The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  Just then a demonslaver came down the stairway from the deck above. "Raise oars!" he shouted. At once, the relentless pounding of the hammer stopped. As a group, the slaves lifted their oars from the Sea of Whispers and held them still, just a few feet above the waves.

  Tristan knew what was about to happen, for he had seen this ritual before. A fresh beatmaster had come to take the place of the one who had just served. It seemed to happen every four hours or so, during which time the slaves did not row.

  Tristan obediently pushed down on the handle of his oar as best he could, muscles burning, keeping the paddle well out of the ocean. He wanted no undue attention, and the only way to ensure that was to keep doing an especially good job.

  Tristan's dark eyes watched as the seated beatmaster laid down the two great hammers and the other slaver walked across to replace him. In truth, Tristan had been waiting and hoping for this precise moment.

  He harbored no illusions about escape. He knew there was no way he could ever overpower the slavers, and freeing himself from his chains was impossible. But this rare moment would provide the precious seconds of quiet distraction that he needed. He simply had to know the answer to the mystery that had plagued him ever since he had awakened here, and the time to find out was now.

  Slowly, he turned his head toward the slave seated on his right. The fellow was balding, sullen, and perpetually quiet. They had said very little to each other, and Tristan had immediately distrusted him. He had no choice, though. Soon the incessant pounding would begin anew, and Tristan's chance would be lost. He would simply have to make his attempt, and trust to luck.

  Feigning another attack of nausea, Tristan forced his weight onto the handle of the oar, at the same time surreptitiously slipping his right hand free of the handle and down toward the top of his right boot.

  As Tristan had intended, the man next to him turned his head away from the sight of a fellow slave going through another bout of seasickness while trying not to drop the oar.

  Straining with everything he had but not wanting to hurry, Tristan let go another series of false retches, at the same time gradually moving his hand closer to the top of his boot. Turning his head slightly, he could see that he was nearly there.

  Finding the top of his boot, his first two fingers slipped inside.

  Tristan froze. There was nothing there.

  Unsure of what to do, he nearly panicked. But with yet another great effort, he pressed the oar handle a bit lower, allowing his fingers deeper access inside the boot. Raising his eyes, he saw that the beatmaster had risen from his seat. Only seconds remained before the new slaver would call out the order to lower oars, and he would have to begin rowing again.

  And then his fingers touched metal. The brain hook-the slim, razor-sharp stiletto with the tiny, curved hook at the end-that he had carried hidden in his right boot ever since the death of Nicholas and the destruction of the Gates of Dawn was still there, undiscovered by Krassus and his demonslavers! Tristan was overjoyed.

  But then, just as he was about to grip it, his fingers touched something else-something pliable and scratchy. It was tucked away farther back, near his calf. Whoever had put it there probably hadn't noticed the brain hook, driven so far down as it had been.

  Risking everything, his muscles straining to the breaking point, he captured its upper edge between his fingertips, lifted it gently to the top of his boot, and looked down.

  It was a piece of vellum, and he immediately recognized it as being a fragment of the Scroll of the Vagaries, the ancient document Krassus had had lying on his desk aboard the Sojourner.

  Who would have put it in his boot? And why?

  But there was no time now to ponder this new mystery. Muscles shaking with fatigue and effort, he leaned against the oar while using his fingertips to push the piece of parchment back into the deep recesses of his boot.

  But the strain of holding the oar in place for so long with only one hand finally became too great. Just as he started to sit back up, the oar handle slipped from his grasp, and the other slaves in his row cried out as they attempted to keep the oar in place without his added strength.

  The demonslavers immediately snapped their heads around and leveled their vacant eyes at him, and several of them trotted over to where Tristan sat chained, trying to catch his breath.

  The demonslaver who was to have become the new beatmaster reached him first. He smiled, showing his black, pointed teeth. When Tristan looked up at him, he saw a large ring of keys hooked to the top of a leather belt running around the monster's waist.

  "Krassus told me you would become a problem, Number One," the slaver said softly, menacingly. "And so you have. It didn't take you long to live up to our expectations, did it?"

