After what seemed like hours, Angus finally opened his eyes and saw a strange blue pall covering everything. He turned his head far enough to the left and right to get a sense of where he was, and noticed the odd blue ball of light beside him. Lamplight, he thought. Still the mind. Wrongly cast. Still the body. There was something he needed to remember. Still the mind.
He was on the lift, and it was steadily rising. Hobart was lying nearby, and Ortis was tending to him—or trying to; there was nothing he could do for him. Yffrim poison was like that.
Angus lifted his left arm and slid it inside his robe to probe his right shoulder. Chipped ice was packed around it, quickly melting away, but underneath the ice was a tightly wrapped bandage. He frowned. Why had they put ice on his shoulder? The robe made it pointless. Unless….
Angus closed his eyes and moved his hand down to the sash. It was improperly tied. The knot was the key to the magic; when the sash was tied properly, the knot activated the spells he had cast that would regulate his internal temperature. If the sash was untied or tied wrongly, the robe wouldn’t work properly. Whoever had tied this knot hadn’t done it quite right. It wasn’t so wrong that the robe wasn’t working, but it needed to be adjusted. He eased the knot free and opened the robe, making sure the ends of the sash didn’t meet. Almost immediately, he was struck by the sudden, deep chill of the ice. It had been a long time since he had felt such cold, and he would have gasped if it weren’t for the mantra keeping his mind and body still. There has to be a reason for the ice, Angus thought, as he let the cold seep into him.
There was more ice on his left foot, its weight painfully pressing down on it. The horrid throbbing in his ankle and foot gradually eased as the heavy ice sapped the feeling from it. Minutes passed. The wretched pain eased to a dull ache masked by a benumbing cold. It was a welcome cold; where there was no ice, his skin was hot—too hot for the chill spring air. Sweat sprouted on his forehead, and he was having difficulty focusing on the mantra.
Fever, he thought with detachment. Still the body. Which is worse? he wondered. Still the mind. The pain? Still the body. Or the oncoming swarm of delusions from an addled mind that cannot be stilled. The disorientation grew, threatening to overcome him, and he reached for the sash to tie it again. It was difficult to do with one hand, but at least it was his left, the dominant hand, and he was growing accustomed to using it on its own. When he finished, the feverish temperature rapidly declined and the chill fled from him like smoke fleeing from a fire.
The pain returned.
He gasped.
His body tensed, but he made no effort to rise.
A moment later, Ortis was at his side with his hand on Angus’s forehead. There was a strange blue sheen to the paleness of his white skin. After a few seconds, Ortis lifted the robe and shook his head. “This ice shouldn’t be melting this quickly,” he muttered.
“The robe,” Angus muttered, thrusting the pain from him as best he could. His voice was weak, little more than a whisper of wind. “Why?”
Ortis met his gaze, and there was almost compassion in the detached orange-tinted, owl-like eyes. They looked brown in the faint blue glow. “How do you feel?”
With my fingers, Angus thought before asking, “Why the ice?”
Ortis frowned and said, “To reduce the swelling,” he said. Then he paused a long moment before adding, “and to preserve the flesh.”
Angus frowned. It was a peculiar response. He knew ice would reduce swelling, but what did Ortis mean by preserving the flesh? “How bad?” he asked, his voice reluctantly escaping from his throat. Why was everything blue? Had he suffered a head wound that he couldn’t remember? No, it was the miscast Lamplight spell. Why couldn’t he remember that?
Ortis turned his gaze away to check under Angus’s robe again. “The shoulder’s crushed,” he said, “and your arm was twisted. The elbow will be useless for a long time, but it should heal eventually. The shoulder probably won’t. The bones were shattered and we have no way of tending to them until we get back to Hellsbreath.”
Angus had noted those injuries when he had first awoken, but his left foot had been completely numb then and now it wasn’t.
Ortis moved lower and lifted the hem of his robe from his left foot. “You’re going to lose the foot,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. It was merely a statement of fact and nothing else.
Angus frowned. “Why?”
