Serpent's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 3)

by D J Salisbury

  No seawall. No cliff. The ocean crashed directly onto the sand. Waves spewed thick foam high up the beach before retreating and regrouping for a new attack.

  There was nothing to stop it from drowning the beach, the mountains. From drowning him.

  Bile surged up his throat. Blue sky faded into gray. His hands shook so hard the horses looked back to see what he was doing to the reins.

  He bent down carefully and laid the reins at his boots. He didn’t throw up. That was a victory.

  Could he talk Lorel into moving inland? Never. She’d always loved the wind-blasted ocean, and she obviously enjoyed racing her black demon over the sand. Besides, she wasn’t speaking to him.

  Well, he wasn’t speaking to her, either.

  The lightning-blasted ocean was only attacking half of the beach. Maybe just a quarter of its width. They should be safe enough until the Alignment. When the time came, he’d move inland, far inland, no matter how much the others complained. They could drown for all he cared.

  Where were his bodyguards, anyway?

  Distant spots, which he assumed were the girls, disappeared into the misty horizon. Blast, they’d ridden for miles, and still hadn’t slowed down. The wagon rolled so sluggishly through the clingy sand that he might not get that far in a whole day.

  He wrapped his sand-encrusted cloak around his knees and bent forward to pick up the reins. “She’s really in a snit this time. She may not decide to come back tonight.” He glanced at the twitching ears ahead of him. “I can’t very well talk to myself. I might as well talk to you two.”

  Poppy shook her mane vigorously and Periwinkle nickered.

  “Do you think so, earth children?” Viper smiled, even though it made his face hurt worse. But the horses’ response tickled a spot inside his heart that was numb only minutes ago. “I can’t be silly around Lorel anymore. Not ever again. Might as well enjoy it with an uncritical audience. The Kyridon would look at me as though I’d gone insane.”

  The team danced sideways. Viper reined them in gently. Bother, he hadn’t replaced their bits. It hardly mattered. They’d never given him any trouble.

  “Mind your manners, Periwinkle,” he told the gelding. “It’s not my fault that Poppy was messing around with Nightshade last night.”

  Poppy neighed loudly and danced a little more.

  “You can laugh, you blue demon. You’re the only one here who’s had any fun lately. Show some mercy for the rest of us.”

  Poppy pranced until Periwinkle reached aside and nipped her shoulder. The mare squealed, but settled into a more sedate walk.

  “That’s telling her.” Viper leaned back and chuckled. “No fair showing off during working hours.”

  Poppy snorted, but Periwinkle nuzzled his teammate.

  “You’re just a softie for a pretty filly, old boy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think– ”

  An eerie wail soared above the roar of the ocean.

  The horses froze and started to shake. They leaned into the harness and tried to gallop, to drag the sluggish wagon.

  Sand clutched at the wheels.

  “Lightning blast it,” he whispered. “No, it can’t be.”

  Yowling voices sang out again, closer.

  “Serdil, here? We haven’t seen serdil in a lunar. They can’t be here.”

  Howls echoed around him, loud even above the roar of the ocean. The gut-wrenching wails sounded very close this time. Too close.

  “The horses! Lorel isn’t here to protect the horses! They’ll be murdered where they stand. They’ll never be able to defend themselves.”

  He dropped the reins and scrambled up to stand on the driver’s bench. Shading his eyes from the glare, he peered down the long trail of wheel tracks, searching for the serdil.

  Except for gulls, the beach was empty.

  “Or can they?” If he had enough time… He shrugged off his cloak and jumped down from the wagon. He limped to Poppy’s side and grabbed hold of her harness collar, forcing her to tow him when she continued to struggle onwards.

  He drew his belt knife and slashed her reins close to the bridle. But reins were the least of her restraints. He sawed at her harness traces close to the collar. The scored leather stretched and tore.

  Poppy shied and danced in a circle, trapped by one stout strap.

  He hung onto that strap and sawed on it with all his strength.

  The leather snapped.

  He pitched to the sand.

  Poppy bolted away from the wagon.