  Reaching out, he took a nine-tails from one of the other slavers standing nearby and began coiling it up slowly.

  "You shall of course be punished," he said. "And the best method I can think of is to give you something that will remind you of your new place in life every time you bend forward to pull on your oar. We still have a long way to go, and with every new stroke you will be reminded of me." He smiled again.

  Tristan looked up hatefully. "You aren't as good as you think you are, you know," he growled. "I killed several of your kind back in Farpoint. It was easy, and I enjoyed having their blood on my hands. There will be many more of you dead before I am finished, I swear it. And you will be one of them."

  The slaver placed the handle of his whip beneath Tristan's chin and viciously forced the prince's face up. "Really," he mused. "Tell me, how many of my brothers did you kill?"

  Tristan's reaction was immediate. "At least five," he retorted without thinking. It was only after saying it that he realized his mistake.

  The thing standing before him smiled again. "Thank you," he said, almost politely. "Then five it shall be." Removing the whip from beneath Tristan's chin, he nodded shortly to the slavers standing next to him.

  Two of them grabbed the prince's hands, while another of them began to unlace the ties at the front of his black leather vest. Before he knew it, the vest had come over the top of his head, and was lying on his forearms. Then he was grabbed again and forced to bend over at the waist. Everyone had gone silent, and the only sound was the creaking of the Wayfarer's hull as she rocked back and forth on the Sea of Whispers.

  Tristan knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. All he had to fight them with was his mind. For every lash of the whip, he decided, he would think of someone he cared for. And whatever happened, he would not give these abhorrent monsters the pleasure of hearing him scream.

  The nine-tails whistled through the air and broke the skin of his naked back. The leather strips sent shock waves through his body, causing him to convulse.

  Shailiha, he thought, the sister I brought back from Parthalon.

  Again the lash came down, rupturing the skin at a right angle to the first cuts. Crossroads of azure blood began to drip down. His body jangled like a marionette.

  Wigg, my teacher. The one who will someday instruct me in the ways of the craft.

  The nine leather strips came yet again, opening up part of his lower back. Glowing, azure blood ran down in earnest now, collecting eerily upon the rough-hewn, wooden seat and the unforgiving, rusty chains that bound him.

  Faegan… the rogue wizard from Shadowood… with his violin and his blue cat…

  Again the strips came around, this time deepening the first set of gashes. Gritting his teeth desperately, he almost cried out. Sweat dripped down his face, and his breath came in short, ragged puffs. He closed his eyes, trying to brace himself for the next assault.

  Geldon, my friend… so small in stature… but with so… great… a heart…

  The fifth and final stroke came down with the greatest intensity of all, sending azure blood splattering wildly across the slaver's face and hands. Smiling, the monster began to retract the whip, coiling it up slowly. As the bright, glowing blood flowe
d from Tristan's back down onto the deck, slaves and demonslavers alike stared at the strange, wondrous substance as if it had just come from another world.

  And Celeste… my love…

  Suddenly he felt an unexpected rush of cold, salt-laden seawater splash against his wounds. It was more than he could bear.

  Groaning softly, Tristan lost consciousness and collapsed to the filthy deck.

  CHAPTER

  Nineteen

  "W elcome to the herb cubiculum!" Lionel said without turning around. Faegan's diminutive caretaker seemed to be searching urgently for something. "Now where on earth did I put my equalizing spoons?"

  He began rummaging about anxiously on the top of the broad, cluttered table. "If I can't find them, it will make things far more difficult for us, yes it will," he chattered nervously. "And I know Master Faegan has a deadline, that he does."

  Pulling with frustration at the single tuft of hair on the top of his head while at the same time trying to keep his broken spectacles in place, Lionel the Little jumped down off the stool that seemed far too high for him and began scurrying about the room on his short, bowed legs as though everyone's lives depended upon it. In many ways, the princess thought, perhaps they did.