Ortis gently replaced the robe and met his gaze again. “I had hoped the ice would reduce the swelling and keep the flesh from rotting. Your boot was on too tightly and cut off the circulation for too long.”
Angus’s frown deepened. Ungred.…
Ortis shrugged and turned to the side as he said, “Hobart’s in bad shape. He may die.”
Angus shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “He’ll live. He shouldn’t have eaten the yffrim meat.” The pain was more intense than it had been before he had let the ice take effect, and it was becoming difficult to concentrate. “It’s a creature from the far north, where ice is ever-present. There’s a taint in its blood that keeps it from freezing. It poisons other creatures, making their blood thicken and flow too slowly when the meat is ingested. He will sleep most of it off in a few days.” Angus winced and shuddered. The foot must be in bad shape for it to feel that way. “Don’t eat any more of it.”
Ortis nodded, “We already tossed it out.”
Angus closed his eyes and asked, “Will the ice save my foot?”
Ortis hesitated and said, “It might.”
A soft wail whistled through Angus’s sharply focused mind. It was not coming from his ears; it was coming from … elsewhere. The sound felt familiar; he had sensed something like it before, when—
“Sardach,” he hissed, clenching his teeth and closing his eyes.
Ortis almost jumped, and then asked, “That thing that carried you away?”
Angus frowned. Sardach would have to be close if he could sense him like this. “Sardach is coming,” he said.
Ortis nodded and reached for his brow again. “You said that before,” he said. “He’s already been here and gone.”
Angus listened to the wailing. It was a quiet, wretched sound of something in pain, like a whimpering dog too-tightly tied to a leash. Sardach was close, and he was coming. He wanted.…
Angus twisted his left wrist, expecting the wand to be released into his palm, but nothing happened. “My wand,” he muttered, twisting his arm again. “I must have dropped it—”
Ortis stared at him and said, “Don’t worry about that right now. You need to focus on staying alive.”
“You have to find my wand,” Angus demanded. “It’s the only thing that can destroy Sardach.”
Ortis shook his head. “Sardach is gone. You need to rest.”
Angus laughed, a single harsh, barking laugh. Sardach wanted the key and would not stop pursuing them—pursuing him—until he got it. “He’s nearby,” he said with certainty. “I need my backpack.”
“That can wait,” Ortis said, ignoring the urgency in Angus’s voice. “You need—”
“No,” Angus said. “I need my backpack. Now!”
Ortis hesitated, but Angus’s tone was too demanding for him to ignore it—or else he simply decided to humor him. “All right,” Ortis said. “I’ll bring it to you.”
Angus caught his arm before he could leave and demanded, “Did you see my wand? I used it on the yffrim. It should have been there with me.”
Ortis didn’t answer for a long moment, and then looked into his eyes and said, “Hobart doesn’t think you’re Angus. You’ve changed too much. He thinks you’re the other one, the one who wanted to kill Giorge.”
Giorge! Angus thought. Where—?
“Hobart doesn’t trust you,” Ortis continued. “He wanted to secure your fingers and hands, but I convinced him you were in no condition to be a threat with your magic.”
“Hobart’s a fool,” Angus scoffed, almost losing his mantra in a sudden f
it of anger. “I am Angus, both the one you know and the one you don’t. Typhus is gone. He was the one who wanted to kill Giorge.” Sardach’s wailing was becoming a distraction making it difficult for Angus to concentrate. It was as if Sardach was reaching out to him, trying to find him like he had found Typhus. How close was he? “Sardach is nearby, and he is coming for me,” Angus said. “I need the wand to defend myself—to defend us—against him.”
A second Ortis handed the first one Angus’s backpack, and he set it down within easy reach of Angus’s left arm. Angus tilted the pack, opened it, and rustled around until he felt the charred surface of the tunic. He brought the tunic out and set it on his chest and slowly unfolded it. As he did so, he patted it until he found the pocket that held the key. He pulled out the key—a strangely shaped key wrought from gold—and sighed. “It’s still here.”