  In sheer panic, Periwinkle squealed and tried to pull the wagon by himself. Enormous hooves stomped inches from his nose.

  He laid very, very still. None of the horses had ever stepped on him – if they knew exactly where he was.

  Periwinkle side-stepped, reared and bucked. He tried to gallop, flinging sand, but unable to move.

  That was as far away as the horse could get. Showered by grit, Viper rolled away from the plunging hooves. He staggered to his foot, lurched against the gelding, and hacked off one rein.

  Periwinkle reared again.

  “Stop that, you sandcrab!” He thumped his fist on the horse’s neck.

  The gelding shuddered, but stood still.

  He sawed at the harness strap on that side. He leaned all of his weight on the knife.

  Periwinkle leaned his considerable weight on the collar. The leather strap broke.

  Viper fell face down in the sand. Again.

  The gelding swiveled around Viper’s head, his back hooves barely missing Viper’s legs.

  He yelped and curled into a tight ball.

  Trapped by the harness strap, Periwinkle backed up until he sat on his haunches.

  “You look like a stubborn mule, turybird.” Grabbing Periwinkle’s knee, he dragged himself upright. He slashed the last rein, then carved at the harness trace.

  The leather shattered.

  Sandblast it! He dropped his knife and threw himself backward.

  Periwinkle tumbled over, thrashed to his feet, and galloped away.

  Viper staggered upright. How had he avoided being crushed? Maybe Periwinkle really had been watching out for him.

  He searched the sand until he found his knife. His three-inch, bronze belt knife that barely cut old leather. Was it sharp enough to cut living flesh?

  Thunderer’s drums, where was Lorel?

  Poppy screamed a war cry.

  Gray-pelted serdil sprinted across the sand.

  “Four. Five.” Viper jumped up on the wagon tongue, scrambled to the driver’s platform. “Six. I’m serdil meat. Dinner for a bunch of deathwind-licking jackal-cats. No. I will not be dinner. If I die, they’ll escort me to the Deathsinger.”

  Serdil raced around the wagon, circling it like a furry tornado. The lead serdil, a huge female, sprang at him.

  He crouched and held his knife to the side.

  The serdil scrambled up the platform. Her claws gouged at his throat–

  And Viper slashed hers.

  Gore splattered everywhere. Blood gushed over his face and clothes, soaking him.

  Magic slapped at him. Blood magic. No no no no no! He wouldn’t use it! He refused to use it!

  Sharp claws tore through his jacket and shirt. His shoulder shrieked with icy fire.

  He threw himself backwards, away from the slashing claws. The serdil’s heavy body bore him off the wagon, into the sand.

  He fought to heave the twitching corpse off his chest, but it was too heavy. Breathless, he struggled and shoved and wiggled out from under the carcass.

  He was alone for the moment. Why? They should be all over him, tearing him apart.

  He pushed his tangled hair out of his face with one shaky hand. His left hand hung limp at his side. Sandblast the rotted serdil!

  He scooted backwards, toward the nearest wagon wheel. Something solid at his back would help protect him. The wheel would have to do.

  Whispering sand alerted him.

  Another serdil charged at him.

&n
bsp; “Lightning strike you!” He yanked his knife over his head and braced his knees in the sand.

  The serdil yowled and leapt.

  A sinuous gray pelt flashed overhead and snagged the serdil’s spine.

  The animal froze in midair, but collapsed to the ground. It mewed, howled, and thrashed on the bloody sand.

  The Kyridon jerked its fangs out of the convulsing body. “The wagon’s ghost awakened this one with the communication that the vehicle was under assault. This one assumed it had overreacted. This one shall apologize.”

  Viper snorted and staggered to his foot. He shook back his bloody hair and glanced around.

  Lavender mist encircled the area, but it kept its distance. He pushed it even farther away. He would not use blood magic.

  Two other serdil were down, stomped to death by large hooves.

  “Three, four.”

  Periwinkle kicked a third attacker and Poppy strutted stiff-legged to the fallen beast.

  Viper nodded. “Five. Where is six?”

  Poppy reared and came down on the whining animal, crushing its skull.

