The Fanged Crown: The Wilds (30 page)

“See you soon,” he said and pushed off the ledge. Harp heard a splash as Kitto hit the water.

“I hate Cardew,” Harp said under his breath. Tresco may have been the mastermind of the situation, but it was that arrogant miscreant Cardew that had brought them to their junction. “If anything happens to Kitto, I’m going to personally gut Cardew and feed his heart to a scaly dog on a platter,” Harp said viciously.

“Welcome to the Land of Revenge,” Boult said sounding surprised at the intensity in Harp’s voice. “It’s a beautiful country. I myself have a villa.”

“Even if anything doesn’t happen to Kitto, let’s paint your villa in Tresco’s blood.”

“Red is a charming choice,” Boult agreed as they drew their swords.

Even as a child, Kitto had been a good swimmer, the best among his three brothers. They would race each other across the wide river that ran through the valley near their homestead. It was a lazy river, filled with silt from the salt flats up north in the high country. When Kitto swam in it, he always felt as if the water was resisting him, and that no matter which direction he went in, he was swimming against the current. In mid-summer the salt deposits were so thick that he and his brothers could float effortlessly on the surface and not sink. It made Kitto feel as if nature itself were comforting him.

Although the sparkling water in the palace’s entrance hall was untainted by salt or grime, Kitto had the same sensation now. If he stopped swimming and just let go, he felt he would float to the surface despite the heavy backpack and the rocks that were quickly dragging him to the bottom of the hall. Kitto had expected the water to be cold, but it was surprisingly warm. Almost like bathwater.

Kitto felt inexplicably sleepy, and he told himself that it must be part of the spell’s effect. As he swam down, he forced himself think about the hardest locks he’d ever sprung. Like the hair-trigger lock on the red lacquered chest in the Baron’s house, while Predeau breathed down his neck and the guards clomped up and down in the hall outside. Or the-pinprick lock on the floor in Lady Charlotte’s brothel; that one had taken him longer than he had expected. Predeau had lowered him on a rope through the skylight, so at least Kitto was away from the Captain’s terrifying presence. But the sounds of a man rutting with a whore in the room next to him made it hard to hear the mechanics of the lock.

Dragged down by the rocks in his backpack, Kitto landed on the tile floor near the base of the pillar and trudged quickly through the water to the door. There were no carvings on the inside, only the silver stones embedded in the wood.

Just as the mosaic showed, there was shiny silver lock in the center of the door. It was larger than anything Kitto had worked before, but the keyhole was shaped like a teardrop. He’d opened teardrop locks before. His mind was already forming an image of what the inside must look like, how the mechanism fit together, and the exact spot where he needed to put pressure to spring the lock.

But his lungs were burning. Kitto slid his tools into the silver lock, using them as delicate extensions of his fingertips. Instead of the usual ridges and bars, Kitto felt nothing at all. Maybe a longer tool? Kitto fumbled with the leather case tucked in his belt. He let the smaller tools drift away from him and pulled out the longest hooks he had, ones he’d never used before. They felt very clumsy and without finesse, but as Harp always said, big problems called for big swords.

Kitto’s chest felt like it was going to explode. He shrugged off the backpack and kicked for the surface. He would have to make a second try, if he could make it to the top before his air ran out. When Kitto broke the surface, he heard shouting, the sounds of quick-moving feet, and the clank of blades against one another. Kitto took a huge gulp of air and swam down to the door. It was harder without the backpack, and by the time he reached the door, Kitto felt sleepy and his muscles ached with fatigue.

When he reached the door, he looped his foot through the strap of the heavy backpack to keep from floating away and slid the long pieces of metal back into the silver lock. Finally he felt something, like a thin net of wire. Again, the burning of his lungs grew painful. But he wouldn’t swim for the surface, he would stick it out. He twisted the piece of metal gently, searching for the pin. If only he could just… Blackness began clouding the edges of his vision. Kitto felt a lip of metal, twisted the tool sharply, and felt something loosen. Despite the water in his ears,

he thought he heard the sound of glass breaking and a sucking noise. Then he gave in to the blackness.

