Alchemy's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 5)

by D J Salisbury

  No one spoke.

  Not entirely a good sign. Agrevod must be making a play for leadership. And now he and his crew were hostages in the game.

  Lorel kicked her fur-covered gelding forward. “I challenge anyone who messes with my clan chief,” she shouted in appallingly accented Setoyan. Hadn’t she listened to his lectures at all?

  The warriors eyed her, and several grinned in tolerant amusement. He had to admit, she looked pretty silly, coated in fur on such a warm day.

  “If you name him clan chief, you are subject to our judgment on him.” Drenfeg waved her away. “If he fails, our laws demand you be punished harshly.”

  “I ain’t worried.” Lorel rode closer to the wagon. “And I ain’t gonna let you hurt him.”

  Was she trying to humiliate him? “Stay out of it, turybird. This is my quarrel.”

  She shrugged. And looked pointedly at the bahtdor hide covering the wagon. “You already proved you can handle any trouble they give you.”

  Sure. Only the shame of fighting someone the size of a seven-year-old child would stop Agrevod from demanding a trial by single combat. A fight he’d lose unless he used magic. Assuming he could concentrate long enough to call on magic in the middle of a fight.

  Tsai’dona eased her mare closer to the team and tugged the blanket off her sweating horse’s back. “I claim him as my clan chief, also.”

  “So be it.” Drenfeg’s face twitched in a smile. “The three of you make the entire clan?”

  “There are others inside the wagon.” The door tried to lift, but he put his padded boot against it and held it closed. Or the women inside got the hint.

  Lorel finally remembered to drag the furs off her gelding. She dropped them in the trampled grass.

  Didn’t those girls have any idea of the value of the pelts they’d dumped? Even as poorly tanned as they were, exotic serdil fur would fetch a solid profit. If they ever reached civilization again.

  The chieftain rubbed his lower face, cleared his throat, and walked closer. “I know you were Outcast, but it took courage to come back and face us.” He glanced at Viper’s father. Former father. “You have also proven yourself successful, against all wagers but three.”

  Agrevod frowned sullenly.

  “Certain members of the Tribe will be glad to see you, but you are no longer of the Tribe.” The chieftain paused and looked at Viper meaningfully. “You must undergo an ordeal to earn your rights as a trader.”

  “I understand.” Viper lifted his chin. This was old news, and Drenfeg knew it. What was the point of drawing the process out?

  Lorel kneed her horse so close to the wagon she could have wiggled her rear end and shifted it to the driver’s platform. “I’m gonna champion you, kid.”

  A kind offer, but Setoyans didn’t think that way. “I must complete the ordeal by myself.” He had to face the Tribe down by himself. It was half the reason he’d brought them here. Before his nightmares destroyed him.

  Both Lorel and Tsai’dona raised their eyebrows.

  “Be aware,” the chieftain continued. “If you fail, your followers will die. All of them.”

  Blast. What a sandcrab’s attitude. Agrevod must have issued a formal challenge right before he showed up to complicate things. “I understand. Name the trial.”

  Drenfeg hesitated. He looked up into the cloudy sky.

  “Have the whelp kill the abuelo snake,” Agrevod shouted.

  What was it with abuelo snakes? Had so many hatched that all the tribes were afraid of them?

  Cries of agreement rose from the crowd.

  Lorel’s lips twisted into a snarl. “So you’d make him do something you’re scared to do yourselves?”

  Dead silence. Several spears swung her way.

  “The young warrior has a point.” Drenfeg folded his arms and frowned at the other men.

  Sandblast it. Calling the tribesmen cowards guaranteed trouble, now and later. There was only one way to repair the damage.

  “I accept the snake as my trial.” Viper lifted his hand as if to scratch his forehead, turned until the men couldn’t see his face, and winked at his turybird.

  She stood in the stirrups, ready to protest, but sank back in confusion.

  “Killing the snake will prove I’m worthy to trade with the Tribe of the Wind.” Mostly, it would prove he was brave but stupid. Smart warriors never hunted abuelo snakes in their dens. Probably because they were all too large to squirm through the entrance.

