Savage Messiah dobas-1

by Robert Newcomb

  Shailiha wondered whether any of them would want to eat after they had heard the wizards' news. She shrugged. They all had to eat sometime, she supposed.

  Finally finished, the gnome wife wiped her hands down her apron. Looking up, she cast her commanding stare upon the unsuspecting Minion warrior.

  "Well, don't just stand there with your wings drooping!" To emphasize her point, she pointed a diminutive forefinger at him as though it were a deadly weapon. "Help us with these! That's why you're here, isn't it?"

  The warrior stiffened. "Minion men do not do such work."

  Pursing her lips, Shawna walked over to him. She barely reached his waist.

  Shailiha waited. She knew that this would prove interesting.

  Shawna crooked her finger, beckoning the warrior closer. As he bent over, quick as a flash she reached up and grabbed one of his earlobes. Then she gave it a savage twist. The warrior's face went red with indignation but, surprisingly, he did not move.

  "Now then," Shawna said. "You can either help us carry these things to the meeting room, or I can report to the Jin'Sai that you chose to be uncooperative. Which would you prefer?"

  She let go. With a sour look, the warrior picked up two of the trays as though they weighed nothing and started for the door. Shailiha placed Morganna into the stroller and took up the remaining tray. Shawna took the stroller by the handle. Then she stretched up toward Shailiha's ear. The princess bent over.

  "I told you men were trouble," she whispered. Then she winked.

  "But if a girl knows how, they can be managed. Even the really big ones."

  Smiling, Shailiha followed the gnome from the kitchen.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The Orb of the Vigors was slicing a pass into the Tolenka Mountains.

  Geldon stared in disbelief.

  The orb still screamed-perhaps even louder now than before. As its golden rain fell onto the granite mountains, it vaporized the stone, leaving in its wake a narrow, charred passage. The newly created canyon penetrated the slopes like a long, dark finger trying to poke its way through to the other side. The rough-hewn pass was already several hundred meters long, and the orb showed no signs of stopping or of changing course, even as it headed directly toward one of the Tolenkas' many deep, white glaciers.

  His mouth agape, Geldon watched as solid, living rock was melted, and freshly carved boulders and granite shards were ripped away from the mountain. Occasionally rubble tumbled down to obstruct the pass, but then the energy dripping from the orb pulverized it, clearing the way again.

  Geldon tried to recall what Wigg and Faegan had told him about the mysterious mountain range. Lining Eutracia on her entire western side, the Tolenkas had always been insurmountable. No pass had ever been found through the imposing slopes. Their peaks were so high that even the wizards could not climb them. As an experiment, Tristan had recently ordered a group of the hardiest Minion warriors to try to fly over them. They had been forced back by the thin air and the savage, icy conditions that prohibited any traversing of the peaks.

  For centuries, rumors abounded about what might lie on the western side of the mountains. Some said that it was a great, dark void, and that if a man stepped too far, he would fall off the edge of the world. Others swore that it was a home to savage, inhuman creatures that would kill every Eutracian man, woman, and child if set free to roam the eastern lands. Still others maintained that the western side held the Afterlife: that the souls of their departed friends and relatives could be found there, that the howling winds that whistled down the slopes were actually the plaintive cries of the dead, and that the runoff of snow during each Season of New Life was in fact their tears, as they cried in their torment to be set free to rejoin the world of the living.

  In truth, no one really knew. Wigg and Faegan did not believe such rumors. Even so, when Geldon had pressed them about it, they had abruptly changed the subject. He got the feeling they knew more, but chose not to speak of it.

  Geldon looked up toward the peaks. As always, their tips were shrouded in fog. Then he looked back down at the orb, as it blasted through the icy slopes.

  Suddenly a new sound could be heard: strange, more ominous than the screaming of the orb. It started softly at first, but soon Geldon felt it as much as heard it. As it grew in intensity, the litter began to shake. He looked around, trying to find the source of the sound. When he finally saw what was causing it, he knew he and the Minions would have to act quickly. They had left most of the warriors behind to eat and rest in a grassy field-and now those warriors were in great danger.

  Part of the nearby glacier, melted by the heat from the ruptured orb, had sheared off and roared down the side of the mountain toward the field below. Had it been only snow, it would have been deadly enough. But this was ice, harsh, hammering, unyielding. As Geldon watched, it plummeted on down the slopes and tore into the forest, crushing the pine trees in its path as though they were matchsticks.

  The smoke and soot from the orb obscured the onrushing crash of ice from the unsuspecting warriors resting in the field. Wild-eyed, Geldon looked out at Ox, and then both were barking out orders to their bearers to take them back down as fast as they could.

  Folding his wings behind his back, Ox launched himself from the litter and soared downward in a near vertical free fall. He opened his wings and swooped upward at the last possible moment, then flew with all his strength as the huge chunk of glacier chased behind him.

  As the litter descended, the smoke and soot obscured Geldon's vision completely. He had no choice but to hold tight to the swaying litter and hope that his bearers could find their way out of it. When he could finally see again, he almost wished he couldn't.

