The Viper's Fangs (Book 2) by Robert P. Hansen Read Free Book Online Page A

had never climbed a cliff before, so what would ever possess him to
think he could climb a cliff? Or had he climbed cliffs before? Was it
part of his past creeping into the present? He had had that kind of feeling
before, that deep sense of déjà vu that couldn’t be explained away. Would it
happen again, when he nestled up against the cliff face? Would he instinctively know how to climb a cliff? If he did, it wouldn’t be an instinct; it
would be a memory he couldn’t quite capture. Or his nightmares come to life. In
them, he often climbed walls and slid into bedrooms to slit throats. But he
hadn’t had any of those nightmares in months, not since the Truthseer had read
him.
    He shook his head and scowled at Giorge. He should have told
him about the cliff. It would have been so much easier, so much simpler to just
fly down and gather up the eggs. Then again, even if he had primed for the Flying
spell he still might have climbed down the cliff face. But if he had, he would
have had the security of knowing he could cast the Flying spell if he slipped.
What would he do now if he slipped? It was a question he couldn’t answer, and
one he hoped he wouldn’t have to answer.
    Ever.

 
    3
    Fanzool shivered and leaned heavily against his staff to
brace himself against the howling wind, the driving sleet, the bitter cold. It
was a horrid blizzard, one of the worst he had ever seen, and there was nowhere
for him to take shelter. Even if there was shelter nearby, he would never have
seen it in this storm. If it weren’t for the clacking of his staff on the
cobblestones—a muted, barely audible muffled click quickly swallowed up by the
storm—he wouldn’t even know he was still on the road to Wyrmwood.
    He stumbled, fell to one knee. He was spent, and he knew it.
But he couldn’t stop. He was too close to Wyrmwood to succumb to sleep, the
cold sleep that would smother him. He should have stayed in Tyrag until spring,
but Argyle….
    No recriminations. He had done what was necessary—was doing what was necessary—and there was no help for it. If he had not left Tyrag at
winter’s outset, he would have died by winter’s end. Argyle would have seen to
it. It was better to die in the snow alongside the road, just one more foolish
traveler for the scavengers to feast upon.
    He struggled to his feet and stumbled forward a dozen paces
before his knee gave out again. This time, the wind caught the hood of his robe
and wrenched it away from his face. He took a breath and almost gagged on the
brittle cold, the sharp pain in his lungs. He huddled down upon himself and reached
back for the hood. It billowed out and flapped wildly about, and his fingers
were cold, clumsy, almost useless. It took too long to catch it, and by the
time he did, his ears were already numb.
    Winter in the plains was supposed to be mild. A little snow,
a little wind, a bit of rain, chill but not cold. But he was too close to the
foothills, and the cold wind from the mountains merged with the moist air from
the swamps to form horrid snowstorms. He knew how it happened, but that
knowledge didn’t help him cope with it.
    Still the mind. Still the body. Still the body.
    The body’s too cold to move anyway. Why do I need to
still it?
    He crumpled forward, idly wondering how close he was to
Wyrmwood, to warmth, to safety. Perhaps he should climb to his feet again? But
he didn’t have the strength, the energy. The raging storm had drained him
completely.
    He began to crawl and made it a few more feet. What’s the
point? I’m dead anyway . He sighed, reluctantly took in another painfully
cold breath. Another. It was difficult now and he closed his eyes, let the air
ease out of his lungs. One more? He struggled against the urge to let it go, to
stop….
    No. It was not his voice, not his thought.
    A warmth descended upon him, enveloped him. It was a strange
kind of warmth, almost like a fire without flame, without pain. But it wasn’t
gentle; it wasn’t kind;