  Maybe that was why people insisted he should do it. He must be one of the few adults they’d met who’d fit.

  By Setoyan standards, fourteen and a half was entirely adult. By Zedisti norms, he still counted as a child, and would until he turned seventeen.

  Tsai’dona was seventeen, nearly as small as he was, and willing to take on the ordeal if the law allowed it. But her hips were too wide to squeeze into any den.

  So scrawny Viper was the only person who could chase an abuelo. Good thing he’d had some practice in the dragon’s tunnels. Maybe it would give him an advantage.

  Right.

  “If you can do it, I’ll reclaim you as my son.” Agrevod thrust forward his chin and caressed the pommel of his honor sword.

  “No. I do not belong to this tribe.” Viper forced his face to stay impassive. No way would he show how much his father’s betrayal still hurt. “You named me Outcast to feed your own vanity. I won’t accept kinship to flatter you.”

  The tall warrior flushed and stomped away. Many of the younger men followed him, including Viper’s older brother and four of his cousins. Which wasn’t a loss. The whole gang wasn’t worth a spoonful of grasshopper poop.

  “You just made an enemy,” Tsai’dona murmured. “Maybe a swamp of enemies.” She swung off her mare, hurried to Poppy’s side, and dragged off the protective furs.

  “That one never has had friends.” A sudden insight hit him. “He’s too full of anger and unmet expectations.”

  Lorel uncovered Periwinkle and stowed all of the improvised blankets in the trunks behind the wagon.

  Sweat stained the horses’ ribs, leaving their fur curly and smelly.

  He had to get them to water, and soon.

  Drenfeg rubbed his hands over his face. “Follow me to camp. You must leave everything there when you set out after the abuelo snake.” Which would ensure he couldn’t run away to avoid the ordeal.

  As if he’d ever abandon his friends.

  He nodded, sat down on the driver’s bench, and shook the reins.

  Before the team got moving faster than a tired shuffle, an old warrior walked over and climbed onto the driver’s platform. “They say the Wind Dancer’s breath blows in great change. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Viper smiled up at him fondly. “Well met, my friend.” He waved his bodyguards closer. “This is Lorel Gyrfalcon, my elder sister of choice. And Tsai’dona Osprey, my good friend. Inside the wagon are Bess of Moralakarakara and Zharyl of Melad, both musicians.”

  “Can we open the door now?”

  Viper and Sahilaad both jumped.

  Zharyl pounded on the door and shouted even louder. “It’s hot in here. And the ice-blighted broadsword keeps falling off the wall.”

  Praise the Thunderer. The last member of the quest must be close. “Just open the windows for now.”

  The old man snickered. “That one has a voice in her, and a temper to match, I’ll wager.”

  Viper nodded and rolled his eyes. “Ladies, meet Sahilaad, my friend and teacher, and in many ways, my father.”

  Sahilaad grinned. “Don’t let him hear you say that. It’s good to see you, apprentice. You’ve grown well. I’ve cause to be proud of you.”

  “More cause than you know.” Viper gestured to the girls. “Would you show him your swords?”

  Tsai’dona drew her fiery scimitar, and Lorel drew both of her bahtdor-bone swords.

  A pair of warriors sprinted toward them, but Sahilaad waved them away irritably. “You carved these? And D
edicated them? Thunderer! I should have fought harder to keep you. You’d have been worth the scars.”

  Viper smiled and bowed from the waist. “I am honored. But the Thunderer had plans when he let me be Outcast. I’ll explain after I pass my trial.”

  The old man rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re sure you can?”

  “I better be able to.” The alternative wasn’t acceptable for any of them. “I have some tricks up my sleeve.” All of his time pretending to be a magician should be good for something. And his snippets of sorcery might help, too.

  Sahilaad nodded slowly and escorted them into the Wind’s tent city.

  As soon as the old man climbed off the wagon, the door opened an inch and small hands slipped his saikeris onto the bench.

  “There’s a den opening not far from here.” Drenfeg strolled to the canyon’s edge and climbed down the cliff.

  Praise the Thunderer, no one insisted he go naked this time.