  Ox had succeeded in ordering most of the remaining warriors into the air in time, but not all. When the massive disintegrating glacier plowed out of the smoke-filled forest, some of them had no chance. They stood there in shocked disbelief as the ice overcame them, burying them instantly. Ox and the survivors, hovering beside the litter, watched in horror as the glacier carved its way across the ground, ripping up the green turf of the fields and throwing great hunks of it dozens of meters into the air.

  When its momentum finally waned, the deadly glacier slowed, coming at last to a grinding halt only meters away from the superheated canyon. The rising heat of the canyon melted the ice almost instantly, and its runoff streamed across the ground and into the recently formed gorge. Water soon flowed down the canyon like a raging river.

  Taking a deep breath, Geldon looked over at Ox. Nodding back, the warrior commanded his troops to take the litter to the ground.

  On shaking legs, Geldon exited the litter and looked back toward the mountains. With the avalanche over, he could once again hear the orb hacking its way through the granite slopes. He turned and walked toward Ox. He would have to return to Tammerland with this news. No note in the world could properly describe what had just happened here.

  CHAPTER XXII

  By the time Shailiha, Shawna, and the minion warrior arrived at the Conclave chamber, the other members had already taken their seats. After arranging the food to her liking on a nearby table, Shawna pushed Morganna's stroller from the room. The warrior who had escorted them followed Shawna out, closing the large double doors behind him.

  The mood in the room was anxious. Tristan seemed especially eager to hear what Wigg and Faegan were about to say. All the Conclave members sat quietly, waiting for things to begin. The two wizards seemed lost in thought as Shailiha took her place at the table.

  Shailiha smelled the comforting scent of the burning logs as their flames danced in the light blue fireplace set into the opposite wall. The Tome of the Paragon and the partially burned Scroll of the Vigors lay upon a nearby table.

  Clearing his throat, Wigg placed his hands flat upon the tabletop. He looked over at the prince.

  "You and I are going to Parthalon," he said. "We must revisit the Recluse. We leave within the hour. It will be shortly after midnight when w
e arrive, and I suggest some Minion warriors accompany us."

  Tristan looked at Wigg as though the wizard had just gone mad.

  "Why?"

  Picturing the underground rooms of the Recluse, where he, Wigg, and Geldon had been tortured by the Coven, Tristan closed his eyes. He could see the unforgiving gibbets in which the three of them had been imprisoned, the five black marble thrones of the Mistresses, and the snarling reptilian monsters known as the Wiktors. He tried to keep the memories from flooding back-to no avail. He would never forget his torture, and his brutal violation by Succiu. And now, impossibly, the wizards wanted him to go back to the scene of those awful events.

  Tristan opened his eyes and placed his forearms on the table. The only sound in the room was the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. After running one hand through his dark hair, he looked at the wizards.

  "I assume you have a good reason," he said.

  "You and Wigg must find the Scroll Master," Faegan said. "He may be the only living person who fully understands the key to changing your blood."

  For a short time the room went silent again.

  "Who is this person?" Celeste asked at last.

  "Our research of the Scroll of the Vigors reveals the existence of one who is the Scroll's earthly master," Faegan answered. "His help could be vital-provided he still lives, of course, and that Tristan and Wigg can find him."

  Abbey leaned forward. "There are several of us here who can read Old Eutracian," she protested. "So why do we need this supposed Scroll Master to aid us? Why can't we just keep reading the scroll ourselves to learn what we need?"

  "Because time is working against us," Wigg answered. "We still have not heard from Geldon and Ox. We must therefore assume that the orb continues to ravage the land. Those of you who can read Old Eutracian will continue to research the scroll, but if the scroll does indeed hold the Forestallment calculations that will allow us to change Tristan's blood back to red, this supposed Scroll Master may be able to provide them to us long before we happen upon them ourselves. The scroll is huge. It could take us weeks to find what we are looking for. And what if the Forestallment we seek was in a part of the scroll that was destroyed, eh? In that case, only the Scroll Master could tell us what we need to know-if he still lives."

  "But what makes you think that you should begin your search at the Recluse?" Shailiha asked.

  Leaning back in his chair, Wigg let go a thoughtful sigh. "Because some of the later Forestallment calculations in the Scroll of the Vigors were in Failee's handwriting," he answered.

  A hush descended over the table.

  "That would mean that the Scroll of the Vigors, and perhaps also the Scroll of the Vagaries, were at one time in her possession," Tristan said.

  "That is correct," Faegan answered. "They had to be, in order for her to place the Forestallments into your blood signature-and Shailiha and Celeste's-in the first place. For all we know, your blood signature may already possess the Forestallment required to change it from azure back to red. But even if that were the case, we would not know how to identify or activate it." The wizard looked away for a moment as he contemplated his next thought. "But this new set of facts also raises another puzzle."

  "At what point in Eutracian history did Failee gain possession of the scrolls, and how did she get them to Parthalon?" Adrian asked, furrowing her brow. "It was always my understanding that when the Directorate banished the Coven to the Sea of Whispers, they provided them with only a small boat and a few meager supplies. How did she do it?"

  "How indeed," Wigg replied. "Not to mention the question of how the scrolls came to be back in Eutracia."