Ortis frowned and reached for Angus’s brow again. “Angus—”
Angus brushed Ortis’s hand away and held up the key so his companion could see it. “Argyle wants this key,” he said. “He has sent Sardach to find it. Sardach is nearby—we’re somehow connected, and I sense his presence—and there is only one thing we can use to stop him: my wand. We must go back to where I killed the yffrim and find it. You must do it now, before it is too late.”
Ortis shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“Yes it is!” Angus nearly shouted, quickly regretting it as he felt the bones in his shoulder grate against each other. “Nothing else will hurt Sardach. You saw what happened with your arrows and Hobart’s sword. They were useless. My spells—” he shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to reinforce the mantra and calm his emotions.
“You’re in no condition to do battle,” Ortis said, his tone even and uncompromising. “Neither is Hobart.”
After Angus had quashed the pain again, he said, his voice low and soft as if he were speaking to himself, “My spells will fuel Sardach’s power. He is a smoke elemental. His essence is flame and earth. Most of my spells are from those two spheres, and they will revitalize him. He is only susceptible to the opposing elemental forces, those of air and water. The wand contains powerful air-based magic, and it did significant damage to Sardach when I used it on him. It was only a glancing blow, but I am certain he hasn’t forgotten it. I must have my wand. We must find it. If we do not, Sardach will kill all of us to get this key, and he will do so with ease.”
Ortis shook his head, “Hobart—”
Angus scowled and growled, almost like the cat that had gnawed on his shoulder, “Hobart’s a fool. I am Angus, the real Angus. What must I do to convince you of that? Recite how we met by the boulder blocking the road to Hellsbreath? Tell you the names of the men dismantling it? Remind you of the spell I cast that scared off your horses?” His tone was sarcastic, indignant, and he let his frustration and anguish come through. He needed his energy to control his pain, and Hobart’s idiocy was making that much more difficult. Besides, he didn’t care if Ortis believed him or not; he only cared about getting his wand back. “Should I remind you of how he banged his head in the hidden passage under the Angst temple? How I saved you by retrieving your body from that pit you fell into? Or should I just ask you what happened to Giorge after I was carried off?” He suddenly paused, and his voice softened as the indignation left him. “The last I saw of Giorge, he was being attacked by a frost elemental. He died, didn’t he?” It wasn’t harsh; it was a statement of presumed fact stated with a coldness he didn’t quite feel. “That’s why he isn’t here, isn’t it? The frost elemental killed him?”
Ortis frowned and nodded once very slowly. “All right,” he said. “You seem to know some of what Angus would know, but if you were somehow joined….”
“Unwillingly,” Angus snapped. “Voltari did it without my permission.”
Ortis shrugged and seemed to come to a decision. “We don’t have to go back for the wand,” he said. “You were still clutching it in your hand when we found you. We brought it with us, but Hobart insisted that we hold onto it until we knew who you were.”
Angus frowned and asked. “What about Giorge?”
“He died,” Ortis replied, his voice barely audible as he leaned in close to Angus’s ear. “Speak softly on it,” he whispered. “Hobart was devastated by Giorge’s death, and when we took his corpse to the place marked on the map—” He paused and shook his head “—a tomb was waiting for him. Giorge rose up and walked into it on his own. He was dead, but.…” Ortis shook his head again. “Once he was inside the tomb, it disappeared.”
Angus closed his eyes to absorb the news. He wasn’t particularly fond of Giorge—the scrawny little thief had tried to steal from him far too often, and the last time had nearly killed him—but he was surprisingly sad at the news of Giorge’s death. There was something likeable about the reckless little thief who laughed too loudly in the face of danger. The curse, though.…
“Where are his things?” Angus asked, a bit of excitement returning to his voice. “What did you do with the Viper’s Eyes?” Giorge had said they made it possible for him to see magic, and if they still had them, perhaps Angus could use them to see magic in color again. If he could do that, he would be able to cast spells properly and not end up with the weird blue glow of his faulty Lamplight spell. If he could tie the knots with one hand. He frowned and turned to it.
Ortis scowled at him and said, “The curse vanished with him. So did the gems.”
