The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  The simple stone chamber in which he worked was very large and had been hewn directly from the rock, just as the docks had been. A great hole had been fashioned in its ceiling to allow the escape of the smoke generated by the ever-busy hearths. Light was supplied both by the massive oil sconces on the walls, and the surging glow of the orange-red coals. The raucous clanging of the hammers against anvils never seemed to stop, and armed demonslavers paced slowly, watching every move of the hundred or so slaves who toiled here. The room smelled of sweat, soot, and hot iron.

  Twenty-Nine remembered when Janus and several of his monstrous servants had first come to where he and his fellow Talis slaves were being held, and demanded to know what their various trades had been. It was a day he would never forget. If they were leathersmiths or weapons makers, the freak had said, then their lives could soon become much easier. There was no point in lying, he had added, for the men in the dark blue robes could enter minds and read the truth. Punishment would be instant death.

  And so, hoping that Janus' promises would somehow hold true, Twenty-Nine and a number of others had raised their hands. It was not long until they all wished they had not.

  He looked down at his gnarled, broken hands, knowing that even though he could never properly wield a hammer again, he still carried within him an exquisite, uncommon knowledge of the craft of sword making. Even at the relatively young age of thirty-three Seasons of New Life, he had amassed far greater skill than most of the graybeards who had been fashioning swords their entire lives.

  He had owned one of the most prestigious weapons shops in all of Eutracia, and had employed over one hundred artisans, all of them serving under his personal mentorship. He had been one of the largest suppliers of arms to the royal guard, and had even been asked from time to time to craft special ceremonial weapons for the royal house. But those days were long gone, due to the destruction of the Royal Guard at the hands of the winged ones that were rumored to have come from across the sea. Without the continued support of the monarchy, his shop had fallen on hard times.

  Then he had been captured and brought to the Citadel. Ironically, some of the very men he had employed in his shop now labored with him here in this living nightmare. And knowing them as he did, Twenty-Nine could tell that they were as ashamed of their work as he was. But once a person was assigned to this area, there was no going back. And Janus had lied to them, for this was a harsher existence than the one they had left behind in the cages.

  When they had first been brought here and told that it would be their job to produce arms for the demonslavers, many of them had refused-himself included. Janus had simply smiled and marched in another group of fresh Talis slaves. Then he had calmly ordered his demonslavers to behead them, as casually as though he had been speaking about the weather.

  From then on, he had said, every time a craftsman slowed in his production or objected to his duties, the number of deaths would double, and then double again. And so they had grudgingly gone about their work. After repeated questioning by Janus regarding their various histories and abilities, Twenty-Nine had been singled out to oversee the labors of all the others and take ultimate responsibility for the quality of the weapons they made.

  He yearned to fight back, but he didn't know how. He knew his ruined hands could never effectively employ a sword against the slavers. Even if he and his fellow slaves did manage to take up arms, there were more than enough guards stationed in this room alone to cut them to ribbons. But there was one way to hurt them, he realized.

  He would take his own life.

  For he was the glue that held the workers together and kept them productive. Without his presence the quality of the weapons would suffer drastically. That would not only hurt the demonslavers' cause, but perhaps even take a few of them when it came time for them to fight. How he wished he could see that day! But he would have to be satisfied with merely taking such knowledge to his grave.

  His mood darkened even further as he looked around. Twenty-Nine had always been an honorable man, making superb weapons for the justifiable defense of his nation. This was different. This was the forced production of homely, crude instruments meant for little more than outright butchery of the innocent. And he would have no more of it. Today would be the day.

  He began making his way toward the pile of finished weapons in the corner. He was careful to give the appearance of wanting to inspect several of them, as had become his custom. It would not raise any suspicion until it was too late.

  Picking up one of the short swords, he felt as much as saw the watchful eyes of several of the demonslavers on him. Taking a deep breath, Twenty-Nine drew the sword and dropped the scabbard to the floor.