ŚŠŚŚŠŚŚŠŚ•€>Ś ŚŠ•

The Jumpers sprang from the flagstones, leaped over the railing, and landed on the balcony. Liel anticipated the maneuver and swung while it was still in mid-air. The ruddy-skinned warrior twisted away from her blade, tucked forward, and somersaulted across the balcony. The Jumpers were smaller than the ones they’d encountered in the camp but more heavily armed and armored. Each wore a leather breastplate and carried two punching daggers with elongated hilts that covered their wrists.

Another Jumper lunged at Verran, who dodged and swung wildly. He cut his assailant across the cheek, but it was a superficial scratch. The yuan-ti advanced, swinging at Verran with its bladed fists. The ruddy-skinned warrior sprang to its feet, its milky blue eyes fixed on Liel. She raised her sword. With one pounce, it was on top of her, and her sword slipped from her hand. The warrior’s clawed hands dug into her shoulder as it forced her to the railing, her back pressing against the stone painfully.

She struggled with the warrior, and it brought its fangs down on her neck, biting into her shoulder. Liel cried out as Verran slammed his sword down on the back of the warrior’s neck. The creature’s armor took most of the blow, but it let go of Liel’s neck and jerked its head around, hissing at the boy. While the warrior was distracted, Liel pulled a shard of red stone from a pouch on her belt. When the yuan-ti turned back to her, its mouth open and fangs bared, she jammed the rough shard into its forked tongue, pinning it to the inside of its mouth.

Spluttering in pain as the shard slid all the way through its cheek, the Jumper reared back in confusion. Liel grabbed

its elbow and yanked it back toward the railing. Sweeping her foot against its ankle, she knocked it completely off balance. It leaned precariously over the railing, and with a light push of Liel’s hand, it went tumbling over the edge and slammed into the ground where a pack of hissing niferns were milling around in front of the palace door. Excited by the scent of the creature’s blood, the frenzied animals ripped the yuan-ti’s limbs from its body.

Still in the doorway between the palace and the balcony, Boult blocked a blow that came at the side of his head, stopping the blade just before it slid into his ear. Skirting the edges of the combat with his crossbow, Harp threw a dagger at Boult’s attacker. The dagger sank deep into the yuan-ti’s shoulder, just outside the edge of its armor.

With the dagger still protruding from its skin, the yuan-ti flicked its long tongue angrily. The fingers on its damaged arm twitched spasmodically as it pulled the dagger free. It hissed and let the dagger fell to the ground. Holding the other dagger straight in front of it like a battering ram, the Jumper charged Harp, who raised his sword in a sweeping upward arc, but he was too slow. The yuan-ti coiled its body low and drove its fist toward Harp’s abdomen. Harp doubled up to protect his stomach, dropping his sword, and the dagger sliced into his arm just above the elbow.

With the blood from his arm dripping onto the ground, Harp slammed his boot into the yuan-ti’s leg, right above what he hoped was the creature’s knee. He heard a satisfying crunch as the leg twisted backward. The Jumper yelped and stumbled toward Boult, who had just parried a blow from another warrior.

“Boult! Spin!”Harp shouted

Without hesitating, Boult wheeled around, cutting Harp’s wounded Jumper across the chest. The dwarf spun full Ogidfe and resumed bis -fight with: another warrior, who was startled by Boult’s sudden change of direction. Boult thrust

his sword under the warrior’s arm near the shoulder. As he felt the blade slide into skin, Boult yanked down with such force that the straps securing the breastplate snapped and the warrior’s armor clattered to the floor. Boult’s sword sliced from armpit to hipbone, and the warrior slumped to the ground.

Kneeling on the ground with its broken leg twisted underneath him and gushing blood from its chest, the yuan-ti was done for as well. But before Harp could finish it off, the Jumper hissed at Harp, raised the dagger in its right hand, and stabbed itself in the neck. The creature crashed onto the floor with blood jetting out of its neck.

“Anais’s crown!” Harp swore. “Have I killed anything since we’ve been in Chult?”

“Of course you have,” Boult said reassuringly.

Verran and Liel were two-on-one with the last serpent warrior, who was backed into the corner against the railing. It was missing an eye and barely able to hold its remaining dagger. Harp pointed at them, but Boult gave an unconcerned shrug. Liel and Verran clearly had the situation in hand.

“Who? Who have I killed?” Harp demanded.

“Bootman?” Boult suggested, watching Verran slam the hilt of his sword against the Jumper’s skull. The creature crumpled to the ground.

