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

by D J Salisbury

  Tsai’dona poked a stick at the carcass. “Was it magic that killed them?”

  Viper shuddered, but tried to hide it. “I didn’t entirely have control of the spell.” Putting it mildly. “I was just desperate to keep them out.”

  The Kyridon snugged its coils around him, rather like a hug. “The hatchling exploited the resources available effectively.”

  Lorel blinked at the serpent, but shrugged and drew her knife. She cut off a fist sized chunk from the serdil’s shoulder and offered it to the serpent.

  “This one is indebted.” It swallowed the singed flesh whole. It seemed to hold the meat in its throat for a moment, as thought it were tasting it. “The serdil is not entirely savory, but it is less tiresome than fish and fish-flavored birds.”

  He laughed and worked to concentrate on the fire, to keep his trickle of power steady.

  The pack continued to flow past the camp like a river of gray fur.

  The Kyridon followed his gaze. “This one apologizes for underestimating the extent of the hazard.”

  Lorel snorted. Tsai’dona coughed.

  But neither of them said anything cutting. How they managed to hold in their smart remarks, he’d never know. Well, maybe being trapped in a ring of fire with an gigantic, magical snake had something to do with it.

  Chapter 20.

  The serdil took two days to reduce the Hreshith corpse to a tattered skeleton. A thousand gulls worked to strip away the flesh left in the heights while thousands of crabs chewed on the lower bones and on any serdil that died on the beach.

  Viper spent both days trying to keep the fire burning. By the end of the second day, only an illusion of fire surrounded the camp. He hoped the serdil didn’t notice the lack of heat, but he didn’t dare draw on the Hreshith bones again. There was no way he could control that much power now.

  Now? He hadn’t controlled it the first time. His gut shriveled every time he thought about how close he’d come to dissolving into ash.

  He sincerely hoped the serdil left before he collapsed from exhaustion. And before he suffocated from the stench of two days’ worth of horse residue.

  “There’s a whole bunch of dead critters out there.” Lorel shook her head and continued to stare at the serdil. “I can’t figure what killed them.”

  “Are you talking about serdil or gulls?” He kicked at the cook fire restlessly. Going for a walk might help, but they were trapped inside the illusion. “They probably ate too much and burst. I suspect a few crabs will do the same.”

  “Yeah? Well, I ain’t been eating that well, myself.” She stalked back and forth along the edges their prison as if she were looking for a way out. “I’m half tempted to go and fight for a bite.”

  Tsai’dona, who was sitting up on the driver’s bench, snorted and continued to mend Lorel’s torn shirt.

  Viper shuddered. “Not me. I couldn’t eat any part of her, no matter how hungry I got. I’ll stick to rice, thank you.” Their stores of rice were low, but should last until full spring, when he could forage fresh food. At least, they’d last if he could get out of here before Lorel devoured everything.

  “Maybe I can snitch a couple of crabs?” Lorel clutched her belly dramatically. “I can’t live on rice forever! I’ll waste away.”

  “I doubt that very much.” He paced around the fire ring, trying to keep himself alert. If he sat down, he’d fall asleep. If he slept, his illusions would die. And so would all of them, in the jaws of the serdil.

  “Just because the monsters haven’t bothered us lately doesn’t mean they won’t eat you now.” Tsai’dona pointed her needle at a pair of wrestling males. “They look plenty feisty to me. Hey, look there.”

  A massive female trotted away from the pack, headed north. She went alone for five hundred paces, turned around, and howled.

  “Grab the horses,” he whispered. “Try to keep them quiet.”

  The serdil pack fell absolutely silent.

  Tsai’dona dropped her mending, swung to the ground, and rubbed the riding horses’ noses. Lorel sauntered between the roans and scratched their chins.

  Several large females got up out of the sand, shook themselves, and sauntered over to their waiting leader. The rest of the pack trotted after the older beasts.

  The horses fidgeted, but didn’t fight the girls. He suspected the poor animals had been surrounded by enemies for so long they’d become numb.

  The largest female led the horde north and east, back toward the mountains. In minutes their section of the beach was empty.

