The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  Then he continued on to the marble doors that marked the entrance to Wulfgar's quarters. At a single nod from their master, the guards slid back the iron bolt. Then, before he could enter, one of the slavers spoke.

  "Forgive me, my lord, but the man inside is very strong. Shouldn't at least one of us accompany you inside?"

  Krassus simply smiled. "I am a wizard of the craft," he said patiently, as if he were addressing a confused schoolboy. "What can he do to me that I would not allow?"

  With that Krassus opened the double doors and walked into the room. Behind him, he heard the doors close and bolt.

  Surprised by the sudden entry of a stranger, Wulfgar and Serena looked up from the balcony.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-nine

  T he wind in his hair and the sea air in his lungs, Tristan leaned against the pitching gunwale of The People's Revenge as the great frigate plowed her way west through the Sea of Whispers. His dreggan and his throwing knives had been returned to him, and it felt good to have them lying across his back again.

  The ship seemed amazingly alive, the seamen and the many grateful slaves she was bringing home swarming over her decks. Tyranny's crew did all they knew how for the newly freed captives. But her men were not professional healers, and their gifts in such matters were limited. Now, after having had the opportunity to look them over more closely, Tristan sadly concluded that many of these poor souls would not survive even the relatively short voyage to Eutracia, no matter how well the crew cared for them.

  So far, Tyranny seemed to be keeping to their bargain of heading straight for the Cavalon Delta. But the winds had proven fickle, and the frigates had been forced to tack in order to stay on course, something that Tristan soon learned would make the voyage longer.

  Four uneventful days had passed since he had made his bargain with the highly interesting sea captain, and sometimes his great desire to be home convinced him that he could almost smell the rich, fertile soil of the Eutracian coast. Soon he would set foot on dry land and see his loved ones again.

  One corner of his mouth turned up as he thought of parading the brash Tyranny and the huge colossus named Scars unannounced through the royal palace and finally introducing them to everyone. Then he would live up to his part of it, demanding that the wizards not only pay her a ransom of one hundred thousand gold kisa, but that they award her with the letters of marque she so valued. In his mind's eye, he could already see the vein in the lead wizard's right temple throbbing, and Faegan's ever-curious, gray-green eyes flashing with mischief.

  Tristan had encountered Tyranny often during the last four days as she inspected the decks and spoke with both her crew and the slaves she had rescued. Sometimes it seemed to him that she had spent time with every slave aboard, and he thought he knew why: She was trying to glean from them any information she could about her lost brother. Twice she had graciously invited him to take his evening meal with her in her quarters, where they had talked at length about their respective backgrounds. Tristan had used the opportunity to tell her about his past, and bring her up to date with all that had happened in Eutracia since the return of the Coven. He soon found that he not only respected this rather admirable outlaw, but genuinely liked her, as well.

  Perhaps he had promised her too much, he suddenly realized. He gave a quick, derisive laugh. Too much or not, he was sure that taking her and Scars before the crusty, indomitable wizards would be worth it.

  But despite how badly he wanted to get home, he had swiftly come to love the sea, complete with all of its whims and dangers. After Scars had finally come to the conclusion that Tristan was indeed not one of the enemy, he and the prince had arrived at an uneasy truce. The surprisingly eloquent giant had taken him under his wing, instructing him in the ways of the great boat. Tristan had certainly not become a seasoned crewmember, but he was fascinated by what Scars was teaching him; and each day he found himself eager to learn more.

  He now understood the differences between the various sails, spars, and booms, and how the rigging and sheets worked to help steady them and raise and lower the sails. He had learned the various types of maneuvers the ship was capable of, such as running before the wind, tacking, and being in irons. Tristan had even gingerly climbed the rigging all the way to the crow's nest, to gaze out over the ocean and feel the splendid, exaggerated motion of the ship as she pitched and rolled beneath him, dozens of meters below. Seeing his battle flag flying high atop the mainmast had done his heart good.

