Viper's Kiss
Page 21
“Glisena will give birth soon,” Naneth continued. “When she does, she’ll need a midwife. One who knows how to deal with what’s inside her. Lord Wianar’s best interests lie in turning the girl over to me.”
“Who do you serve?” Arvin asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“Sseth’s avatar,” Naneth answered. “In this incarnation, he is known as Sibyl.”
“Where is this Sibyl?” Arvin asked, hoping that Karrell was listening. “In Hlondeth?”
“Why?” Naneth asked—suspiciously enough that Arvin’s guess might have been on the mark.
“Lord Wianar will insist on dealing with her personally.”
“That won’t be necessary. Deliver the girl to me, and I’ll convey her to Sibyl.”
“Why should Lord Wianar trust you?” Arvin asked. “The hiding place you chose was compromised; be thankful that I found it before Foesmasher did. No, I think he will want to deal with Sibyl, in person.”
There was a long pause. “What is it Wianar wants?” Naneth asked.
“What do you mean?” Arvin asked.
The egg shook, making Arvin dizzy. “Don’t play with me,” Naneth spat. “Wianar wants something from Sibyl, in return for the girl. But he doesn’t realize the consequences of the delay he’s causing—or of angering Sibyl. Only a fool would dare to blackmail a god. And you are a greater fool, to serve him.”
“I may be a fool, but I know where Glisena is, and you don’t,” Arvin countered. “And unless you want to face the wrath of your god, you’ll have to do something other than threaten me. What can you offer, in return for Glisena?”
“I’m not so foolish as you think,” the midwife growled. “I held a playing piece back from Sibyl—one that will prove valuable, if Dediana survives. I’m willing to offer it in trade for the baron’s daughter. But I’m obviously wasting my time with you. I’ll talk to Lord Wianar myself.”
Arvin’s breath caught. Would she kill him now? Then he realized that Naneth was bluffing—trying to make Arvin sweat a little. As if being trapped in an egg wasn’t doing that readily enough.
“Lord Wianar knows better than to trust you,” he countered. “But he trusts me.” He paused. “What can you offer me, if I help you?”
“Your life,” Naneth said, relief evident in her voice, “and the gratitude of a god.”
“That’s a good start,” Arvin agreed. He rapped on the inside of the egg with the hilt of his dagger. “But I’m not going to negotiate from inside an egg. Let me out of here, and we’ll talk.”
Arvin was jostled back and forth, and a seam of light shone in through a rip in the egg. He saw Naneth’s pudgy fingers—impossibly large—tear the egg, widening the rip, and felt the liquid drain away. Suddenly he was breathing air once more. The egg parted into two halves, and he fell. The floor of the hut rushed up to meet him….
Before it struck him, he returned to his full size. His feet hit the floor with a thud. He staggered then regained his balance. As he looked up, he saw that the rainbows were gone—and that Karrell was hanging from the ceiling, just behind Naneth. She was swaying back and forth, hissing softly. No, not hissing, whispering the words of her charm spell.
A spell that, Arvin knew, would have no effect whatsoever on Naneth.
Reacting to the hissing, Naneth whirled to face Karrell.
“Naneth,” Karrell hissed. “I have an urgent message for Sibyl from the ssthaar of the Se’sehen. Where is she?”
Naneth’s eyes narrowed. One hand was behind her back; with it, she began a complicated gesture that could only have been the start of a spell. Karrell, under the impression that Naneth had been charmed, didn’t seem to have noticed. She just hung there, swaying, about to take the brunt of whatever spell Naneth was going to cast.
The time for bluffing was over.
Arvin leaped forward, seizing the midwife’s hand and clamping a hand over her mouth, but Naneth twisted her head aside and spat out a one-word incantation. Electricity shot into Arvin’s hands and surged through his body, throwing him backward. He landed heavily on the floor, heart rattling in his chest, gasping for breath.
Naneth turned away, ignoring him. “Tell me your message. I’ll convey it.”
Karrell’s head swayed back and forth. “My message is for Sibyl’s ears alone. Where is she?”