  Periwinkle shook like a wet dog. He turned toward Viper and his ears slapped tight against his head.

  “Hatchling!”

  Viper spun toward the Kyridon’s voice.

  The missing serdil reared over him.

  His world narrowed to gleaming teeth and claws. Reacting instinctively, he dropped his knife and grabbed the incoming forelegs at the wrists. Metacarpi? How embarrassing, he couldn’t remember the proper term.

  The serdil wailed and threw itself forward.

  Viper braced himself against its writhing. He forced the creature to stand upright, balanced on its hind legs. Otherwise it would use those powerful legs against him.

  He had a brief vision of himself disemboweled by long claws. He grimaced and held onto the hard wrists.

  The serdil hopped on its back feet, jouncing at him. It yowled and slavered, snapped and strained towards him, so intent on his face it forgot to bite at his hands.

  Viper fought to keep the monster off balance. He pivoted, and his wounded shoulder screamed in agony. His padded boot slid around backwards, but stayed on his stump.

  Ears flat, the serdil’s head darted forward like a striking snake.

  His vision shrank to a tunnel of teeth and tongue. Hot breath panted into his face, foul and sweet, salt and anger.

  Sweat poured down his face, dripped off his chin. His eyes strung, but he didn’t even dare shake the sweat away. He shuddered from exhaustion and terror.

  His left arm weakened, went numb. His elbow buckled.

  Teeth snatched at his nose.

  He could kill it in an instant with the blood magic hovering around him. If he was willing to give up his soul to death magic. To become the walking dead himself.

  He had to choose. Now.

  Hooves crashed past his chest. The serdil scudded away like a tree before a flashflood.

  Viper collapsed to his knees. He looked up at a blue roan tail, around it into Poppy’s sweet, enormous eyes, peering over her shoulder. She blinked at him, and turned to watch the serdil.

  Periwinkle stalked over to the crippled beast, reared and crushed its skull. The gelding rounded on his mare and urged her toward the ocean.

  The world grayed out, fluttered back into focus. He’d been worrying about something, something worse than serdil. But he couldn’t remember. Something about the horses?

  He shook his head blearily. “Where are they going?”

  “This one assumes the earth children will cleanse the carnage from their persons.” The Kyridon coiled its pelt-covered body on the driver’s bench and peered down at him. “This one suggests that the hatchling bathe itself also. The hatchling is extraordinarily bloodied. This one speculates the hatchling has misplaced a significant quantity of plasma. All injuries given by the mountain predators must receive active treatment.”

  His clothes were sodden with dark blood, and torn in several places. His left side shimmered bright crimson and that shoulder burned distantly. He had no feeling in his left arm. At all.

  He decided to not think about that.

  “I’ve got to check the team.” He staggered to his feet and hobbled after the team.

  Much to his relief, neither of the roans were injured. Not so much as a scratch. He wished he could say the same. The overgrown rocking hobbies fought better than he’d thought possible. It was rather strange.

  His shoulder cramped and he clutched at the wound. Fresh blood seeped between his fingers.

  The Kyridon’s head bobbed up. “The hatchling must cleanse its wound now. The hatchling shall fetch salt water and soap.”

  “Salt water?” Viper trudged back to the wagon, still squeezing his shoulder. He had a vague notion of slowing the bleeding with pressure, but the beach insisting on wavering around him. “Can’t I melt snow?”

  “The hatchling shall boil salt water. While it waits for the water to boil the hatchling shall cleanse itself with cold brine. It shall also rinse its sullied apparel in the ocean. The hatchling shall ensure that it does not become ensnared in the undertow.”

  Viper moaned, but fetched a pot from the bottom rear chest. He trudged back to the sea to obey the Kyridon’s orders.

  He waded up to his knees into the incoming waves. “Wind Dancer sing mercy, that water is cold.” He fought to fill the pot with water and keep his balance at the same time.

  By the time he reached the shore, his padded boot was full of icy water, but at least it was still on his stump, even if it was backwards.

  He hauled the sloshing pot back to the wagon and dragged a large piece of driftwood closer. With numbed fingers, he tried to light a fire. He managed to strike a match and light some kindling, but his handful of dried grass didn’t ignite the log.