  Holding the weapon between both palms without wrapping his fingers around it, Twenty-Nine let the blade's point fall to the floor and bobbed it up and down a bit, testing its balance. Then he grasped the hilt as best his damaged hands would allow, turning it this way and that so as to inspect the crazing on either side of the blade. Satisfied, he gently ran his thumb over one edge at a time, testing the sharpness. Finally he grasped the handle and turned the blade around, extending it as far from his body as he could, its point squarely directed toward his chest and only inches from his skin. Then he made a great show of examining the blood groove for uniformity, just as he had already done hundreds of times before in this awful place. By now his tortured hands had begun to shake, and he desperately hoped he wasn't about to give himself away.

  As he closed his eyes he held the sword as rigidly before him as possible and let his knees collapse.

  But as he started to drop a strange whirring passed by his right ear. He felt a huge impact against the blade of the sword; heard an awful, earsplitting clang.

  Surprised, he opened his eyes and stopped his fall just in time to see the blade go flying against the far wall, then crash harmlessly to the stone floor. Janus' black-and-white iron spheres, tangled with it, had not only pulled the sword from his hands, but had also cleanly broken its blade in half. The weapon that was to have been both his salvation and his personal revenge on the demonslavers now lay in a broken, useless heap.

  Demonslavers grabbed him by either arm and held him tight. He knew what to expect. Janus was standing on the opposite side of the room, gloating. Twenty-Nine hadn't seen him there.

  Saying nothing, Janus walked over to where the damaged sword lay and unwound his weapon from the broken blade. Smiling again, he coiled up the black-and-white line and replaced it upon his belt.

  With a single, vicious swipe, Janus struck Twenty-Nine across the face. Groaning softly, Twenty-Nine hung drunkenly between the slavers, trying to regain his focus. Janus grasped Twenty-Nine's chin and raised the slave's face up to his own.

  "Did you really think it would be so easy?" he asked sarcastically. "You will never be allowed to die until we dictate it, of that I can assure you. But have no fear. Before we are finished with all of you, you will beg us for your deaths. And we will give them to you."

  He looked at the two slavers holding Twenty-Nine.

  "From now on, his hands are to be bound behind his back at all times," he sneered. "Even when he is sleeping. The others shall hold the weapons for him to inspect. When it comes time for him to eat, one of you shall feed him." Then Janus turned to look at a door at the far end of the room. "As an added incentive to behave, I think we should show this one a bit more of what actually goes on here behind closed doors."

  Janus sauntered to the heavy stone door and opened it. "Bring him," he said casually over his shoulder.

  The slavers lifted Twenty-Nine and dragged him toward it on his toes. As the remaining slaves and demonslavers watched, the four of them went through. The door closed behind them.

  Still dazed, held upright by the slavers, Twenty-Nine at first couldn't make out the scene before him. But he could hear the insane pleading and screaming well enough. It was coming from men and women alike, and never seemed to pause. As his vision swam into focus, he raised h
is head and looked.

  The first thing he did was scream. Then warm urine ran uncontrollably down the insides of his thighs, forming a puddle at his feet.

  Closing his eyes, Twenty-Nine tried desperately to free himself from the slavers and bolt for the door, but he was powerless in their grip. He began to tremble, and then to cry.

  "Hold him!" Janus ordered. Removing an ornate dagger from his belt, he came to stand before Twenty-Nine and placed the cool, sharp tip of the blade to the blacksmith's throat. Cold sweat beaded on Twenty-Nine's forehead.

  "Either look at what I brought you here to see, or join those in this room," Janus said softly, menacingly. "The same fate awaits you should you shirk your labors or try to take your life again. Do you understand?"

  Twenty-Nine opened his eyes. As he did, the men in the dark blue robes he had seen at the docks looked calmly back at him from their slow, deliberate labors. Several of them smiled.

  Another, even more terrified scream came from him, mixing with the others still echoing horrifically through the room.