Arvin, listening, knew that Karrell’s attempt to pry information from Naneth was doomed. Under the compulsion of a charm spell, the midwife might have overlooked the extremely coincidental arrival of a messenger from Tashalar, asking exactly the same question “Lord Wianar’s spy” had just asked. Without the charm, everything Karrell said was an obvious lie. Naneth was toying with Karrell, buying time to cast a spell. Once again, her hand was behind her back, her fingers working.
Forcing himself up off the floor, Arvin threw his dagger. It spun through the air, striking Naneth in the back. But instead of penetrating, the weapon fell harmlessly to the floor, deflected by magic. The midwife spun and leveled a pointing finger at Arvin.
Karrell hissed sharply, glanced between Naneth and Arvin, and sank her teeth into Naneth’s shoulder.
Naneth’s eyes widened. She jerked away, clamping a hand to her injured shoulder. Barking out a two-word incantation, she vanished.
Arvin clambered to his feet.
Karrell dropped from the ceiling, shifted into human form, and rose gracefully to her feet. Despite the urgency of the moment, the sight of her, naked, took Arvin’s breath away. Her words, however, were harsh. “Why did you do that? In another moment she would have told me where Sibyl was.”
“No she wouldn’t; your charm spell didn’t work,” Arvin said, rising to his feet. “Naneth is shielded against spells that affect the mind. She knew you were lying and was about to cast a spell on you. I was afraid you’d be killed.”
Karrell’s eyes softened. “I thought the same … about you.”
“I know,” Arvin said, touching her cheek. He let his hand fall. “I’m sure whatever spell Naneth was about to cast wouldn’t have been very pleasant. But at least we won’t have to worry about her anymore. Yuan-ti venom is … pretty potent stuff, right?”
“My bite is not venomous.”
“Oh,” Arvin said. He frowned. “We’d better get out of here, then. As soon as Naneth figures out she hasn’t been poisoned, she’ll be back. And she won’t be happy—with either one of us.” He peered outside the door. The satyrs had obeyed Naneth’s instructions and were waiting outside, but they looked agitated. They were talking in low voices, and pointing toward the hut.
Arvin beckoned Karrell to the doorway. “Do you have all of a yuan-ti’s usual magical abilities?” he whispered.
She nodded.
“We need to get out of here,” Arvin continued. He pointed at his pack, which lay on the ground near the satyrs. “If you cast a magical darkness just outside the hut, I should be able to grab my pack. I’ll make for the nearest tunnel and keep going. In the meantime, use your magical fear on the satyrs; I hope I’ll be out of the maze before they’ve gathered enough courage to follow me. As soon as you’ve done that, assume snake form and get out yourself. We’ll meet back where we left Tanglemane and figure out some other way of finding Sibyl. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” She planted a kiss on his lips. “For luck.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling. His lips tingled where she’d kissed them. Dagger in hand, he readied himself, calculating the number of paces it would take to reach his pack. “Do it.”
As utter darkness filled the clearing outside the hut, Arvin flung the door flap aside. He sprinted for his pack, keeping low. From his left, he heard the thrum of a bow, followed by the hiss of an arrow over his head. The satyrs shouted at each other in confusion. Then Karrell loosed her second wave of magic, and the shouts turned to bleats of fear. Arvin scooped up his pack on the run, slinging it over a shoulder by one strap and praying that its contents weren’t spilling out behind him. Then he reached the edge of the darkne
ss. He burst into daylight a dozen paces or so from the edge of the brambles. The tunnel the satyrs had dragged him out of was to his left. He raced for it then flung himself prone and started to crawl. Behind him, he heard shouts and the thrum-thrum of a bow being shot twice in rapid succession; at least one of the satyrs had shaken off the magical fear. His shots, though aimed at random from inside the darkness, passed uncomfortably close to Arvin. One struck a vine just above his head.
Crawling rapidly, pack still slung awkwardly over one shoulder, Arvin followed the drag marks. They led to the spot where he’d been ambushed by the satyr with the pan pipes; from this point on he followed his own trail. All the while he prayed that the satyrs wouldn’t figure out where he’d gone—that they wouldn’t know a quicker route through the bramble maze. The fear seemed to have worn off; Arvin could hear them in the clearing, shouting at one another.
