?

Giorge deftly untied the drawstrings of the pouch and opened
it—and a brilliant green stream of magical energy flooded from the opening. It
was an unusual shade of green, and it didn’t have the normal filament-like
thread quality that magical usually held. It was thicker, and its shape was like—

A snake with three heads. And they looked like they were
about to strike. Before Angus could warn him, Giorge tilted the bag over his
empty palm and a huge emerald dropped out.

“No!” Angus cried, dropping the scrolls and grabbing at the
bag to try to smother the gem with it. But it was too late. The snakelike wisps
of magic emanating from the gem curled backward and snapped forward, striking
Giorge in the chest and embedding themselves there. By the time Angus managed
to get the gem into the bag without touching it himself, they were already
burrowing deeper into Giorge. He tried to sever the connection by closing the
drawstring, but it didn’t work; the energy streamed out of the opening and
prevented the bag from sealing completely shut.

“What?” Giorge snapped, grabbing the pouch from him. He
tried to open it again, but Angus gripped his hands and squeezed them together to
keep them shut. “What’s wrong with you?” Giorge glared. “Don’t you like
beautiful things that are worth a fortune?”

Angus stared at the snake-like heads burrowing into Giorge’s
chest and shook his head. “Beautiful things can be deadly,” he said. “And this
one is.”

Giorge scowled, looked at Angus’s white-knuckled grip, and
then back at his eyes. Then his gaze fell to his chest, and he asked, “What is
it?”

Angus ignored the question. He was studying the strange
magic, trying to figure out how to control it, how to make it release its grip
on Giorge. Could he redirect its attention elsewhere? Did he
want
to
redirect its attention? What if it chose
him
, instead? What would it do?
What was it
going to do
to Giorge? He let go of Giorge’s hand and tentatively
reached out for the energy. He moved slowly, unsure what to do or even if he
should try to do anything at all. But he knew simple spells that relied upon
but one strand, and if he substituted this strand, could he tie a knot with it?
It was much too broad for a normal spell, though. How was he going to wrap his
fingers around it when the stream of energy would cover his palm? How could he
draw off some of its energy? How could he coax it to leave Giorge altogether?

As his finger edged closer to the stream of energy, a
smaller snake-like head seemed to break free from one of the main branches, and
it turned toward him, toward his finger. It opened its mouth, reared
backward—and Angus quickly pushed himself away from Giorge, stopping only when
the straw of the aerie bit into his back. But when the snake-like energy continued
to pursue him, he turned and gave the aerie a severe shove, sending the bulk of
it out of the entrance. As soon as his path was clear, he leapt out of the
cave, twisted as the rope caught him, and braced himself as he came back toward
the entrance. But the rope gave him some slack, and he crashed into the cliff
face just below it and bounced off. When he struck the second time, he caught a
handhold and climbed quickly back up to the entrance. As he stared, the
snake-like thing turned to Giorge and buried itself in his shoulder.

“What is it?” Giorge demanded, standing up and moving toward
the entrance.

“Stay back!” Angus cried, reaching for a nearby strand of
flame. He didn’t want to use it, but if Giorge got too close….

Giorge backed up against the wall, and his voice was eerily
calm as he asked, again, “What is it, Angus?

“Just don’t come near me,” Angus said, stepping just inside
the front edge of the entrance. “That—” he gestured at the black bag “—thing is
drenched in magic, and I don’t understand it. It’s not a kind of magic I’ve
encountered before, and it’s attached itself to you.”

“To me?” Giorge said. “How did it do that?” He frowned, “I
don’t feel any different.”

Angus shook his head and took another step forward, keeping
his eyes focused on the strange green stream of magic. It was almost like a
nexus, but it couldn’t be one; it wasn’t powerful enough for that. But it was
much wider than any strand of magic he had ever seen. “That’s not the question
we need to answer,” he said, moving up against the inner wall but well within
reach of the opening. If he needed to jump out again…. “We need to know what it
is and why it attached itself to you. And what it does.”

“How do we find that out?” Giorge demanded.

Angus frowned. How could they do it? Then he saw the scroll
fluttering on the floor at Giorge’s feet. The other three had rolled up against
the wall not far from Angus. “The scrolls,” Angus said, risking a quick few
steps to grab the ones near him. “They may have a clue.”

Giorge reached down to pick up the one at his feet, and when
he saw it, his face went pale, his eyes grew hollow, and he slumped to the
floor of the cave. “Symptata,” he whispered, and his lips began to tremble.
“No,” he muttered, his voice soft, uncertain. “No,” he repeated, slowly shaking
his head from side to side. “Not me!” he harshly whimpered, crumpling up the
scroll in his fist and gently tapping it against his head.

“Don’t ruin it!” Angus cried.

Giorge looked numbly at the piece of vellum in his hand and
very carefully peeled his fingers away from it. It fell from his grasp and
fluttered to the floor a few feet from him. He was shaking and blinking back
tears as he stared at the black bag in his other hand.

Angus stepped cautiously forward to pick up the scroll and
then quickly backed away again. He smoothed it out and read through it as best
he could. Then he read it again, slowly mouthing each word to test the
inflections and sounds he thought the poet intended. If only the poet could
spell! He read it a third time, still puzzling over a few of the words. By the
fourth time, he thought he finally had it right, and that troubled him deeply. Then
he read it aloud for Giorge’s benefit:

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

“Symptata the Beggarman?” Angus repeated. “You seemed to
recognize the name,” he said, turning to Giorge, who slumped against the back
of the cave, rocking gently back and forth with his head in his hands, tears in
his eyes. “Giorge!” Angus snapped, trying to get his attention.

