He shuddered. This ice was of the kind that would last a very long time. It was a slow-moving, deep river of ice that could trap him for ages if the tunnel collapsed in around him, and he would be too weak to escape from it, too weak to climb out again.
Do whatever is necessary….
Sardach began to twist around himself, sending a thin, string-like tendril slowly downward toward the mouth of the hole. The familiar overwhelming antagonism of the ice struck him in a cold wave, and he sensed its desire to consume him in its frozen craw. Or was it just his imagination? The ice on this world wasn’t alive, like his arch enemy—was it?
The tip of the tendril probed the rim of the hole, not quite touching it, to test its boundaries. He sent his senses into it as far as he could, but they barely penetrated past the surface. The ice was blocking his perception; he would have to go deeper. He twisted some more, gradually lengthening his body into a thin, smoky cord that tentatively entered the hole. He cringed and drew back. It was cold, so cold.…
It was necessary.
He unraveled himself a little at a time and dipped deeper and deeper into the hole. A wave of cold seeped into him and slowly drained the warmth that sustained him. He sucked in upon himself, the tendril growing ever tighter and tighter until it was little more than a hair’s-breadth wide and as solid and inflexible as an iron rod. But he didn’t stop his descent, not even when his senses were so overwhelmed that he almost had to touch something to sense it, not even when the depth threatened to drag the rest of him into the hole behind the long, snaking tendril, not even when he began to wail in unrestrained agony.
It was necessary.
Argyle had commanded it.
4
“Trust me,” Angus said. “I will be fine.”
Ortis shook his head and said, “You are far from fine. You need tending to, and I won’t go.”
Angus sighed. Ortis was being stubborn, and that was the last thing he needed Ortis to be. “Look,” he said. “I am in no condition to travel, and you know it. We’ve been in this cave for a day, and I’ve only gotten worse. I doubt I would survive the trip across the plateau, and if I do, the trail down the other side will probably kill me. You know it, and so do I.”
“No,” Ortis said. “Your best chance—”
“I will not have you lop off my arm and leg,” Angus said, feeling just as stubborn as Ortis. “This way, I at least have a chance to save them.”
“But—”
“Hobart will be well enough to travel in a few days, and you can use the travois to carry him across the plateau until he is. One of you can ride ahead to Dagremon’s and bring back supplies for the rest of you. If you want to return to check on me then, do so, but I will either be dead or gone by then.”
Ortis sighed, stood up, and shook his head. “I do not like leaving you behind,” he said. “If Hobart were awake, he would never allow it.”
“Then I am fortunate he isn’t,” Angus said. “You know our supplies are too low for us to tarry here any longer. Leave me some water and a little food; take the rest with you.”
Ortis turned toward the other side of the cave where Hobart was sleeping. He had been sleeping since Angus had woken up the day before, and he would continue to sleep for another day or two before the taint from the yffrim’s blood cycled through his system. After that, he would be weak and tired few several more days before he fully recovered. “You’re sure this plan of yours will work?” Ortis asked again.
Angus half-smiled as he relaxed against the cave wall just inside the entrance. There was a dull blue pall over the cave from his miscast Lamplight spell. He had attached it to a stick as if it were a torch’s flame, and the stick was leaning against the wall beside him. It had dimmed somewhat, but it hadn’t dissipated yet. The magic should have escaped from the spell long before now, but it hadn’t. It was already the longest-lasting Lamplight spell he had ever cast—and the strangest one, a bit lopsided, the wrong color, and only about half as bright as it should be.
He had asked Ortis to prop him up close to the entrance where he could see far enough outside to catch sight of Sardach as he approached and still have some protection from the weather. Sardach would approach; Angus was certain of it. The plaintiff wail had ended not long after it had begun, and then a muted questing touch had sought him out during the night. Angus had deflected the tentative probe, but it was only a temporary solution. Sardach would be back—with a vengeance—and he would be ready for him. The Lamplight might make Sardach hesitate, since it had been wrought from air magic heavy with water or water magic (Angus still wasn’t sure), and it would hurt Sardach the way the flame-based Lamplight had hurt Giorge when they had first met. If he squeezed it down far enough, it might even cause permanent damage.