  Finally he could take no more. He felt his mind slipping, and he fainted away, hanging limply in the grasp of the demonslavers.

  Smiling, Janus put away his knife.

  PART III

  Regret

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-six

  "Regret… such a simple, easy word to say. And yet-for so many of us-so difficult to dismiss from our memories. What other single word conjures up not only such sublime sorrow, but also the sweet, forlorn loss of what might have been? Act upon act, regret upon regret, turning with the time enchantments forever. Even so, it is not the wise man who casts away such memories, but rather the foolish one."

  – FROM THE PERSONAL DIARIES OF WIGG, ONETIME LEAD WIZARD OF THE DIRECTORATE OF WIZARDS

  "L ately I have noticed a distinct twinkle in your eye that I had not seen since my return to Tammerland," Faegan told Wigg wryly, with a wink and a smile as the Minion litter bounced them along through the sky. "My compliments, by the way. While it's true she and I have had our differences regarding the art of herbmastery, Abbey is certainly a lovely and intelligent woman. You're a very lucky man."

  Wigg pursed his lips, then turned from the window to scowl at the wizard sitting across from him. The morning air was cold at this altitude, and Wigg defiantly thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robe to warm them. He hoped they would arrive at the coast soon.

  Wigg had expected Faegan to bring up the subject of his relationship with Abbey long before this, especially given the way the other wizard loved to tease him. At least Faegan had chosen a private moment between them to broach the subject.

  Sighing, Wigg pushed his tongue against the inside of one cheek. "Is it that obvious?" he asked back.

  "Oh, yes," Faegan answered happily. "There is a boyish spring in your step and a recurring smile on your face that I have not seen for three centuries. The others may not notice, but I do."

  "Abbey and I would very much like to leave the others uninformed. At least for the time being," Wigg said sternly. His face reddened uncharacteristically.

  "I understand completely," Faegan said, smiling mischievously.

  Shaking his head, Wigg gave a short, derisive snort and returned to watching the ribbon of the Sippora River snaking through the landscape far below.

  They had been traveling for the better part of two hours and were very close to their destination. Their goal was to reach the coast by midday. Ox flew point a short distance ahead, while six other Minions carried the litter through the air and four more flew guard. The morning was bright, cold, and cloudless, and the lush greenery of the Eutracian landscape passed below them peacefully, belying the many troubles the nation still suffered.

  Suddenly the litter banked to the left and began to lose altitude. Through the window, the jagged coastline could be seen, stony cliffs constantly bombarded by the froth-tipped waves of the Sea of Whispers.

  Then Wigg finally saw it: the smooth formation of stone that legend said had been carved out by the restless sea. Shouting out to the Minions, he ordered them to fly up to it and hover just above the waves.

  Both wizards gazed silently at the dark, majestic stone face. It was not a new sight for them-the Woman of Stone had long been an attraction of some note for Eutracian citizens-but no matter how many times one had seen it, viewing it was always an eerie, awe-inspiring experience. Especially now, given the revelation that the image before them apparently held far more secrets than anyone had previously imagined.

  Wigg opened the door of the litter and stepped out into the air, using the craft to hover just above the waves by the imposing edifice. Faegan levitated his chair, exited the litter, and glided up alongside him. The roaring ocean below splashed constantly against the slick stone, and the sea wind pestered the wizards, snatching at their robes and hair. Looking up, Wigg beckoned to Ox to come lower.

  "Order the litter to the cliffs, and wait for us there," he shouted against the sound of the sea. "There's no telling how long we might be. If the provisions in the litter run out, order some of the warriors back to the palace for more, or hunt for what you need. But I want at least enough of you here at all times to carry the litter when we come back out."

  Wigg looked back to the edifice, and his jaw hardened. "If we come back out, that is."

  Nodding, Ox turned away to carry out his orders. The cold, salty wind continued to whip at the wizards as they hovered just feet above the angry waves. Wigg looked at the Woman of Stone again.