  Lorel stared open-mouthed at the receding gray wave. “That was weird.”

  “Quite eerie.” Viper shook himself, casting off the surrealistic feeling the scene had cast over him. Did serdils have their own brand of magic? “Do you think they’ll come back?”

  “I sorta doubt it.” Lorel jerked her chin at the denuded skeleton. “There ain’t much here to eat.”

  “There’s still us.”

  Tsai’dona snickered. “I think you showed them that we’re too much trouble.”

  “I hope you’re right.” He closed his eyes and released the magic. The illusions of fire, boulders, and stable walls faded into sunshine.

  “Finally. ” Lorel untied the horses. All four trotted away from the camp at a brisk clip, but they settled at the nearest clumps of grass.

  His concentration evaporated into fatigue, but he forced himself to stay awake. Ammonia fumes helped him. “It stinks. We need to move the wagon.”

  “We shoveled all the manure into the fire, kid!” Had her nose stopped working? Admittedly, burnt green horse turds had smelled even worse.

  “You didn’t shovel all the urine.” Viper rolled his watering eyes. “I never guessed a horse could hold that much.”

  Lorel snickered and strode away from the camp. “Let’s go see what’s left. And try to find some supper.”

  Viper glanced at the wagon, but decided he was too tired to move it, even if the team cooperated, and too keyed up to sleep. He staggered after her.

  Tsai’dona strolled at his side. “She’s up to something.”

  He nodded. The turybird couldn’t stay out of trouble if she tried.

  Lorel led the way to the beach, stopping at a serdil carcass to skin it. “How about you carry this for me? I’ll get done quicker that way.”

  He backed away. “You can carry your own smelly hides,” he said indignantly, and from a distance. “I don’t want anything to do with your tannery business.”

  Lorel laughed.

  Tsai’dona shook her head, but stepped closer. “It’s a wonder the gulls haven’t gotten to it yet.”

  “I imagine the serdil ate them.” He wished the gulls had ruined the pelts. The turybird must have two hundred stinky hides stashed away where their shrinking rice and horse feed stores used to be.

  Lorel continued along the beach, skinning four dead serdil, one after another, and dragging the collection of pelts behind her. When she had skinned all of the least damaged carcasses, she took off her boots and trudged barefoot into the ocean. She rinsed each stinky, bloody pelt in salt water.

  Viper and Tsai’dona watched from the shore. He’d had quite enough experience with the ocean to last a lifetime.

  Lorel looked up from her pelt washing and laughed at them. “You’re a couple of prissy foots.”

  “We’ve got better sense than to freeze in ice water,” Viper called back. “When you take a chill, don’t expect any sympathy.”

  He turned his back on her and left to explore the new skeleton.

  The Hreshith seemed smaller dead and naked than she had fully fleshed. The sea’s empress, the Kyridon had named her, and the name fit even yet. The Deathsinger could not steal this wonderful creature’s dignity.

  He roamed along her back, rubbing his hands along the lengthy spines. Oddly, the serdil hadn’t bothered to chew on most of them. Perhaps they were too gristly.

  He examined the last spine carefully. It appeared to be hollow.

&
nbsp; ***

  After talking Tsai into carrying the new pelts back to the wagon, Lorel went looking for the kid. She found him sitting in the sand, fondling the end of a spike shooting out of the sea empress’s back. She nudged his thigh with her foot. “What on the Loom are you doing?”

  He looked up at her, his eyes as thrilled as sparring warriors in a well-matched duel, but all unfocused, like he was drunk. “What does a seahorn look like before it’s been bent into shape?”

  She backed away a few steps so she wouldn’t hit him. “I told you already.”

  The frayed thread had to be drunk. But how’d he find anything out here? He’d run out of wine a lunar ago. She’d run out of beer long before that.

  “It’s a long brass tube that looks – sort of like that spike! It’s hollow? Kid, you’re the best! If I can figure out how to bend it, I can use one of these!” Her stomach sank. “If I can soften it up.”

  “Let me worry about softening it. I’ll make up a potion to do that.” The kid stood and brushed the sand off his trousers. “First you need to carve all of the holes and runes, or whatever else. The softening and bending come last.”