“No,” Angus said, his voice calm, resigned. “I am far from being certain. But the alternative is unappealing. At least this way, I will have a chance.” If his plan worked, he would have a chance to be a wizard again, and if it didn’t, he would be dead. Either way, he would be better off than a one-legged, one-armed, color-blind wizard who couldn’t cast spells. “We will have a chance,” he clarified. “If you and Hobart are here when Sardach arrives—which will be soon—he will kill you both. You know this to be true, so why are you hesitating?”
Ortis turned back toward him, and his eyes were flat, empty, as if there were little in them but the blue light reflected back at Angus. Ortis hadn’t been wrestling with emotions; it had been something else that had made him hesitate. Banner duty, perhaps? A sense of propriety? Did etiquette require the pretense of being convinced? Was it like bartering with a dwarf? They hated to have a deal struck too quickly, and haggling was a game of skill much admired by them.
“Ortis,” Angus said, his voice soft. “I cannot be what I am without my right arm. At least this way I have a chance to get it back.” He squinted meaningfully and added, “What would you do if you lost your arm, Ortis? How would you shoot arrows then?”
“I would grow it back,” Ortis retorted. “It would take time….”
Angus laughed and shook his head. “I can’t regenerate my limbs the way you can, Ortis. If I could, my decision would be quite different.”
Ortis finally gave a quick little nod and said, “All right. We’ll go.” He turned and joined the others by the horses, just outside the cave. They had loaded up their gear in preparation for their departure, and the only question they hadn’t answered was whether or not Angus was going with them. Now that that question had been settled, a second Ortis opened the fletching pouch of his quiver and took something out. He carried it over to Angus and held it out to him. “You will need this, then” he said.
It was the wand.
5
It had been a difficult day for Typhus. He had planned to move quickly through the crowd, gathering coin purses as he went, but that hadn’t happened. Iscara had wrapped the bandages much too tightly to be able to steal with impunity. His fingers were clumsy, and he shuffled around like an old man. Then a girl looked at him and screamed. When her mother looked at him, she gasped and pulled her daughter quickly away, calling out for the guard as he shuffled into the crowd. He had nearly made it to an alley before the guardsmen caught up with him, and they had almost killed him before he was able to subdue them and escape. He hadn’t killed any of them like he would have done in the past, and that bothered him. Witnesses were always a problem, and the fewer of them the better. But what had they really seen? A bandaged man they thought was a demon with glowing blue eyes filled with death? Who would believe them when they told that story, anyway?
Too many people. He had hid in the alleys until night brought plenty of shadows to use for concealment. He had used those shadows, those alleys, and his familiarity with the city to make his way safely to Mulgrew’s smithy. He needed to get the manacles off, but he didn’t have enough coin for it. Mulgrew kept silent about the tasks he did for his special after-hours clients, but he charged much for that silence. Typhus was
hoping their past business dealings would afford him some measure of credit, but if not? Witnesses….
Typhus waddled up to the back door and lightly rapped it. When Mulgrew opened the little grated window to look out, Typhus hissed, “A deed needs done, Mulgrew.”
Mulgrew nodded and closed the window. The door opened a moment later, and Mulgrew stood there blocking Typhus’s way. He was a short, stocky man whose arms were thicker than most men’s thighs, and he had a heavy mallet draped over his shoulder as if it were a towel. “Who seeks my services?” he growled. His voice was deep, resounding like an echo erupting from his belly.
Typhus held out the few coins he had been able to procure before having to flee into the darker parts of Tyrag. They were mainly silver and copper, and there weren’t many of them. “Let me in, Mulgrew,” he said. “I am not one to trifle with.”
Mulgrew squinted, looked into his glowing eyes, paled a bit, and stepped aside. “What deed, Typhus?” His voice was gruff as he scowled at Typhus and let the assassin step around him.