  After Shailiha had killed the slavers in the glade, she and Celeste had made their way to Faegan's tree house mansion. There they were directed to a secret door in the trunk of the ancient, gnarled tree, and had come up the spiral staircase to the foyer. They were greeted immediately by a rotund, gracious gnome who curtsied, then politely introduced herself as Samantha the Squat. Beckoning them to follow her, she turned and led the way down a series of dark, highly polished, wooden-paneled hallways. The mazelike quality of the place reminded Shailiha of the Redoubt-albeit a smaller, wooden version. After climbing two flights of stairs, another hallway led at last to a set of double doors of inlaid mahogany. Samantha knocked twice. After hearing a welcoming call from Lionel, she smiled, curtsied again, and took her leave.

  Shailiha and Celeste opened the door and walked into the room, then stopped and gazed about, wide-eyed. The huge room seemed to take up the entire third floor of the mansion. The ceiling was constructed of curved, clear glass, its various sections separated by leaded panes. Outside, the rain had stopped, and rays of sunlight streamed down between the parting clouds.

  The herb cubiculum, as Lionel called it, was part nursery, part laboratory, and part library. One of the long walls was filled from floor to ceiling with bookcases holding texts, charts, and scrolls. Charts carrying esoteric symbols covered another of the walls.

  The nursery area took up about half of the floor and was full of short tables littered with potted plants of innumerable colors, shapes, and sizes. In many cases their leaves, branches, and vines had grown long enough to reach the floor and even to snake their way down the narrow aisles between the tables. Some of the hardier, gnarled vines had found their way to the walls and pillars, which they were climbing in their continued quest for the sunlight that streamed in through the glass ceiling.

  The remainder of the cubiculum was given over to a laboratory. The tables there held strange-looking instruments and containers. Beakers burbled and bubbled, cauldrons steamed, and through crisscrossing lines of glass tubing flowed brightly colored, swirling fluids. The air was warm and fetid; but conversely, its odor was light, airy, and herbal, as if thousands of exotic petals had just bloomed, releasing their scents only moments before.

  But a part of the laboratory area was in terrible disrepair. An entire wall of shelving had been pulled down, spilling hundreds of jars and vessels. Dried herbs lay scattered across the floor among shards of broken glass and weathered labels. Oils had run together into shiny, multicolored puddles. Not far from the mess, the canvas bags that had been rescued from the slavers' fire lay in a heap next to a large vat.

  "I must find my equalizing spoons, I must." Lionel continued to chatter as he searched the room, the boards of the hardwood floor occasionally squeaking beneath his feet as he went. "They are absolutely necessary, don't you see? If I have lost them I will be very vexed, yes, terribly, terribly vexed!"

  After watching Lionel's distraught antics for a moment, Shailiha gave Celeste a questioning look. Shaking her head slightly, Wigg's daughter raised an eyebrow, much the same way her father would have. Sensing their lack of understanding, Lionel turned to them.

  "Well, don't just stand there gawking!" he said anxiously, waving them into the room with one of his short, stubby arms. "There is much to do! Come, come!" Doing as he asked, the two women stepped deeper into the room.

  Shailiha pointed to the canvas bags. "Those contain herbs, don't they?" she asked. "That's why Krassus sent his thugs here-to destroy as much of Faegan's stores as possible, thereby making it far more difficult for us to employ the services of our herbmistress."

  "Quite right," Lionel said, still waddling briskly from table to table in search of his mysterious spoons. "Master Faegan explained your predicament to me in his letter. A true quandary, I agree. But now things have gone from bad to worse, I must say, yes, they certainly have."

  "Please explain," Celeste said.

  Stopping at another table, Lionel began rummaging around under some papers. Then he squealed with delight. "I have found them!" he hollered.

  Waddling back to Shailiha and Celeste, he proudly held up what looked to be an ordinary set of cook's wooden measuring spoons, fastened together by a brass ring. But then his expression darkened.

  "Don't you see?" he said worriedly. "The coming of the slavers has changed everything, oh, indeed it has."