  “I hear you, kid. I’ll make it real pretty, ’cuz this time I know it’s gonna work.” She stalked from spike to spike, stopping at the longest one. “I’ll use this one.”

  He frowned up at her. “That’s closer to twenty feet than twelve.”

  “Don’t worry about it, kid. Long’ll give it a deep voice.” A more military voice, like a real weapon should have, not all squeaky like the miswoven flute.

  She patted the spike lovingly. Finally she’d get her part done. “You just make me that magic potion. I got the reins on this job. Now, you head back to camp, and I’ll go find us some supper.”

  The kid shook his head. “I won’t eat serdil meat. I’m nowhere near that hungry. I’ll go hunt up some tubers.”

  Lorel laughed. Silly boy. He never got properly hungry. “I won’t bring home no serdil. Even the toad don’t like the taste much. I’ll find real food if it takes me all the rest of sunlight.”

  He shrugged and staggered away, dragging his feet like they weighed more than the wagon. His foot. Must be his knees that were dragging.

  The kid did look pretty tired. Maybe that magic stuff took more out of him than she thought.

  No point in worrying about it now. The magic part was all over. She had dinner to catch. Eating plain brown rice for two days had left her craving a good meal.

  She trotted down the beach, watching for tide-stranded fish. She didn’t plan to eat anything that chewed on the Empress, no matter how much she teased the kid.

  ***

  By the time he got back to camp, Tsai’dona had moved the wagon several hundred feet upstream and had saddled her mare. “Kyri-thing said to tell you it was going hunting. I want to, too.”

  “I wish great success on both of you.” He plopped down next to the new campfire. “Lorel’s gone hunting along the beach. Go inland and watch out for good grazing, would you?”

  Tsai’dona nodded and mounted her horse. “I’m sure Sumach will guide me straight to it.” She waved and rode away.

  He was still wound up, but surely he was tired enough to fall asleep. Climbing into the wagon was almost more trouble than it was worth, but finally he collapsed onto the padded trunk that doubled as a chair. Just a short rest before he crawled up to his bunk.

  The ghost shimmered into sight.

  “Lightning blast you.” The words were rude, but his voice was too tired to sound threatening. Or even scared. “Go away.”

  The sandblasted ghost grinned at him. “I thought you’d enjoy a lessons on talismans.”

  He sat up straight. The Kyridon had been teasing him with hints about talismans for ages. “I’m listening.”

  “The key to constructing a talisman is to set a trigger in the spell.” The ghost sat down on Lorel’s bed. “Concentrate on delaying the spell until the trigger is unleashed, even while you’re making the spell.”

  Their knees almost touched. He didn’t bother to move away. In fact, he didn’t feel any fear at all. Only fascination. “So I need to weave two spells at once.”

  “At least four: the spell, the delay, the trigger, and masking the trigger. And often several more, depending on the complexity of the foundation spell.” The ghost pointed up at his clothing chest, where he’d hidden RedAdder’s grimoire. “That evil little book has several triggers in it.”

  Books weren’t evil. Only the people who misused their knowledge were evil. He didn’t have time to argue that point at the moment. “Can a talisman be – unenchanted?”

  “Without triggering the spell?” The ghost tilted its head. “In theory. If you’re determined enough. But you need to learn how to create a talisman first.”

  That made sense. He slid his padded boot off his stump. “I’ll use this.”

  The ghost’s eyebrows rose to its insubstantial hairline. “And trigger it to do what?”

  “To return to me if it ever falls off.”

  “Not a bad idea.” The ghost eyed his reddened stump and nodded slowly. “Probably a good idea. How will you trigger it?”

  He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Can I summon it like I’d summon a ghost?” He cringed at his gaffe. Surely it was rude to mention summoning to a dead man.

  The ghost merely nodded. “That will work if you name it, and include the name in your spell.”

  “Something fancier than ‘boot’?”

  “Boot will do. Put it on the floor. Now, concentrate on its name, Boot, and on causing Boot to move forward, but only when you summon it to move. We’ll leave out the masking spell for this trial, since no one is here to notice the talismanic spell.”

