The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  G rizelda, Krassus, and Janus stood together on the rooftop of the Citadel, watching the blue streaks of the gazing flame dance in the darkness of the night. Grizelda tossed a few more of the herbs stolen from Shadowood into the fire, and the viewing window in the center started to take form.

  Now that she had all of the goods she could possibly need, the only limits on her search for the scroll would be her personal endurance, and Krassus had insisted on her trying every two hours. This most recent viewing was her eighth such attempt in a row, and she was tired. Nonetheless, she did her best to persevere.

  As the viewing window came into sharper focus, it changed shape, turning into a ragged circle. From within the circle could be seen not only one of the gold end knobs of the scroll, but also what lay past it. It was apparent that the scroll was at least partially hidden, and someone was taking it through a city. But which one?

  And then, finally, Krassus saw a group of unmistakable statues. This was without doubt the Plaza of Fallen Heroes. The scroll was in Tammerland. He had done it!

  His joy at locating the scroll was quickly replaced by a sense of dread. Better that the scroll were in any city other than the one still inhabited by the wizards of the Redoubt. He knew that Wigg, Faegan, and Abbey would also be desperately trying to find it, presumably through the same methods he was employing. True, he had set their labors back by destroying those herbs and oils that he had not stolen from Shadowood, but the wizards were exceedingly clever, which meant that there was no time to lose. He turned to Janus and Grizelda.

  "The two of you are to leave for Tammerland on the first ship that can be readied," he ordered. "Take the supplies you'll need to continue attempting to view the scroll as often as necessary. I don't care how you do it-just get the scroll back to the Citadel! Anchor well off the Cavalon Delta, and take a small, quiet skiff up the Sippora. Your crew must stay belowdecks, out of sight, while you are gone. Demonslavers have never been seen in Tammerland, and I wish to do this quietly, not start a riot."

  "You will not be accompanying us, my lord?" Janus asked.

  "I cannot," Krassus answered briskly. "Wulfgar needs my full attention, as do other matters of importance here. The return of the scroll I leave up to you. Do not fail me in this."

  He turned on the herbmistress. "Grizelda, do not think for one moment that you will be able to escape me simply because you are out of my sight for a time. I found you once, and I can do it again. If you make me hunt you down, it won't be to employ your talents. It will be to kill you. Slowly. Do you understand?"

  Looking back to Janus, he had another thought. "When you discover whoever has the scroll, kill him," he added casually. "Leave no loose ends."

  The herbmistress bowed her head in submission, while Janus nodded.

  Once the gazing flame was extinguished and Janus and Grizelda were gone, Krassus walked slowly to the edge of the roof and looked out on the Sea of Whispers. The three rose-colored moons were full, painting the sea with their palette. There was virtually no wind, and the ocean looked like a sheet of magenta-colored glass.

  Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his two-colored robe, he turned and descended the stairs.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-three

  T ristan sat looking with worry at Tyranny as she lay on the sofa in her quarters. The ever-present Scars stood by her side with an equally concerned expression on his face. She had fought bravely and survived, but she had been wounded and had passed out from loss of blood. Tristan and Scars had tended to her as best they could before cleaning and bandaging Tristan's shoulders. Then they had waited.

  It had taken some time for her to come around. Like any good captain, her first concern had been for how many of her crew she had lost. Then she inquired about the general condition of The People's Revenge and the other two ships sailing with them.

  Their little fleet was in bad shape, Scars reported. Nearly a quarter of The People's Revenge crew had been lost. A large number had been wounded but were still alive. Many of the sails had been ripped beyond repair, along with much of the rigging. And more than half of the ship's spars were completely destroyed.

  The other two vessels had fared no better. Each of them was also dead in the water, drifting at the mercy of the elements. Even Tristan was by now sailor enough to know that if they were struck by a sea storm or a fleet of demonslaver ships while in this condition, they would be finished.

  Scars had ordered repairs to begin, but it would be a difficult, incomplete job at best. They needed help. But out here, this far into the Sea of Whispers, Tristan knew there could be none.

  Tyranny sat up groggily and took a sip of the wine Tristan held out to her. Then she stabbed one of her rolled tubes of leaves between her lips and lit it from the flame offered up by Scars. Taking a deep draught of bluish smoke, she slowly blew it upward, toward the roof of the cabin.

  "What in the name of the Afterlife were those things that attacked us?" Tristan asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. "I have never seen anything like them."