  "But why?" Shailiha asked anxiously. Her impatience was clearly beginning to seep through. "We saved a lot of the herbs, didn't we? Why can't we just take them back to Eutracia and be done with it? Forgive me for being abrupt, but we have no time to waste. Tristan is missing, and we need those things to find him!"

  "But you're forgetting something, Princess, yes, you are," Lionel countered. One of his stubby little index fingers went imperiously into the air as he emphasized his point.

  "And just what is that?" Celeste asked.

  Reaching into the pocket of his vest, Lionel pulled out a piece of paper. "Abbey's list," he said. "Given the fact that the bags aren't labeled, even if you take them back with you, how can you be sure that they contain what you need? Many or all of her requirements could have already gone up in smoke, in the bags that the slavers burned. And this vat presents the same problem-full of a mixture of oils, but which oils? Most of the individual containers have been spilled. I'm afraid that's only the beginning of the problem, yes, it is," he added.

  Shailiha's heart fell. What was to have supposedly been a simple mission had quickly turned into a nightmare. If she and Celeste didn't return to Eutracia with the ingredients Abbey required for her gazing flame, then none of them might ever see Tristan again, much less find Wulfgar, or the other Scroll of the Ancients.

  "And the other problem is?" she asked, not altogether sure she wanted to hear what the gnome's answer would be.

  "Not only are the bags and the vat not labeled, but their contents have been mixed," Lionel explained sadly. "If you were to dip into one of them, you would come back with a fistful of herbs or a cupful of oil, to be sure, but you would have absolutely no idea what they were, or in what ratios they had been combined. Don't you see? If you better understood the art of herbmastery, you would know that this is without question the greatest tragedy that could befall us. Second only to the complete destruction of the cubiculum, of course, of course."

  Suddenly both Celeste and Shailiha fully understood what it was that Lionel was trying to tell them.

  "Why would the slavers go to all that trouble, mixing everything, dragging it out to the fire in the glade?" Shailiha asked. "If all they wanted to do was destroy what's here, then why not just set fire to the mansion, sit back, and watch everything go up in flames? Wouldn't that have been far easier?"

  "Easier, yes," Lionel agreed as he walked back
to the high stool and laboriously climbed up. "But there was more to their mission, yes, much more. And setting fire to the mansion so soon would have been counterproductive to their goals, yes, it would."

  "How so?" Celeste asked.

  "You're forgetting something again," Lionel answered. He pointed to the far wall. "Those texts and scrolls represent more than three hundred years of Master Faegan's research in the art of herbmastery. They are without doubt the single greatest such collection in existence, and are among his most prized possessions. Surely this Krassus fellow would have wanted them. Apparently the slavers' orders were to make certain that the herbs and oils were destroyed first, and then to abscond with the research materials. I can only assume that the demonslavers decided to take the herbs and oils to Tree Town, to use them to feed the fires and put even greater fear into the hearts of the gnomes. Then they could take their time removing the research. I also have no doubt that some of the slavers would have stayed behind to kill off the rest of us and set fire to the remainder of the town. Including, of course, the master's mansion. But then you two arrived, and stopped them." Lionel paused as a look of deep gratitude came over his face. "Master Faegan doesn't know it yet, but he has much to thank you for." Then he paused again. "But there is still something else to tell you, yes, there is," he said sadly.

  Shailiha wasn't sure she could take hearing any more. She closed her eyes briefly. "What is it?" she asked softly.

  "When the demonslavers, as you call them, first invaded the mansion, they came upon me here in this room. Strangely, they had their own list of requirements, just as you do. Then they held me as they went about selecting various herbs and oils, packed them up, and took them away before the mixing started. It took some time to search them all out. But in truth the job was not difficult, since all of the vessels were clearly marked. Master Faegan is nothing if not organized, you know. Then this group of slavers left quickly with their stolen goods, and I think they may have escaped you. And if that is true, then Krassus is now in possession of the very items you came here to procure. I suspect Krassus' herbmistress is either running low on stores, or she wishes to try new ingredients in her quest to view Wulfgar and the scrolls. Either way, she now has the means to do the job. He is a very clever fellow, this Krassus, yes, he is."