“A simple one,” Typhus said. “I need some manacles removed. I can’t pay much now,” he added, apologetically, “but more will come.” He wasn’t exactly lying; he had a plan to acquire more resources, but he needed all of his flexibility to accomplish it. The bandages would have to go, and so would the manacles. He needed clothing, and it would be easier to get some during the night, when the shops were closed. He wouldn’t need to move too quickly, either, since tailor shops tended not to be very well guarded.
Mulgrew’s muscles flexed as he shifted the heavy mallet from his shoulder and set it down lightly on the floor by the door. He looked at the coins, frowned, and glared at Typhus. “This is enough,” he said, “provided you leave quickly. News of your return is circulating, and when Argyle hears of this…” He shook his head. “He will hear it from me,” he said, “after you’ve left. I’ll wait an hour before I send word to him.”
Typhus shrugged. Argyle already knew he had escaped, but he didn’t know where he was. “You won’t tell him,” Typhus said. “I am but a visiting ghost,” he added as he began to unwind the bandages from his arms, letting the blue glow slither through the gaps in the cloth to light up the smithy’s shop. His arm was disconcerting; it looked like a blue torch. “One you thought was dead,” he finished.
Mulgrew scowled until the bandages on Typhus’ left arm were in a pile on the floor. Then he shook his head and moved to his anvil. He picked up a chisel and hammer, and said, “Fair enough. They might even believe that when they come asking.”
A half hour later, Mulgrew had a pile of glowing metal on the floor next to his anvil and Typhus was rubbing burn ointment on his wrists and ankles. It had been difficult to remove the shackles; Mulgrew had to heat them significantly before they were malleable enough to chisel through. It was a common enough occurrence, and Mulgrew was amply prepared for it. Still, the new burns were uncomfortable, even with the soothing effects of the ointment.
It took another fifteen minutes to rewrap the bandages, but this time they weren’t nearly as tight as Iscara had made them. There were a few thin gaps between them, and the now-vibrant blue glow gleamed through them in places. Would clothes cover it? Or would it stream through the cloth like a beacon fire? At least the cloak Iscara had given him would conceal it for now.
Five minutes later, he was heading down the alleys to Cloth Street with one of Mulgrew’s hammers hidden beneath his cloak. Mulgrew didn’t know he had taken it, of course, but he would return it eventually—if he could. He wouldn’t have taken it at all, but the knife and little hammer he had brought with him glowed like candles at his side. He had left them behind, wondering how long they would continue to glow.
An hour later, he left a tailor’s shop dressed in the rough garments of a typical Tyrian of low standing—except for the gloves; they were finely crafted ones that wouldn’t impede his fingers as much as the thick, clumsy ones preferred by most Tyrians. The bandages were still on his face and part of his arms (as a precaution), but the thick layers of cloth, the boots, and the cloak were enough to conceal the rest of him. It was a lot easier to move rapidly through the alleys to Iscara’s shop, but it was still nearly dawn when he picked the lock and made his way down to her sleeping chambers. She was snoring softly as he settled down on the floor beneath her bed for some much needed rest. It was better she didn’t know he was there. Yet.
6
Sardach knew Angus had been at the bottom of the ice shaft, but the wizard was no longer there. As soon as he realized it, he retreated as quickly as he could, writhing as he accidentally brushed against the wall of ice. He wailed in agony until he was well clear of the icy prison, and then stopped. He expanded quickly, as far as he could, soaking in the energy from the sun and relishing in its life-giving breath.
Where was Angus? Which way had he gone? What route had he taken? How would Sardach find him? He sent out a thought, seeking the mage as he had sought Typhus. They had been joined, and the foul stench of the wizard had still clung to Typhus after he had separated them. Perhaps a piece of Typhus had stayed behind with Angus? One that he could contact?
Minutes passed before he finally moved away from the hole. The proximity of the ice hampered his senses and impeded his ability to concentrate on the thin, lingering fragment of Angus’s essence. He moved to the mountainside and draped himself over it, growing steadily stronger as he drew upon the energy in the earth within it. Flame would be better, but there was little of it nearby.