  Ignoring Lorel’s glare, Viper shoved the saikeris into his belt and slid off the driver’s platform. He strutted to the edge of the canyon, trying to create an air of nonchalance and dignity.

  Dignity, however, was hard to maintain while scrambling down a sand­stone wall. He bruised his rear end in the name of protecting his pride.

  At the bottom of the cliff he laughed and shook his head. I’m such a turybird. I don’t need to act proud for them. I’d best get more sensible or I’m going to get–

  Dead.

  What a mess he was in. Caught between the Deathwind and the flashflood this time, that’s for sure. But which one was the abuelo and which was Lorel?

  Lorel was more deadly. He’d survived her; he could survive a silly snake. An enormous, hungry snake. How did he get himself into these situations?

  What would Jroduin think of his predicament? He couldn’t even imagine her getting into this much trouble.

  Drenfeg stopped beside a musky-smelling hole.

  The entrance to the den was barely a foot across. What happened if he didn’t fit? Or pretended he couldn’t squeeze in?

  If they didn’t kill him outright, they’d make him sit there until the abuelo snake came out to eat him.

  He looked up at his guide. “You do know I’m going to claim the hide of this one, too.” Rather, Lorel would. Her leather fetish still astounded him.

  The war leader smiled slowly. “May the Thunderer walk with you. You’re braver than most of the fools who condemn you.”

  Viper smiled, bowed, and wiggled boots first into the tunnel before his nerve deserted him.

  Praise the Thunderer, the narrow part only lasted about three feet, and it went straight down. Once he hit the ground, he was able to stand upright.

  Dank, musty air stole the breath from his lungs. Filtered light from the canyon disappeared only a few steps from the entrance. A ghoul’s world of darkness engulfed him.

  There wasn’t one reason on Menajr to tolerate blindness. He concentrated on the darksight he’d learned in the dragon’s cavern and details of his surroundings emerged.

  Contorted walls twisted down the tunnel and curved out of sight. Corpse-gray sandstone jumbled with rotted-looking granite. Splotches of orange rock reminded him of watered blood.

  The floor was rounded and sanded smooth.

  He swallowed a mouthful of horror. Either this tunnel was used by many generations of snakes, or this was one huge old monster. The hole he’d scrambled down appeared to be a natural air vent.

  Maybe the creature was too big to move quickly. That would give him a better chance.

  Or maybe the snake was still young and small. It would explain why Drenfeg chose the little hole. But not why the tribe insisted he kill the beast.

  None of that mattered. He had to exterminate it and bring back its head. And he could. He had to.

  He straightened his back and thumped his skull on the ceiling.

  “Thunder stealing–” He clamped his teeth on the curse and smiled grimly. That should bring old scaly crawling.

  Trevor had lectured him about discipline, years ago, whenever he’d lost his temper. But it was so rare he hit his head on anything, he’d cussed without thinking.

  Not a good reaction, in this situation. Were there any good responses to such a predicament? He’d surely fallen off the Deathsinger’s cliff this time.

  Rubbing the back of his head, he slunk farther into the tunnel.

  The earth closed in around him, pulling him tighter and tighter into its embrace. The air stank, but it felt lifeless, and the harder he breathed, the less it filled his lungs.

  The tunnel continued to shrink until he was crawling on his hands and knees.

  He had to move faster. If the snake caught him here, he was dead. There was sure to be a cavern ahead. But how far?

  His heart hammered louder than autumn thunder. His throat pinched so tight he couldn’t breathe. He was about to give up and crawl backwards when the tunnel opened up around him.

  The grotto wasn’t much larger than his wagon, but there was adequate room to make a stand in, and the tall tunnel beyond it offered a place to run. He stationed himself beside the crawl hole on the theory the snake would follow his scent, and settled in to wait.

  Once his pulse stopped pounding, exhaustion set in. Even though he shook from the cold – not from fear! – he caught himself drifting into sleep.

  He jumped up and rubbed his arms, trying to force some heat into his system, but eventually fatigue made him sit down again. He lowered his body temperature a little to stop his shaking, but he dared not lower it much; cooled blood made him lethargic.