Tymora must have been with him, however; the satyrs didn’t catch up. Soon he could see Tanglemane through the thicket of thorny vines. The centaur’s ears were twitching; when he spotted Arvin, he gave a snort of delight. Arvin crawled out of the brambles, leaped to his feet, and was relieved to see Karrell slither out after him a moment later. As she shifted into human form, he turned to Tanglemane. “We need to get out of here fast,” he told the centaur. “We’ve got a hornet’s nest of angry satyrs behind us. Will you carry us?”
“I would,” Tanglemane said. Then he glanced into the forest nervously. “But there’s a problem. The wolves are still waiting for their meat.”
Arvin turned and saw the wolves. They had been sitting, waiting, but when White Muzzle rose to her feet, the rest followed her lead. Tongues lolling, they stared at Arvin and Karrell. White Muzzle growled—and even without Karrell to translate, Arvin understood. The wolves were hungry.
And the satyrs’ shouts were growing closer. They would be through the brambles at any moment.
Arvin glanced at Karrell. “Magical fear?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not again. Not so soon.”
An arrow careened out of the brambles behind them, narrowly missing Arvin. “What about darkness?” he asked Karrell.
“Not yet. But I have other magic that may help.” Turning, she gestured at the brambles. As her fingers wove complicated patterns in the air, the vines constricted, closing off the tunnel like a net being pulled shut. The satyrs, trapped inside and pierced by thorns, bleated angrily.
Karrell cast a second spell, and their bows twisted into knots. No more arrows were fired.
“That’s one problem down,” Arvin said. The wolves, however, continued to pad closer to Arvin, Karrell, and Tanglemane. They were working up their courage with a series of low growls. Any moment now, they would rush forward and attack.
Arvin eyed the trees. He and Karrell could climb to safety, but not Tanglemane.
The centaur’s ears twitched wildly. “We should run.”
“No,” Arvin said. “That’s what they want.” He glanced once more at the vine-trussed satyrs then turned to Karrell. “Speak to the wolves. Tell them we’ve brought their meat: the satyrs. The moment your spell wears off, the wolves can rush them. Then they’ll have all the meat they like.”
Karrell nodded then rapidly barked this out to White Muzzle. The wolf growled something at her pack then yipped a question back at Karrell, who answered it.
“I told her I broke the satyrs’ bows, but she is still fearful,” Karrell translated. “The satyrs are fierce fighters, even without weapons.”
Arvin chuckled in reply. “Not when they’re asleep.” He spoke his glove’s command word, and the pan pipes he’d vanished into it reappeared. “Plug your ears,” he instructed. Tanglemane and Karrell did as instructed. Arvin, praying the pipes wouldn’t affect the person playing them, lifted them to his lips and blew.
A shrill noise squealed from the pipes, but nothing happened. Neither the satyrs nor the wolves fell asleep. The nearest satyr, however, did twist around in the brambles, earning himself several scratches, to say something to his fellows. His voice sounded worried.
Arvin lowered the pipes. Only a satyr could evoke their magic, it seemed. But if that was the case, why did the satyrs sound concerned? He glanced closely at the pipes, noting for the first time that they were made from individual reeds, bound together with twine in a series of intricate knots.
Magical knots?
Grinning, Arvin slid the point of his dagger under one of the knots. He held the pan pipes out where the satyrs could see them. “Do as I say!” he shouted. “Or I’ll destroy them.”
A babble of voices broke out as the satyrs conversed in their own tongue. Then one of them shouted. “What want you?”
White Muzzle had begun to slink forward again, the rest of the pack following.
Arvin spoke quickly to Karrell. “Can you loosen just a few of the brambles?” he asked. “Enough to let one of the satyrs go?”
She nodded.
“Translate what I say for the wolves,” Arvin told her. Then he turned his attention back to the satyrs. “We’re going to release one of you,” he shouted. “That one will go back to the clearing and fetch Theyron’s body, and bring it to me.”