  To his great surprise, Scars had suggested that Tristan take the ship's wheel for a time-under the giant's watchful eye, of course. If what Tyranny had told him was true, it was the same wheel that had once steered the Resolve, the vessel Wigg had used more than three centuries earlier to banish the Coven of sorceresses from Eutracia. As Tristan had placed his hands on the worn, curved grips that graced the wheel's outer ring, he almost thought he could feel the gnarled, ghostly hands of those who had gone before, turning it with him. Sensing the great ship obey him had been an experience he would never forget.

  He had found a small plaque mounted below the wheel. On it was inscribed the name of every single person who had commanded the various vessels the wheel had served over the course of the centuries. Toward the top, he had seen Wigg's name. And the last name was Tyranny's. Smiling, Tristan shook his head and wondered how many other names would be added to the plaque before the wheel was finally lost to the sea or otherwise destroyed. He found himself hoping that would never happen.

  Turning to look toward the bow, he felt the sharp, pulling sting of the whip marks across his back. They were healing, but they still hurt. He knew that when he returned to the palace, the wizards would gladly enact an incantation of accelerated healing over them, and they would soon mend. But in truth he had to admit that it was neither the vicious beating by the demonslaver nor the healed scars that would forever remain on his back that now plagued him so.

  There had recently come to him a new, unexpected form of mental, rather than physical anguish. It was something that had been building inexorably in his soul ever since that fateful day in Parthalon when his blood had suddenly turned from red to azure. It was a foreign, insidious feeling, and one that had finally come to fruition for him not only at the savage whipping, but when Tyranny had pulled him out of the ragged line of slaves to speak to him.

  As the contradictory, rather frightening thought went through his mind, he closed his dark blue eyes for a moment. The unthinkable had happened.

  He was coming to curse his glowing, azure blood.

  He was not distressed by the fact that his blood was endowed. That much of it was his natural heritage, his birthright. But that his blood now glowed, that it had turned the same color that always accompanied any significant use of the craft, was just too bizarre.

  His azure blood kept him from learning the craft, because the wizards were concerned with the unknown ramifications of such a thing, should they try to instruct him. That angered and frustrated him, for his desire to learn burned within him as hotly as ever. Even the Tome, the great book of magic, stated that the male of the Chosen Ones must be trained, so that he could attempt to join the Vigors and the Vagaries together into a single art, thereby putting an end to the eons-old conflict between the two sides of the craft. But as things stood now, even Wigg and Faegan were at a loss over what to do. And with all of the problems that had been thrust upon them since the unexpected return of the Coven, using valuable time to begin his training had clearly been out of the question. Worst of all, he felt guilty because he was no closer to fulfilling his destiny, as the Tome said he must.

  Sometimes his unique blood made him feel very isolated. Every time he was wounded, no matter how slight the insult to his body, if his blood was drawn, his enemies would be able to recognize him immediately. They wouldn't even need to examine his blood signature to know who he was, for the color of his blood would tell it all. Then he remembered Faegan's warning, spoken that night in his mansion
in Shadowood, not so long ago.

  "Although it does not say how, the second volume of the Tome affirms that he may be forever, inalterably changed. You must be on the lookout for this change, whatever it is to be."

  And his own silent vow: "I will not rest until I have discovered who has poured such endowed blood into my veins, and why. I shall know why I have become the vessel that contains the blood of the fates…"

  He stared out over the sea, yearning for home, for the company of his sister and his friends-and especially for Celeste. He had fallen deeply in love with the beautiful, red-haired daughter of the lead wizard, and he knew it. But he also knew her psyche wasn't ready to accept his affection on that level, and he had no choice other than to accept it. He could only wait, hoping that one day they could be truly together.

  Engrossed as he was in his thoughts, he didn't hear Tyranny's footsteps until she came to a stop directly alongside him. Smiling slightly, she laced her fingers together and leaned her forearms on the rail.