  Praise the Thunderer they were leaving out something. All the rest of the spell was overwhelming, even without the mask.

  How could he make the silly thing move? With a chant of course. He quickly modified the Sweep the Floor chant. “Boot, reis, wac. Accioun nu tak. Cuman a me, aet min nied, hwenne cealian Ih mak.” Boot, rise, wake. Action now take. Come to me, at my need, when call to you I make. Yes, that should work.

  “Interesting. I hadn’t expected you to be a chanter.” The ghost stared at him like he’d offered to ride a bahtdor. “Fascinating. Try triggering the spell.”

  So soon? Well, why not? He could re-enchant it later. “Boot, come, I need you.”

  His padded boot hopped away.

  The ghost laughed. “That’s not a talisman. I think you’ve captured a sprite.”

  “Where would I get a sprite?” His boot hopped in circles, but eventually ran into his good foot. He scooped it up and slammed it onto his stump.

  The leather wasn’t twitching. The padding wasn’t contracting like a heartbeat. Those sensations were purely his imagination.

  The ghost shrugged and smiled at him. “My name is Frederick.” And it vanished.

  Wait, it couldn’t leave yet. He hadn’t begun to understand talismans. But it would be rude to summon it. If he even could.

  Frederick. It was an old Zedisti name. Why had a Zedisti magician died so far from home?

  Chapter 21.

  When she finally finished carving on the miswoven seahorn, Lorel stashed it out of the way under the wagon next to the kid’s broadsword. They were both so fraying big they wouldn’t fit nowhere else without somebody tripping over them.

  She plopped down in the sand in front the kid. “I need that magic potion to soften the spike so I can bend it.”

  He looked up from whittling on the scimitar, all doe-eyed and startled, like he’d never seen her before. “There’s a few things you need to do, first.”

  Lots of things, it turned out.

  The fraying kid made her haul clay from the cliffs and mix it with sand and stuff. He told her to make a mud trough long enough and deep enough to lay the spike inside. And the walls had to be six inches thick.

  It was kinda fun, playing in the mud, but it took fraying forever to m
ake the thing. She needed a full day to haul lump after sticky lump to the kid’s special place, a hundred paces from their camp, and another day to slap it into shape.

  All that time the kid carved on a broadsword so big nobody could ever use it. What, was he making it for a fraying dragon?

  And Tsai went hunting. Not that she brought back anything except one fat fish, but she got to go riding all day long. It wasn’t fair.

  That night Lorel stood guard to protect her trough from critters and pranksters. She got to run off a bunch of birds that wanted to play in her mud. Not much of a challenge, but it was fun to hear them squawk.

  She had to wait another miswoven day for the Loom-warping trough to dry. She paced around camp. She practiced suicide lunges. She chopped wood. Lots of wood.

  The kid stopped talking to her.

  Tsai looked ready to murder her before noon on that third day. “I’m going hunting. Why don’t you work on the flute?”

  Like the frayed thread understood anything. She was way too wound up to sit and carve. She’d chop her own arm off.

  She sat on the wagon’s roof all night, guarding her creation. Not that she needed to. Nothing showed up to entertain her. At dawn she hurried off to inspect her work.

  The overgrown mud bowl done shrank a little. No, it shrank a lot. The thread-snipping trough ended up eighteen feet long and seven inches wide and deep. That better be big enough.

  She sprinted back to camp and tugged the carving knife out of the kid’s hand. “Come look. It’s ready now.”

  He gaped at her like she’d fallen off the Shuttle, but limped over to inspect the trough.

  “Well? Ain’t it ready?”

  He just stood there, staring at it like he couldn’t believe she’d made something so pretty. Or really, so ugly. The insides were smooth, but the outside were kinda rough.

  When he didn’t move for a thousand years, she crouched and ran her fingers along the bottom. “It’s finally gotten dry.”

  He knelt and touched the rough red clay outsides cautiously, like it might bite him. “Praise the Thunderer. I thought it would crumble at a touch.”