  Viper sat back on his heels and took a deep breath.

  All right, that was enough nonsense. What did he need to do to start a fire before he froze to death?

  Too bad Trevor never got around to teaching him how to get more energy out of a flame. If he could get the grass hot enough, surely the log would burn. He knew he should have pestered the old sorcerer about that.

  Now what could he do?

  He couldn’t light a mage fire, but maybe he could help an existing flame get bigger with a chant. The Turn-the-Page chant always worked. If he modified it, it might still work.

  Viper knelt and concentrated. “Fire, grow!

  “Ih neowe demande

  “Thy strengthe encresen

  “Aet min commande.”

  The little flame licked higher on the driftwood log. He added more dry grass and chanted the rhyme over and over again.

  The side of the log began to burn.

  For a mismatched chant in two languages, that bit of magic worked rather well. Trevor would be proud of him for making it work and ashamed of him for devising such a messy chant. He needed to start practicing Old Tongue again before he forgot everything Trevor ever taught him.

  The beach grayed out.

  Viper shook his head and knelt until he could focus on the red grit under his hands. Red?

  Scarlet dripped down his left arm, staining the sand.

  He closed his eyes and lurched to his feet.

  One handed, he fetched a bronze tripod out of the wagon’s middle rear chest, set it over the burning edge of the driftwood, and battled to hook the pot of salt water on the cross brace. Fire and ice shot through his wounded shoulder every time he moved, only to be followed by a stiff numbness.

  The Kyridon watched from the wagon bench, coiled up on Viper’s serdil cloak. “The hatchling is procrastinating.”

  He hissed at the serpent, but backed away from the warmth of the little fire. “I suppose you’re right. If I stay any longer, I won’t be able to face the cold.” To face the icy water. To face the dreaded ocean.

  He trudged back down to the beach and stared at the waves. His drying clothing stuck in crusty chunks to his bod
y. He felt like he was shedding his skin.

  Did the Kyridon ever shed its skin? If it did, it would never admit to it, he was sure. He was also sure the serpent would be tapping its tail in annoyance by now.

  He sighed and slogged into the ocean.

  The next wave knocked him flat on his butt. Frothy water sloshed over his chest. Brine poured over his gashes.

  Fire seared his shoulder, and he shrieked. He gasped several sharp breaths, and set his teeth against the pain.

  Thunderdrums. It was so cold, but his wounds burned like a pyre.

  A green crab swept past him, and back into the sea.

  He dug his heel deep into the sand and shuddered.

  Several waves later, a yellow-and-black striped starfish rushed by him. How he’d love to capture it! He’d never seen a live starfish before. He reached for it when it tumbled back into the ocean, but missed. If he didn’t hurt so much, he’d have chased it. But right now he needed all his strength just to sit firm against the surf.

  Between waves, he scrubbed at his clothing, and concentrated on keeping his foot firmly planted.

  Each new wave slapped him with icy brine and molten lava. But eventually, the agony in his shoulder faded to a dull throb.

  Waves coming in, brace himself. Wave safely in, scrub the clothes. Wave going out, brace. Wave safely out, scrub. Wave coming in, …

  The rhythm lulled him against the cold.

  A wave washed over his head, swept out again. Salty water invaded his nostrils, making him cough. Crimson-crusted hair flopped into his face, dripping pink water.

  The throb numbed to a mild ache. The pain eased away.

  He scrubbed at his hair, and scrubbed at his shoulder, and the waves rolled on and on.

  He must be getting warmer. His teeth stopped chattering.

  Foamy water splashed over his head. He remembered to hold his breath until it washed away.

  A tall blue-gray shape appeared next to him and nickered into his ear. Its moist breath was painfully hot.

  He blinked up into brown eyes. “Hello, Poppy. Have you turned into a kelpie? Otherwise you shouldn’t be out in the water like this. Go back ashore.”

  The roan mare snorted and nudged his chest.

  “Don’t do that.” He patted her nose fondly. “I’ll fall over and float away. I don’t want to go swimming. I don’t swim very well, you know.”