  "Tell me about her," she said simply.

  "Tell you about who?" he asked.

  Tyranny responded with a wry, knowing smile. "Don't be coy," she replied. "It doesn't suit you. You're the straightforward type, just like me. Besides, you forget that I have been sailing these waters in the company of men for the majority of my life. I know their every mood, and the expressions and gestures that go along with them. You miss someone special. A woman-I'm sure of it. And you miss her very much, but not in the same way you miss your sister, the princess. After some of the interesting things you have told me about yourself, I must admit that I'm curious about the kind of woman it takes to hold your heart." She looked around, then conspiratorially lowered her voice. "So tell me, crown prince of all of Eutracia, what is she like?"

  Smiling and shaking his head, Tristan looked back out to sea. "It's a long story," he answered honestly. "Three hundred years in the making, in fact. Which also happens to be how old she is."

  Turning back, he looked into Tyranny's wide, blue eyes and watched as the wind moved through her haphazardly cut hair. It was the first time since knowing her that he had seen real surprise cross her face. True to form, however, she recovered quickly.

  "My, but you do like them mature, don't you?" she teased. Then her expression softened a bit. "Still, it's nice to have someone who wants to share the same rainbow's end, isn't it?"

  Before Tristan could frame an answer, they heard the unmistakable peal of the warning bell high in the crow's nest.

  Drawing her sword, Tyranny looked up to see one of her crew already climbing the rigging. Scars appeared by her side, and only moments later, the crewman who had scaled the rigging was back again.

  "Screechlings!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Three separate maelstroms of them, about to rise no more than half a league off the bow!"

  Confused, Tristan followed Tyranny and Scars as they ran frantically forward. Standing with them at the bow, Tristan could just make out three huge, dark circles that seemed to lie atop the waves. His first thought was that at last he was seeing the legendary Necrophagians-the monsters that made the Sea of Whispers impassable to all but those who were willing to make the necessary sacrifice. But something about what he saw told him that was not the case. Perplexed, he turned to Tyranny. She stood still, brandishing her sword with one hand, holding her spyglass to one eye with the other.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "A nightmare," she responded tensely, not taking the lens from her eye. "Creatures of the sea, said to be of the craft. No one knows for sure, for they have only recently begun to appear. What we do know is that they hunt in packs." Then she lowered her spyglass, and Tristan clearly saw the worry on her face. "I know of no vessel that has ever survived an onslaught of three maelstroms, but I refuse to go down without a fight!"

  "Maelstroms?" Tristan repeated. "What are they? What can I do?"

  "You will understand all too soon," she answered, her right eye squarely against the spyglass again. "Try to stay near me or Scars! It seems that you are finally going to get your chance to show us how well you use those unusual weapons you carry across your back!"

  "Can't we outrun them?"

  "No," she said adamantly. "No ship ever built could outrun them at this range-not even The People's Revenge. The only course now is to stand and fight, and hope we can survive them." Then she barked out some orders to her crew, and everything began to change.

  Turning to look behind him, Tristan saw that the ship had become even more alive with furious activity. Shouting crewmen were forcing the confused slaves belowdecks, while others frantically tried to close and lock all of the remaining deck hatches and stairwell doors. The rigging was covered in seamen frantically reefing the sails. One man was hurriedly tying off the ship's wheel. Tristan was only a novice sailor, but he knew enough to realize that with all of her sails reefed and her wheel tied off, The People's Revenge would be dead in the water, rocking back and forth at the mercy of the waves. After having been told repeatedly that speed was often the only thing that kept them alive, he was completely stymied.

  He turned to look out over the bow again. Stunned by what he saw, he quietly drew his dreggan from its scabbard.

  A vast area of the ocean lying before them had come alive. Three whirling spouts of swirling, foaming seawater had risen from the ocean, dark and foreboding. On and on the huge waterspouts rose, spinning and rising with dizzying speed. About one-eighth of a league ahead of the bow, they were already nearly the height of the ship's mainmast, and they were climbing still.

