Free The Dark Ferryman by Jenna Rhodes Page B

other is living.”
    “And what of my hound? Do you have him marked for death as well?”
    Sevryn flicked his gaze around quickly but found no one else. “Where is Narskap? I thought you held that leash close.”
    “He is hunting other quarry. One you should worry more about than yourself.”
    Sevryn froze his expression before the other could see the emotion that ran through him. Before Quendius could see that his words marked him like a brand. Before Quendius could verify that he cared far more about Rivergrace than he did for himself. Before he could hand Quendius another weapon to be used in this private war. “One lives for oneself or not at all,” he remarked, with just a shadow of his Voice upon it, pushing conviction and trust. Do not think upon Rivergrace, Quendius, do not think of her at all.
    After watching him closely for a moment or two, Quendius moved smoothly to his feet. A massive though lean man, he towered over the prone Sevryn. The years had not aged him much, if at all, although his hands showed more calluses and scarring, the signature of his trade as a weaponsmith and a warrior. He crooked a finger at Sevryn. “We are both alone, it seems, except for our regrets. Yours should be short-lived.” He cast a look about the area. “The day grew cold early. It is a shame you neglected your fire, though that neglect suits my purposes.” He gestured, and Sevryn followed it to see an empty sack lying nearby on the ground. “It will seek your heat. And, when it does, sooner or later, it will strike you. I won’t bore you with the tale of why I even had it on me, but I did. If, for some reason, this doesn’t kill you, I’ll find another way.” Quendius took a calculated step backward. Behind Sevryn, his horse let out a nervous whinny.
    Sevryn moved his chin a bit to see the thing lying close to his pants leg—green-and-yellow scales, a long, flattish, diamond-shaped head with a beautiful red whorl mark—the kedant viper. Quendius gave a dry chuckle as he took another step backward, into the shadows. “May you have the unquiet Return you deserve,” he said as he left.
    Sevryn did not move, except to measure his breathing in long, slow, shallow drafts while he watched the serpent. It would strike, inevitably, for that was its nature, to hunt warm-blooded things, even as it took shelter with him. Far from the rocks and sands which the sun heated like a hearth for its existence, it would be unsettled and even more aggressive than usual. Time crawled, even as the kedant viper did, edging up along his leg and thigh toward his torso and the hand he held very still. He stretched his senses out, the senses Gilgarran had tuned for him, Vaelinar senses for which he had the Talents if not the eyes, even as Quendius had the eyes, eyes of obsidian black with silvery shards in them, without the Talents.
    He found no sign of the other, although the edge of the forest had begun to stir with those seeking shelter for the night and those seeking to hunt by cover of the night.
    Now or never.
    He reached down and grabbed the viper by the back of its neck. Fast but not fast enough, for it struck him on the hand as he did so, and fire stung him. Sevryn bit off a harsh word as he sprang to his feet, drew his dagger, and sliced the vicious thing into shreds. Then he stood and felt the kedant venom raking him.
    He waited. Swear broke out and poured down his face, his neck, his torso, as though he stood in a downpour. His skin danced with the fiery ache of the poison, and his heart sped up to the rhythm of an unheard but frantic drumbeat. His hand shook. It swelled slightly, crimson around the puncture marks. His vision blurred as he stared at himself, wondering if he had miscalculated.
    Then his eyesight cleared. His pulse calmed. The feeling of a thousand crawling snakes under his skin began to retreat. The fire was the last to bleed out of him, leeched away by the approaching dusk, and he did not know how long he’d