The Golden Key (Book 3) (24 page)

“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?

He shuddered. This ice was of the kind that would last a
very long time. It was a slow-moving, deep river of ice that could trap him for
ages if the tunnel collapsed in around him, and he would be too weak to escape
from it, too weak to climb out again.

Do whatever is necessary
….

Sardach began to twist around himself, sending a thin, string-like
tendril slowly downward toward the mouth of the hole. The familiar overwhelming
antagonism of the ice struck him in a cold wave, and he sensed its desire to
consume him in its frozen craw. Or was it just his imagination? The ice on this
world wasn’t alive, like his arch enemy—was it?

The tip of the tendril probed the rim of the hole, not quite
touching it, to test its boundaries. He sent his senses into it as far as he
could, but they barely penetrated past the surface. The ice was blocking his
perception; he would have to go deeper. He twisted some more, gradually
lengthening his body into a thin, smoky cord that tentatively entered the hole.
He cringed and drew back. It was cold, so cold.…

It was necessary.

He unraveled himself a little at a time and dipped deeper and
deeper into the hole. A wave of cold seeped into him and slowly drained the
warmth that sustained him. He sucked in upon himself, the tendril growing ever
tighter and tighter until it was little more than a hair’s-breadth wide and as
solid and inflexible as an iron rod. But he didn’t stop his descent, not even
when his senses were so overwhelmed that he almost had to touch something to sense
it, not even when the depth threatened to drag the rest of him into the hole
behind the long, snaking tendril, not even when he began to wail in
unrestrained agony.

It was necessary.

Argyle had commanded it.

4

“Trust me,” Angus said. “I will be fine.”

Ortis shook his head and said, “You are far from fine. You
need tending to, and I won’t go.”

Angus sighed. Ortis was being stubborn, and that was the
last thing he needed Ortis to be. “Look,” he said. “I am in no condition to
travel, and you know it. We’ve been in this cave for a day, and I’ve only
gotten worse. I doubt I would survive the trip across the plateau, and if I do,
the trail down the other side will probably kill me. You know it, and so do I.”

“No,” Ortis said. “Your best chance—”

“I
will not
have you lop off my arm and leg,” Angus
said, feeling just as stubborn as Ortis. “This way, I at least have a chance to
save them.”

“But—”

“Hobart will be well enough to travel in a few days, and you
can use the travois to carry him across the plateau until he is. One of you can
ride ahead to Dagremon’s and bring back supplies for the rest of you. If you
want to return to check on me then, do so, but I will either be dead or gone by
then.”

Ortis sighed, stood up, and shook his head. “I do not like
leaving you behind,” he said. “If Hobart were awake, he would never allow it.”

“Then I am fortunate he isn’t,” Angus said. “You know our
supplies are too low for us to tarry here any longer. Leave me some water and a
little food; take the rest with you.”

Ortis turned toward the other side of the cave where Hobart
was sleeping. He had been sleeping since Angus had woken up the day before, and
he would continue to sleep for another day or two before the taint from the
yffrim’s blood cycled through his system. After that, he would be weak and
tired few several more days before he fully recovered. “You’re sure this plan
of yours will work?” Ortis asked again.

Angus half-smiled as he relaxed against the cave wall just
inside the entrance. There was a dull blue pall over the cave from his miscast
Lamplight spell. He had attached it to a stick as if it were a torch’s flame,
and the stick was leaning against the wall beside him. It had dimmed somewhat,
but it hadn’t dissipated yet. The magic should have escaped from the spell long
before now, but it hadn’t. It was already the longest-lasting Lamplight spell
he had ever cast—and the strangest one, a bit lopsided, the wrong color, and
only about half as bright as it should be.

He had asked Ortis to prop him up close to the entrance
where he could see far enough outside to catch sight of Sardach as he
approached and still have some protection from the weather. Sardach would
approach; Angus was certain of it. The plaintiff wail had ended not long after
it had begun, and then a muted questing touch had sought him out during the
night. Angus had deflected the tentative probe, but it was only a temporary
solution. Sardach would be back—with a vengeance—and he would be ready for him.
The Lamplight
might
make Sardach hesitate, since it had been wrought
from air magic heavy with water or water magic (Angus still wasn’t sure), and
it would hurt Sardach the way the flame-based Lamplight had hurt Giorge when
they had first met. If he squeezed it down far enough, it might even cause permanent
damage.

“No,” Angus said, his voice calm, resigned. “I am far from
being certain. But the alternative is unappealing. At least this way, I will
have a chance.” If his plan worked, he would have a chance to be a wizard
again, and if it didn’t, he would be dead. Either way, he would be better off
than a one-legged, one-armed, color-blind wizard who couldn’t cast spells. “
We
will have a chance,” he clarified. “If you and Hobart are here when Sardach
arrives—which will be soon—he will kill you both. You know this to be true, so
why are you hesitating?”

Ortis turned back toward him, and his eyes were flat, empty,
as if there were little in them but the blue light reflected back at Angus.
Ortis hadn’t been wrestling with emotions; it had been something else that had made
him hesitate. Banner duty, perhaps? A sense of propriety? Did etiquette require
the pretense of being convinced? Was it like bartering with a dwarf?
They
hated to have a deal struck too quickly, and haggling was a game of skill much
admired by them.

“Ortis,” Angus said, his voice soft. “I cannot be what I am
without my right arm. At least this way I have a chance to get it back.” He
squinted meaningfully and added, “What would you do if you lost your arm,
Ortis? How would you shoot arrows then?”

“I would grow it back,” Ortis retorted. “It would take
time….”

Angus laughed and shook his head. “I can’t regenerate my
limbs the way you can, Ortis. If I could, my decision would be quite different.”