  The face was large-at least ten meters high and another four or five meters across-and impressive. Beautiful, but at the same time commanding. Long strands of stone hair hung down past the shoulders to descend into the sea, and the huge eyes lay peacefully closed behind heavy, seductive lids. The nose was slim; the lips were both sensuous and inviting; the cheekbones were high and elegant. Black as night and polished to a smooth luster by the sea, she seemed the very picture of serene, detached femininity.

  Whether a face of such elegance and detail could have been carved naturally from the waves had been a great subject of debate for as long as Eutracia had existed. There was a distinct minority who insisted she must be a purely natural phenomenon-a freak of nature, as it were. Most, however, argued that she was far too refined, far too perfect to be an accident, and must therefore be the result of some arcane use of the craft from eons earlier. Wigg was entirely convinced it was the latter.

  Wigg looked over to Faegan to comment on the beauty of the face, and stopped, stunned.

  The Paragon was glowing.

  The square-cut, bloodred jewel of the craft lying about Faegan's neck had always seemed to have a life of its own and tended to be faintly luminous no matter the time of day or the circumstances surrounding it. But this was incredible. The jewel was glowing with blinding red light.

  Suddenly, without warning, two narrow, perfectly straight beams shot from the Paragon and tore toward the Stone Woman's eyes. Wigg and Faegan hovered, speechless, wondering what would happen next.

  Then, as abruptly as they had appeared, the beams vanished, and the jewel returned to normal. Baffled, the two wizards looked at each other, then back at the Stone Woman.

  The eyes were beginning to open.

  Slowly, the huge, heavy lids parted, revealing piercing eyes of the most intense azure. The eyes regarded them calmly for a few moments; the lids gently blinked. And then the lips began to move.

  "You are of the craft," the Stone Woman said, her words coming to them quite clearly over the pounding waves. Her voice was compassionate, yet strong. "You carry the Paragon, and so you may see me for what I truly am. Welcome, and well done."

  Wigg found his voice first. "Who are you?" he asked. "Are you the watchwoman of the floating gardens?"

  "No," she replied. "She awaits within. I am but one left by those you call the Ones Who Came Before. I oversee the first of the tests required to successfully enter and leave this Chamber of Penitence. Do you wish t
o enter?"

  The lips closed again, and the amazing azure eyes continued to regard the two wizards in silence.

  Fascinated, Faegan floated closer to the beautiful, dark face. "Yes," he said simply. "We wish to enter."

  The stone lips parted again. "And do you both know that there is a psychic price to be paid for what can be learned here? Be warned, for it may be a demand that your human minds find too dear to survive."

  "What is this psychic price?" Faegan asked.

  "That is not my place to say," she answered softly. "The watchwoman of the gardens will tell you more, should I deign to let you enter."

  "And how may we enter?" Wigg asked.

  "You must pass my test," she answered. The beautiful face remained expressionless. "I must first be sure that you are not practitioners of the Vagaries. The knowledge kept within must never be allowed to pass into the hands of those who would prefer to practice the darker aspects of the craft."

  For the first time she showed emotion, her lips turning up slightly at the corners. "There is still so much neither of you understand about the craft, or the true history of this land," she answered softly.

  His eyes gleaming with curiosity, Faegan leaned forward in his chair. "Tell us more," he implored. "I beg you."

  "No," she answered. "Educating you is not my mission. It is now time for you to be tested."

  "What is it we must do?" Wigg asked.

  "Nothing," she answered. "I shall do it all. Each of you please expose one of your wrists."

  Wigg and Faegan did as she asked. Almost immediately the familiar, azure glow of the craft coalesced around their bare wrists. In each, a small incision appeared painlessly, allowing a single drop of blood to escape. As the incisions closed and the azure glow disappeared, the two blood droplets, hovering in the air, immediately began twisting into their respective blood signatures.