Giorge sighed, lifted his gaze, and took a deep breath.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s my curse, not yours.”

“Curse?” Angus asked, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

Giorge’s eyes were filled with a deep sadness that would
have been disheartening to see in anyone’s eyes but doubly so in the
optimistic, enthusiastic, playful dark brown ones of the little thief. When he
tried to smile—a wistful, wry smile— it was almost heartbreaking to see, and
for a moment, Angus forgot about the deep-dwelling anger he still harbored for
the young man. He
almost
moved to his side, but the writhing green stream
of energy kept him back. “Symptata’s Curse,” Giorge answered, his voice was
soft, like crushed rose petals sprinkled over a warm bath, and held a kind of
serene resignation.

Angus frowned and waited for him to continue.

Giorge sighed, the kind of sigh that a condemned man might
make upon hearing that his inevitable death would be delayed but not forgotten.
Then he pointed at the parchment and said, “That’s Symptata’s family crest. The
three-headed serpent. It—”

A horrid squawk burst into the cave and headed straight for
Giorge. It struck him full-force in the chest before he had a chance to do more
than lift his arms to protect his face. A second squawk followed….

7

Fanzool settled into Fenbrooke’s Inn without any difficulty
at all. He was familiar with the kind of people who frequented such
establishments and knew the way the game was played. But he was far from
comfortable. He
knew
their kind, and few people traveled through
Wyrmwood in winter. He would be a tantalizing mark—a lone old man dressed in a
fine robe and heavy winter cloak—and if they saw the gold coin he carried, they
would try to steal it—even if they had to kill him to get it. It was worth a
fortune, far more than what the typical guest at Fenbrooke’s would have with
them. At least there weren’t very many customers, and that would reduce the
likelihood of a run-in. His status as a wizard would help, too, if they noticed
it. He would have to make sure they noticed.

He went up to the counter well away from the other customers
and patiently waited for the barkeep, who scowled and pointed at a stool near
the others. Fanzool shook his head and sat down; it would be better to have some
privacy. He recognized the barkeep—a plump old man with stains on his apron and
beer foam in his moustache—from his vision of Angus, and waited for him to
hobble over to him. He had a noticeable limp, one that forced him to lean heavily
against the counter for support, and Fanzool almost felt sorry for making him
walk so far. But privacy was more important than the barkeep’s discomfort, and
he would pay him well enough to compensate for the extra effort.

“Well?” the barkeep grumbled, his voice gruff, scratchy, and
deep.

Fanzool waited until he was a bit closer and then took out a
few silver coins. “A little information and warm mead,” he said. “I’ll have the
information here and the mead at a table. Then a meal, a room for the night, and
a hot bath.”

“Three silvers for the room and bath,” The barkeep said. “Another
for the mead and meal. It’s a hearty stew that will fill your belly well. We’ll
negotiate for the information.”

“I believe you were here some months ago when a certain
wizard stayed here,” Fanzool said. “He was wearing a black robe, had scruffy
black hair, beard, and moustache. Early thirties, maybe five and a half feet
tall. A bit thin.”

The barkeep shrugged and moved his tongue around in his
mouth. “What of it?” he asked.

“He goes by the name of Angus,” Fanzool said. “It is
important that I find him. Would you know where he might be?” He didn’t expect
the barkeep to know, but he had to ask. He was thorough that way.

“No,” the barkeep said. “He was here and gone the same
night. He said nothing about where he was going or where he had been. He kept
to himself, except for when he blinded the thief.”

Fanzool raised his eyebrows. “He blinded a thief?”

The barkeep scowled. “That’s what I said.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Do you recall what table he sat
at?”

The barkeep laughed and turned away. “I’ll get your mead,”
he said as he began shuffling away.

“The room,” Fanzool said, a bit louder than he wanted. The
barkeep paused and looked over his shoulder. “If you remember which one he
stayed in, and if it’s available, I’d like to have it for the night.”

The barkeep shrugged and kept hobbling down the counter.

Fanzool made his way to a small table in a corner and waited
for the mead to arrive. When it did, he sipped it, letting the warmth run into
his body until the large bowl of stew was brought to his table. Then the
barkeep tossed him a key and said, “That’s the room he stayed in. We’ll heat up
the water for your bath, and when it’s ready, I’ll send the wench for you.
She’ll show you which one it is.”

Fanzool nodded his thanks and continued his meal. When he
was finished, he sat back and studied the people who had been studying him.
There were only two who might be tempted to risk infiltrating a wizard’s room,
and they looked difficult to handle. But he wasn’t concerned; they could be
reasoned with if need be.

He sipped the last of his mead and ordered a second. He was
nearly finished with it when the serving wench told him his bath was ready. He
followed her to the small room that contained a bathtub filled of steaming
water, a small table, soap, and towels. He set his half-finished mead on the
table and thanked her. After she left, he took a nice long bath that freed his
body of the grit and cold that had followed him all the way across the plain.
When he finished, he felt more refreshed and cleaner than he had been in a very
long time. When he got out of the bathtub, he decided to use the water to wash
his clothes, and when he finished, he put his boots on, wrapped a towel around
his waist, and asked the wench to guide him to his room. Once inside, he draped
his clothes over the chairs and table, and then cast a brief prognostication
spell. It was a simple spell that would seek out the near future and give a vague
sense of what was to come, and he was not at all surprised by the strong sense
of foreboding it brought.

They would come tonight, but he didn’t know when. He hoped
it would be early; he needed to get some rest. He sighed and prepared for the
inevitable encounter. He wasn’t worried, exactly, but when they came, he wanted
to ask them the right questions….