Ortis finally gave a quick little nod and said, “All right.
We’ll go.” He turned and joined the others by the horses, just outside the
cave. They had loaded up their gear in preparation for their departure, and the
only question they hadn’t answered was whether or not Angus was going with
them. Now that that question had been settled, a second Ortis opened the
fletching pouch of his quiver and took something out. He carried it over to
Angus and held it out to him. “You will need this, then” he said.

It was the wand.

5

It had been a difficult day for Typhus. He had planned to
move quickly through the crowd, gathering coin purses as he went, but that
hadn’t happened. Iscara had wrapped the bandages much too tightly to be able to
steal with impunity. His fingers were clumsy, and he shuffled around like an
old man. Then a girl looked at him and screamed. When her mother looked at him,
she gasped and pulled her daughter quickly away, calling out for the guard as
he shuffled into the crowd. He had nearly made it to an alley before the
guardsmen caught up with him, and they had
almost
killed him before he
was able to subdue them and escape. He hadn’t killed any of them like he would
have done in the past, and
that
bothered him. Witnesses were always a
problem, and the fewer of them the better. But what had they really seen? A
bandaged man they thought was a demon with glowing blue eyes filled with death?
Who would believe them when they told that story, anyway?

Too many people. He had hid in the alleys until night brought
plenty of shadows to use for concealment. He had used those shadows, those
alleys, and his familiarity with the city to make his way safely to Mulgrew’s
smithy. He needed to get the manacles off, but he didn’t have enough coin for
it. Mulgrew kept silent about the tasks he did for his special after-hours
clients, but he charged much for that silence. Typhus was hoping their past
business dealings would afford him some measure of credit, but if not?
Witnesses….

Typhus waddled up to the back door and lightly rapped it.
When Mulgrew opened the little grated window to look out, Typhus hissed, “A
deed needs done, Mulgrew.”

Mulgrew nodded and closed the window. The door opened a
moment later, and Mulgrew stood there blocking Typhus’s way. He was a short,
stocky man whose arms were thicker than most men’s thighs, and he had a heavy
mallet draped over his shoulder as if it were a towel. “Who seeks my services?”
he growled. His voice was deep, resounding like an echo erupting from his
belly.

Typhus held out the few coins he had been able to procure
before having to flee into the darker parts of Tyrag. They were mainly silver
and copper, and there weren’t many of them. “Let me in, Mulgrew,” he said. “I
am not one to trifle with.”

Mulgrew squinted, looked into his glowing eyes, paled a bit,
and stepped aside. “What deed, Typhus?” His voice was gruff as he scowled at
Typhus and let the assassin step around him.

“A simple one,” Typhus said. “I need some manacles removed.
I can’t pay much now,” he added, apologetically, “but more will come.” He
wasn’t exactly lying; he had a plan to acquire more resources, but he needed
all of his flexibility to accomplish it. The bandages would have to go, and so
would the manacles. He needed clothing, and it would be easier to get some
during the night, when the shops were closed. He wouldn’t need to move too
quickly, either, since tailor shops tended not to be very well guarded.

Mulgrew’s muscles flexed as he shifted the heavy mallet from
his shoulder and set it down lightly on the floor by the door. He looked at the
coins, frowned, and glared at Typhus. “This is enough,” he said, “provided you
leave quickly. News of your return is circulating, and when Argyle hears of
this…” He shook his head. “He will hear it from me,” he said, “after you’ve left.
I’ll wait an hour before I send word to him.”

Typhus shrugged. Argyle already knew he had escaped, but he
didn’t know where he was. “You won’t tell him,” Typhus said. “I am but a
visiting ghost,” he added as he began to unwind the bandages from his arms,
letting the blue glow slither through the gaps in the cloth to light up the
smithy’s shop. His arm was disconcerting; it looked like a blue torch. “One you
thought was dead,” he finished.

Mulgrew scowled until the bandages on Typhus’ left arm were
in a pile on the floor. Then he shook his head and moved to his anvil. He
picked up a chisel and hammer, and said, “Fair enough. They might even believe
that when they come asking.”

A half hour later, Mulgrew had a pile of glowing metal on
the floor next to his anvil and Typhus was rubbing burn ointment on his wrists
and ankles. It had been difficult to remove the shackles; Mulgrew had to heat
them significantly before they were malleable enough to chisel through. It was
a common enough occurrence, and Mulgrew was amply prepared for it. Still, the
new burns were uncomfortable, even with the soothing effects of the ointment.

It took another fifteen minutes to rewrap the bandages, but
this time they weren’t nearly as tight as Iscara had made them. There were a
few thin gaps between them, and the now-vibrant blue glow gleamed through them
in places. Would clothes cover it? Or would it stream through the cloth like a
beacon fire? At least the cloak Iscara had given him would conceal it for now.

Five minutes later, he was heading down the alleys to Cloth
Street with one of Mulgrew’s hammers hidden beneath his cloak. Mulgrew didn’t
know he had taken it, of course, but he would return it eventually—if he could.
He wouldn’t have taken it at all, but the knife and little hammer he had
brought with him glowed like candles at his side. He had left them behind,
wondering how long they would continue to glow.

An hour later, he left a tailor’s shop dressed in the rough
garments of a typical Tyrian of low standing—except for the gloves; they were
finely crafted ones that wouldn’t impede his fingers as much as the thick,
clumsy ones preferred by most Tyrians. The bandages were still on his face and
part of his arms (as a precaution), but the thick layers of cloth, the boots,
and the cloak were enough to conceal the rest of him. It was a lot easier to
move rapidly through the alleys to Iscara’s shop, but it was still nearly dawn
when he picked the lock and made his way down to her sleeping chambers. She was
snoring softly as he settled down on the floor beneath her bed for some much
needed rest. It was better she didn’t know he was there. Yet.