  What a whiner he’d become. It was much warmer here than in the dragon’s tunnels. Cold wasn’t why he was shaking. It was pure nerves. He had to think about something.

  Like staying alive.

  He focused on the tunnel beside him and waited. And waited. Hours went by. Days, maybe. How long had he been down here?

  Maybe the blasted snake had died of old age before he met the tribe. It made sense. No one had mentioned anyone disappearing lately. If he found the monster’s skeleton, he’d be safe. He’d look for it in a minute…

  Whispers of a breeze through the leaves disturbed his slumber. A gentle, rasping, comforting sound, but something about it bothered him. Trying to trace the problem, he nearly slipped back into sleep.

  There were no leaves in the chamber.

  Viper sat up. His heart’s thunder drowned out the whispering sound.

  The abuelo snake’s head emerged from the large tunnel on the far side of the grotto. Its tongue flicked in his direction. The creature paused, but the rustling sound continued.

  Surely it was the grandfather of all grandfather snakes! Its head was bigger around than a warrior’s chest! It could devour him whole the way Kyri swallowed a chicken, and never show a lump to mark his passage.

  He’d be nothing more than an afternoon snack.

  He shook off the thought and searched for weak spots.

  Smooth scales shimmered like a pale corpse. The skin looked fragile, but years ago he’d seen the hide of a little one, only twenty feet long. The leather was thick and tough enough to make a war shield.

  Oh, Thunderer. Let it be that the tanning made the hide tough, not age. Otherwise this ancient monster would be invincible.

  The rustling whisper stopped.

  He inched to his feet, eased his saikeris from his belt, and circled to the left.

  Dead gray eyes watched him. Its forked tongue tasted the air.

  The thing may look blind, but it certainly was aware of him. How was he going to get close enough to kill it?

  He wasn’t. The best he could do was throw magic at it. Praying for inspiration, he gathered his will.

  Coils shifted, scales whispered. The serpent’s head swayed back.

  Blast, it would strike like a rattlesnake. Viper narrowed his eyes and concentrated on a silent chant.

  The flat head shot forward.

  Brilliant will-light bur
st across the cavern, directly at the snake.

  He threw himself to the right and struck hard with his saikeris.

  Both weapons skittered off the huge neck.

  The abuelo yanked its head to the side. It flung itself against the wall, but rebounded back at him. The side of its head crashed against his chest.

  He went flying. His head collided with the far wall.

  Yellow flares exploded before his eyes. His darksight and will-light flickered out. He slid down stone to the ground. Only his training with the girls kept his saikeris secure in his hands.

  The little light he could see faded into red smudges.

  Sullen crimson blotches, threaded with earthworm brown. What an interesting aura. He didn’t think he’d ever seen one remotely like it.

  Judging by its aura, the abuelo coiled more of its bulk into the grotto. It reared slowly, wraithlike, until its head touched the ceiling. How odd. How mesmerizing.

  Suddenly the crimson-splotched aura took on meaning. He forced his eyes to focus.

  Fangs plunged down at him.

  Blast! He rolled to the side and thrust one saikeri out where his chest had been, its prongs pointed upward.

  The snake crashed down as though it hadn’t seen him move. It hit with such staggering force he should’ve been thrown aside, but his arm was trapped under its throat.

  “Lightning strike you!” Oh, wind blast it. His arm was stuck. Warm, sticky liquid oozed across his hand. His own blood?

  Red sparks swirled behind his eyes. Lavender mist rose around him.

  The red embers were surely a hallucination, but the mist worried him. He invoked darksight again, and the lavender faded a little.

  He tried to pull free. Gasped in agony. Was his arm broken? But he’d be better off losing the arm if the monster wasn’t dead.

  Fighting to ignore the pain, he sucked in a deep breath and pulled harder. His bloody arm squirted free.

  His whole side screamed with fire. Gentle probing hinted nothing was broken, but his arm was covered in blood.

  The snake lifted its head sluggishly.

  Sandblast it. The beast was still alive. He scuttled to the far side of the chamber.

  Red light faded, but a pale purple fog followed him.