Angus took a slow, deep breath. Did it really matter if he could see magic properly? What he had told Ortis was true: his spells would be useless against Sardach. The wand was their only chance. Besides, he was in no condition to cast spells. The Lamplight attested to that. He was in desperate need of a healer, and there were no healers in this wilderness. It would be days, possibly weeks, before they would return to civilization.
Angus frowned. Days? “How long have I been unconscious?” he asked.
“We found you yesterday,” Ortis said.
Angus nodded and turned away from the Lamplight spell and said, his tone grim. “We must prepare for Sardach. He is coming, and there will be little we can do about it. Our only chance is my wand—” he lifted the key, stared at it, and frowned “—and this key.” After a moment, he looked into Ortis’s owl-like eyes and said, “Return my wand to me or not. If you don’t, we will all die. If you do, we will have a small chance at survival. The choice is yours.” He paused to look at the key again, turning it slowly in his fingers as if he were inspecting a small gem. “Unless…”
Ortis stared at him for a long moment, and then asked, “Unless what?”
Why does Argyle want this key? Angus wondered, turning it over in his hand. Typhus had come to Voltari for help because Argyle’s men had chased him out of Tyrag and across the vast plains of Tyr. Typhus had no doubt killed many of Argyle’s men, but even after Voltari had secured Typhus in Angus’s body—his master would pay for that!—Argyle hadn’t given up. He had sent Fanzool and Sardach after him. The key was important to Argyle, but how important? What would Argyle do to get it back? “I need to think,” Angus muttered, watching the blue light glint off the polished surface of the golden key and feeling the inkling of a plan begin to germinate.
If Argyle wanted the key badly enough….
3
Sardach hovered above the ice and studied it from a distance. It wasn’t magical, so it couldn’t do any permanent damage to him, but there was enough of it to cause him considerable discomfort, even pain. It was the right place; he remembered the curve of the mountain and the jagged outcropping. He had dropped the other one, the one named Angus, near here.
He circled the hole, keeping well above the surface of the ice and spreading himself outward as far as he dared, thinning into a translucent gray-black shadow that had been flung into the night sky. He kept his eyes hidden; he didn’t need them to see, and he was certain Angus had seen them when he had approached the last time. That time, Angus had hurt him, and he was
not going to give the wizard another chance to injure him. The wizard had magic that was dangerous to Sardach, even deadly.
Sardach had already scoured the mountainside, but all he had found was a new cave, an empty one that still reeked of magic. Angus was nowhere on that mountainside, but not far from the cave was a narrow, vertical shaft in the ice. It had not been there before; Sardach was certain of it. It went downward, deep into the hellish ice, and he was certain Angus had made it. He didn’t know how he could be so certain of that, but something had lingered between them after he had separated Typhus from Angus, a residual connection with the mage, a kind of afterimage of Angus’s passing.
He was drawn to the hole, but he didn’t want to enter it. He descended until the chill of the ice reached up for him and began sapping his energy. It was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t painful—yet. If he drew closer it would get worse, and he had to get closer. He would have to go into the hole to see if Angus was still there, to see if the key was with him at the bottom of it. The key…
Argyle had been clear. He could not return to him without the key, and he didn’t care what Sardach had to do to get the key. Typhus had said the key was with Angus, and that was where Argyle had sent him. If Angus was at the bottom of that hole.…
Sardach tried to see into the hole but couldn’t. The hateful ice blocked his senses, kept him from seeing more than a few feet into it. He would have to go into the hole to find out if Angus was there, and he didn’t want to do it. How could he allow himself to be swallowed up by such wickedness? Even normal ice, thick and dense as this was, could cause him a great deal of pain if he were surrounded by it.
Find me that key, Argyle had said. Do whatever is necessary….
Whatever is necessary.
Sardach drew himself into his most compact form, and positioned himself just above the hole. It would be a tight squeeze. He might touch the icy walls, and if he did, they would sap his energy even more than his proximity to the cold. He could become trapped in an icy prison that slowly stripped him of his life force, his energy. But normal ice wouldn’t kill him—couldn’t kill him. How long would he shiver in agony at the bottom of the icy pit, condensed to a shriveled point of tortured consciousness?
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 23