Karrell translated, and White Muzzle gave a satisfied growl. The satyrs, however, seemed reluctant. Arvin held the pan pipes a little higher, and started to saw with his blade.
“Stop!” one cried. “We shall bring him.”
Arvin smiled. He tipped his head in the direction of the satyr who had spoken. “That one,” he told Karrell in a low voice. Loosen the brambles around him.”
As the vines untwined themselves from him, the satyr leaped to his feet. He gave Arvin a fierce glare, then trotted back in the direction of the satyr camp. While he was gone, the brambles around the other satyrs began to loosen. Karrell recast her spell.
The satyr returned a short while later, dragging Theyron’s body. He paused just before leaving the brambles, catching his breath, then readjusted his grip on the body and continued dragging it toward Arvin. The wound in the dead satyr’s neck was still leaking blood; it left a trail of red. The wolves moved forward, licking their lips in anticipation. Then, at a yip from White Muzzle, they moved forward in a rush. The satyr bleated and scurried back into the brambles. The wolves converged on the corpse, growling at one another as they tore bloody chunks from it.
“Let’s get moving,” Arvin said in a low voice, eyeing the wolves. “Before they finish eating and decide they’re still hungry.”
Tanglemane nodded and knelt, motioning for Arvin and Karrell to get on his back. Arvin started to climb on then heard the creak of a bow being drawn. He turned his head just in time to see one of the satyrs—the one who had dragged Theyron’s body back—standing inside the brambles with a bow held at full draw. Arvin ducked as the satyr let his arrow fly.
The satyr wasn’t aiming at Arvin however, but at the wolves. One of them yelped as the arrow struck it.
“Let’s go,” Arvin shouted, boosting Karrell onto Tanglemane’s back.
Tanglemane, however, crumpled to his knees, spilling her to the ground. The centaur staggered to his feet a moment later, clutching his chest. A thin line of blood trickled out from beneath his hands.
“Tanglemane,” Karrell said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
Even as she asked the question, Arvin realized the answer. The arrow had struck White Muzzle, and the fate link had caused Tanglemane to suffer an identical wound.
The satyr shot another arrow. This one struck another wolf in the head, instantly killing it.
The pack bolted, White Muzzle in the rear, limping.
Arvin silently cursed his stupidity; he should have guessed that the satyr would pick up another bow when he returned to the camp.
The satyr nocked another arrow. This time, he turned toward Arvin as he drew his bow.
“Wait!” Arvin shouted. “If you shoot me, you’ll never get these back.” He flourished the pan pipes then vanished them into his glove.
The satyr lowered his bow a fraction and turned to speak to his fellows. Low murmuring followed. As the satyrs conferred, Arvin glanced at Tanglemane. The centaur’s face was pale; his legs trembled. Only a trickle of blood seeped from the wound; the arrow must have still been buried in White Muzzle’s flesh. Given her limited, animal intelligence, she would probably flee from the pain until she dropped, until she died.
“Agreed!” the satyr shouted back. “You may leave.”
Cautiously, Arvin and Karrell backed away from the brambles, leading the injured Tanglemane. The satyr held his fire.
Tanglemane was able to walk, but he gasped with each breath.
Arvin touched the crystal at his throat. “Nine lives,” he pleaded.
Tanglemane was going to need them. Even if the satyrs kept their end of the bargain, the centaur was unlikely to make it out of the woods.
CHAPTER 13
Arvin squatted beside Tanglemane, gently repositioning the blood-soaked bandage he’d made earlier from pieces torn from his shirt. The centaur had proved stronger than Arvin expected; he’d walked for some distance through the forest before crumpling to his knees. Karrell had cast a healing spell on him just after they’d left the satyr camp, but it had only helped a little bit. The wound in the side of his chest was still open, still seeping blood. It was a hollow hole that, on White Muzzle, would have been filled with an arrow shaft. It was a wonder the wolf had survived this long, with an arrow still in her. Every now and then the flesh around the puckered hole quivered; Arvin realized that White Muzzle must have been licking her wound, jostling the arrow around. He hoped that meant she had found somewhere safe to hole up—somewhere predators wouldn’t find her.