A faint remnant struck him as he rolled along the surface of the slope. It was the smallest hint, the barest trace of Typhus’s passing. Angus was here, Sardach thought, swarming over the ground as he followed the trail. It hugged the steep slope of the mountainside and led him toward an outcropping. He hurried forward—and abruptly stopped. He had lost the trail.
He backtracked until he found it again. It went down the slope and nestled up against the ice. He lost it there, reluctant to get close enough to the ice to find out where it had gone. He hovered over the area, inspecting the surface of the ice for any disturbance, any sign of Angus’s passing—and found it. There were a series of small craters in the ice that had cracked and pitted the surface as if Argyle had clomped across it. Could the marks have been made by Angus? Or had it been something else, something that had pursued him onto its frozen surface?
Sardach reluctantly descended until he was but a few feet above the ice. He covered a large area, but there were only spotty signs of Angus’s passing. He was near where the craters were, but Angus hadn’t made them—unless it had been a spell? There were residual indications of magic, but they had disappeared deep into the ice.
Sardach retreated. Angus wasn’t there, and he hadn’t been the thing that made the craters. It had been something else. There were no hints of Angus nearby—had the ice swallowed him up? Had something been hunting him? The trail of craters suggested something like that, and if his pursuer had caught up with him, had eaten him, what would have happened to the key?
Sardach decided to follow the creature’s trail. It was difficult; the scent was almost completely obscured by the ice. He lost it several times before he reached the comfort of the rocky slope on the other side of the valley. He was still tracking the creature when he caught another whiff of Angus—and almost completely overlooked its importance: the creature had followed Angus up the slope and they had lingered there together. They seemed to travel together for a short distance, and then the creature’s trail ended. There had been a battle on a smooth cutout in the mountainside, and part of the creature was still there. Angus was not, but Sardach knew which way he had gone. He turned west and hesitated. The sun was near the horizon. It would be night soon, and Sardach was much more comfortable traveling in darkness. It made it much easier to conceal himself, and he was not at all ready to face Angus openly. Angus had magic that could hurt him, and it would be better to confront him when the wizard was not prepared for it.
Sardach s
pread himself across the mountainside, rolling slowly, steadily, almost imperceptibly westward over the slope. It was slow going, but he didn’t mind. Nightfall would break soon, and it would not take him long to reach the plateau.
7
It was well past dark, and Angus had been sitting in one place for hours. There was little he could do about it. Whenever he put weight on his left foot, it felt like the bones were squeezing out through the rotted muscles. They might be. His shoulder was more manageable, but when he shifted position, the shattered bones grated painfully against each other. Even sitting still and breathing was uncomfortable.
Ortis had stacked chunks of ice beside him before he had left, but it was almost gone. The chill of the air was enough to keep it frozen, but once he put it on his shoulder or foot it melted away. He tried untying the sash to let the coolness numb him, but then the fever came back and threatened to bubble over into delusions. He couldn’t allow that, so he had to tie the sash up again. When he faced Sardach he needed a clear head far more than he needed to be free from the pain.
He had tried to bring the magic into focus a few times, but all he got were images of Typhus traipsing through shadow-filled alleys. After a few hours, he quit trying. He needed to know when Sardach was coming, and if he couldn’t see Sardach’s magic he would have to rely on what he could see, and watching Typhus made that difficult. He would have no chance at all if he couldn’t put his plan into motion when Sardach arrived.
Why had Sardach screamed? Angus wondered. It had been a long, hollow whimper, so much like a whipped dog who didn’t understand what it had done wrong. It was a soft, sad sound, so unlike Sardach’s screech of rage that had nearly sent Angus reeling to his death so long ago. Sardach’s wailing had been close enough for Angus to sense it, and it had lingered for almost an hour before it had stopped as abruptly as it had started. A few minutes later, the questing had come, as if Sardach were calling out to Angus like he had done with Typhus when he attacked them on the lift. Then the questing stopped, and Angus had sensed nothing more from Sardach. Where had he gone? Where could Sardach have gone?
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 24