  "None of this explains why you must start your search for this supposed Scroll Master at the Recluse," Shailiha repeated.

  "The subterranean levels of the Recluse were Failee's private domain," Wigg explained uncomfortably. "It was where she kept not only her laboratory, but also her library. I feel it is safe to assume that she, too, would likely have been searching for the Scroll Master, and I'm hoping she might have left notes on her research-some kind of clue for us to follow."

  "Do you really believe the Scroll Master might still be alive?" Tristan asked. "And what purpose did he serve?"

  "Those are riddles that can only be unraveled once we arrive," Wigg answered. He looked around the table.

  "Even though Tristan and I have been in that awful place before, we will still be walking into the unknown," he added. "I fear there is much more to those lower regions than we were allowed to see."

  Then Tyranny spoke up. "There is still much about all of this that I do not understand," she said. "I know little of the craft, but I am trying to learn. Assuming that you two are able to find this Scroll Master and he gives you the Forestallment Tristan needs, how does that help us repair the ruptured orb?"

  For the first time since the meeting began, Wigg smiled. "As you already know, Tristan's blood must be returned to its original state before he can be trained in the craft, or any of his Forestallments activated. The Tome states that only the red, trained blood of the Jin'Sai shall have the power to heal the orbs, should either of them ever be rent asunder. Simply put, the forestallment we seek will grant Tristan the power to heal the orb."

  Feeling as though the responsibility for the entire world had just landed upon his shoulders, Tristan looked over at the Tome and the Scroll of the Vigors.

  Traax interrupted his thoughts. "I wish permission to accompany you, Jin'Sai. I consider it my duty."

  Tristan considered Traax's request for a moment.

  "No, my friend," he answered. "I have another mission for you. It is one that will prove far more hazardous than trying to look after Wigg and me in Parthalon, and it will test your loyalty, I'm afraid."

  Traax automatically bowed his head. "I live to serve."

  Faegan narrowed his eyes. "Just what do you have in mind?" he asked the prince.

  Tristan looked over at Tyranny. "Will you accompany Traax on a mission for me?" he asked her. "I must warn you that it will be very dangerous."

  "Anything. You know that," she replied earnestly.

  "Ever since the orb began its rampage across Eutracia, I have had doubts about whether Wulfgar actually died that night," Tristan said.

  "I want you and Traax to take the fleet as near to the Isle of the Citadel as you dare. When you are near enough, I want you to send a Minion war party high over the island. If you see any surviving demonslavers, try to capture a few and return them to the Reprise for questioning." A smile brushed across the prince's lips.

  "I am well aware of how persuasive Scars can be if left to his own devices," he added wryly. "Don't let him kill them all. I would like to question some of them myself when I return. While you are gone, the warriors accompanying you shall be under your command."

  Tyranny and Traax positively beamed. They had both been longing for some real action.

  "Sounds like fun," Tyranny said. She looked over at Traax. "We sail on the evening tide." The warrior nodded back.

  "While you are on this mission," Tristan said to Traax, "you are to take your orders from Tyranny as you would from me."

  "Yes, my lord," Traax answered.

  "Taking into account the losses we sustained during our battles with Wulfgar's forces, how many combat warriors do we have left?" Tristan asked. "If Wulfgar were to return with a force equal to the first, could we beat him back again?"

  Traax's face darkened. "That is difficult to say," he answered. "Combat-ready warriors usually number about one half of the total. The remainder serve in roles of support. But during the recent hostilities, we lost at least half of our fighters. And per your orders, a certain number of them remained behind in Parthalon. Even if they were brought here, their numbers are not enough to make any appreciable difference. If we could summon seventy-five thousand combat-ready troops, we would be lucky. I fear that should Wulfgar return in such strength, we would be hard-pressed to defeat him."

  Tristan lea
ned across the table and looked at his second in command.

  "Exactly," he said. "That is precisely why I must order you to do something else for me, something you may find contradictory to your nature."

  "Of course, my lord."

  Tristan's gaze hardened. "I want you to order the training of suitable Minion females as combat warriors," he said.

  Everyone around the table was stunned-not the least Traax. Tristan had discussed this with no one, and it came as a bolt out of the blue.

  Traax just sat there, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

  "When they are ready," the prince continued, "I want Duvessa to serve directly under you as their subcommander. I trust her, and I can think of no Minion female better suited to the task."

  Traax opened his mouth, but for a moment no sound came out. Finally he found his voice.

  "But my lord…," he began, trying to find the right words. "Such a thing has never been done! It is not the Minion way!"

  Tristan narrowed his eyes. Several members of the Conclave held their breath.

  "There is a first time for everything, and this is to be theirs," Tristan said. His tone was firm, controlled. "We need them. To do otherwise would be a shameful waste of talent. Like the healers, they are to wear a feather on the chest of their body armor to designate their status. But this feather is to be red, like the blood they may one day have to spill. Those healers who become warriors may wear both." Then he smiled. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you afraid they might surprise you, and prove to be better than you imagined?"

  Traax took a deep breath. Despite his misgivings, he remained true to his Minion vows. He bowed his head.

  "I live to serve," he said softly.