“No, you shot an arrow through his throat.” Harp grumbled. “And Verran melted him. I don’t know who deserves credit, but it isn’t me.”

“Didn’t you kill a yuan-ti?” Boult asked. Together, Verran and Liel pushed the dazed yuan-ti over the railing to the pack of niferns waiting below.

“At the waterfall?” Harp asked. “No, Majida killed both of those.”

“I know,” Boult said, snapping his fingers. “You killed an ant.”

Harp gave him a dirty look. “Oh, thank goodness. For a

moment, I felt like I had lost my manhood. Now I feel like a brute. You’re too kind.”

“It was a big ant,” Boult said.

Just as Verran and Liel turned away from the railing, a rumble shook the palace. “Kitto!” Harp shouted.

But there was no sign of Kitto in the rushing, white-capped water, which rotated around the pillar, creating a giant whirlpool under the dome.

“We have to get him,” Harp said, moving to jump in the water.

Boult grabbed him. “No! You’re not going to find him in that.”

“Wait! The waterline is falling,” Liel said.

As the water disappeared down the hole in the floor of the hall, Harp shrugged off Boult and sprinted down to the ramp that led off the gallery and spiraled around the pillar. By the time he reached the dripping floor, the water was gone. Harp sprinted to where Kitto’s body lay near the door, his foot still tangled in the strap of the heavy pack.

“Kitto!” Harp said, kneeling by the boy’s body. “He’s not moving!”

Liel crouched beside Harp and laid her hand against Kitto’s cheek. “I can feel a heartbeat,” she told him. “But something else is wrong.”

Harp turned Kitto on his side to drain the water out of his mouth. But even then the boy didn’t move.

“He’s breathing!” Harp exclaimed. He could see a shallow movement beneath the boy’s tattered shirt. “Why isn’t he moving?”

Liel placed her hands on Kitto’s chest and closed her eyes. A faint white glow appeared around her fingertips, but after a moment, she pulled away with a pained expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I can’t heal him inside. Whatever is blocking my magic … I can’t do it.” “Please,” Harp begged.

“It’s some kind of curse, Harp,” said Liel, reaching down and untangling Kitto’s foot from the backpack. “It isn’t a natural injury.”

“Then break the curse!”

“I can’t, Harp. At least not in the presence of the Torque.”

“Maybe Majida could help him,” Harp lifted Kitto off the ground as if he were a small child. “We can get him to the Domain, and she’ll heal him.”

“What about the Torque?” Boult asked. “We’ve drained the water; Tresco can walk in here and take it.”

“I don’t care about the damn Torque!” Harp snapped. “We need someone who can help Kitto. And if Majida can do it, then I’m going to find her.”

“Wait!” Verran pulled a vial of red liquid from under his tunic. “I can do it. I can do it with this.”

3 Flamerule, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479 DR) Chult

fhat is that?” Harp asked curiously.

“You can’t do magic in here,” Liel stated flatly.

“How powerful are you?” Boult demanded loudly.

All three had spoken at the same time, and Verran looked from one face to the next as if trying to decide whom he should answer first. Then he stared at the wet floor, looking very much like a schoolboy who had been caught doing mischief.

“It’s all right. We just don’t understand.” Liel assured him. She peered at the vial clutched in his fist. She could see the ornate golden stopper, but his fingers concealed the rest of the vial.

“It’s just something about the place.” Verran’s voice trembled. “I can feel the old magic.”

“What do you mean?” Liel asked!

“It’s revealing itself to me, just the way it did when I brought down the barrier in the tunnel. It’s revealing how to use it.”

“You know what these creatures were capable of doing,” Boult sputtered. “You’re channeling dark magic. What you’re sensing is death.”

“In death comes rebirth, you know that,” Verran protested.

Boult glared at him. “Is that what your father said? Because that’s how evil mages like to justify brutalizing the innocent.”

“I can break the curse!” Verran insisted. “I can see how to do it in my head!”

“You’re not listening to him, are you?” Boult asked Harp, who had gently laid Kitto back down on the tile floor,

“It takes incredible power to work any magic inside the palace.” Liel told Harp. “And the curse is the product of ancient, potent magic.”

“I couldn’t do it by myself.” Verran held up the vial. “But I can with an elixir.”

“We don’t even know what kind of curse it is,” Liel said, brushing a lock of wet hair off Kitto’s forehead. “We need more information, Harp.”