  Then they began to glow strangely from within, circling colors that spun in a continuous riot of alternating hues. Had he not been told the maelstroms were deadly, he would have considered them one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

  Suddenly the glowing maelstroms flattened out at their tops, gained some distance between themselves, and then careened with impossible speed in a straight line toward the three unmoving ships. Tristan heard Tyranny's voice ring out beside him.

  "Come on then, you bastards!" she screamed, holding her sword high above her head. "You filthy scavengers! Come to me! Let's see how many of you I can kill on the first pass!" When they finally reached her she began swinging her sword with abandon, and thin, watery, bright red blood began raining down.

  When the first of them buzzed by his head, Tristan thought he must be seeing things. As it passed, he heard the unmistakable sound of teeth snapping together and realized that his hesitation had nearly cost him his life. Making insane screeching noises as they came, another flew by him, then more still, until their numbers finally became so great that they blotted out the sun and covered the deck of the frigate with their shadows. Viciously they attacked both the crewmembers and the rigging, tearing away those sails that had not already been reefed.

  Swinging his dreggan, Tristan missed the first one, then finally managed to take one down. It was a glancing, not a killing blow, but as the dazed thing lay bleeding at his feet, he finally got a look at it up close.

  He was amazed to see what appeared to be some kind of very large, very strange, fishlike creature. It was almost two meters long, half a meter deep, and very brightly colored with what seemed to be luminescent stripes running down along its sides. Instead of fins, it had three oddly shaped, scaly wings, one on either side of its colorful body, and a third rising vertically from its spine, just forward of its large, wide tail. As he watched, its mouth opened, revealing a multitude of razor-sharp teeth. Seeing that brought Tristan back to the reality of the battle raging around him. With a single stroke of his dreggan, he beheaded the monster. But he had lost precious time.

  Pain seared through both his shoulders, as he was swept off his feet and flown toward the starboard gunwale. Horrified, he realized that two of the vicious, powerful things had their teeth in him and were carrying him away. He tried to use his sword, but the pain in his arms was too great. And as the gunwale grew closer, he realized what was about to hap
pen to him, for he could see the same thing happening to a host of other screaming, defenseless crewmen.

  The monsters were about to fly him over the side and drown him in the Sea of Whispers.

  The sea surrounding the ship was already swirling with the bodies of those who had gone over before him. Some were still alive, flailing about, trying desperately to swim back to the ship, only to be dragged under by snapping jaws. Screaming and twisting wildly against his captors, Tristan almost passed out from the pain. But it was no use. In mere seconds he would be over the side, lost forever.

  Then two massive hands reached out to take hold of the thing on Tristan's right side and muscle it down to the deck. Tristan landed hard on his back, the teeth of the other creature still embedded in his shoulder. But his right arm was free. Trying as best he could to ignore the pain, he dropped his dreggan and reached back for one of his throwing dirks. Turning wildly to his left, he plunged the point of the dirk directly into the monster's left eyeball, killing it instantly. With its death, Tristan finally found himself free of its jaws. He threw it to one side and dragged himself to his feet to see Scars standing near him, the other beast still screaming and writhing in his awesome grip.

  With a single grunt, Scars tore the screaming thing in half and threw the two pieces to the deck. Giving the prince a short nod, he immediately went about finding more of the things to kill.

  Wasting no time, Tristan began using his dreggan to hack the things out of the air as best as his injured shoulders would allow. Many died at his hands. Somehow he managed to avoid being taken again. After what seemed an eternity, he saw that the struggle was finally abating. His chest heaving, he walked to the gunwale and looked over. A mass of torn clothing and dead bodies bobbed on the surface of the water. Then he turned back to look at the ship.

  Bodies-human and monster both-lay everywhere, and the deck was awash with blood. Several of the ship's spars were broken and dangling awkwardly from their ropes. Sails lay in tatters, completely beyond repair.