  Tyranny took another sip of wine, then gingerly adjusted her position on the sofa. "We call the creatures screechlings," she told him. She took in another lungful of smoke and blew it out. "This was only the second time we have fought them. Scars named them for the horrible noise they make just before they attack. They began to prowl these waters only recently, about the same time the demonslavers started taking their captives from Farpoint. I think the screechlings must have originated at the Citadel, but no one knows for sure. Did you see how they glowed, just before they began attacking us? That tells me they come from magic. But who of the craft would be so cruel as to create such monsters and loose them on the sea?"

  Krassus, Tristan thought. It had to be. He would have wanted something that would protect his slave ships and attack any enemies. No doubt the ability had been provided by yet another Forestallment placed in his blood by Nicholas. Tristan lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  "Are you all right?" Tyranny asked softly.

  He raised his head and looked into her eyes. "No," he answered. "But I will be." He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to the problem at hand.

  "I saw many of the screechlings purposely destroying the sails, as well as the spars and the yardarms," he said. "Why would they do that, when they could have been attacking the crew?"

  "It seems they are both highly intelligent and well organized," Scars answered for his captain as she took another sip of wine. "They know that if we are sufficiently crippled, they can return at their leisure and finish us off. And unless we can get these three vessels moving again, that is exactly what will happen."

  Tyranny looked up at her first mate. "How much undamaged sail did we liberate from the slavers?" she asked hopefully.

  "Not nearly enough to do a proper job," Scars answered. "Especially considering the fact that we have three vessels to repair. I have taken the liberty of ordering all three ships lashed together, so that we might share resources and not drift apart on the nighttime sea. Dawn will rise soon, and we can work faster then. But even when we are finished, the best we will be able to do is to limp along. If the screechlings find us again, we shall be easy prey." He remained silent for a moment as he considered his next words.

  "Our best bet is to make for the Isle of Sanctuary and hope that we reach it before they return," he suggested. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but we are already wounded, Captain. Unless we reach the isle in time, the deathblow may not be far off."

  Tyranny scowled. Then she looked up at her gigantic first mate. "Please leave us now," she said. "I have issues to discuss with our new friend here. In the meantime, make all the repairs you can with what we have available, and then set course for the Isle of Sanctuary. Even limping along, as you put it, is better than sitting dead in the water as live bait for the screechlings."

  After nodding to his captain and casting a questioning glance at the prince, Scars left the cabin, closi
ng the door behind him. A combination of anger and confusion crossed Tristan's face.

  "What is this Isle of Sanctuary you are taking us to, eh?" he protested. "I, for one, have never heard of it!"

  "You can still trust me, I swear it," Tyranny assured him. "Our bargain remains intact. The reason you have never heard of the Isle of Sanctuary is because it is a secret, known only to a very few."

  "Enlighten me," he said shortly.

  Tyranny took another sip of wine. "Please go to my desk and bring me back my charts."

  Tristan skeptically did as she asked, placing the parchments on her lap. Rifling through them, she finally selected one and spread it out.

  "We are here," she said, pointing to a section of the chart displaying open sea. "Or at least that's where we were when we were attacked. Dead on course for the delta, just as I had agreed. Our current position has no doubt changed a bit since we have been adrift. But not by much, since the winds have remained light. Anyway, the Isle of Sanctuary is not far off our direct course to the delta. Look."

  Running one finger west toward the Cavalon Delta, she stopped it near a small island shaped like a long, crooked finger. According to the scale it was about four leagues long by two wide. Several natural harbors indented its coast. It was drawn in a darker ink, as if it had recently been added to her map.

  "I give you the little-known Isle of Sanctuary," she said. "Scars added it from memory."

  "But how is that possible?" Tristan asked. "And why must we go there?"

  Sitting back, she looked him in the eyes. "You say that two of your wizards still live?" she asked.

  "Yes. Wigg, the onetime lead wizard of the Directorate. And his friend Faegan, from Shadowood. What of it?"

  "Because your Directorate, or should I say what's left of it, is supposedly responsible for the isle's existence," she answered cautiously. "Or so the legend goes."

  Tristan sat back in his chair. "Even if what you say is true, why must we go there?" he asked. "Why can't we just set a course straight for the delta?"

  Tyranny took another puff of smoke and let it out slowly. "There is still a great deal of sea between us and home," she answered. "Much of it is known to be infested with screechlings, as well as slaver ships. Provided we can pay the price, we should be able to procure both spars and sailcloth on the isle. Like it or not, we need those to get to the delta in one piece. Even with our layover, and taking into consideration the time it will take to make our final repairs, we will still arrive at the delta faster than if we simply continued to plow along in our current state. You must trust me on this. I know what I'm talking about."

  Her face grew dark again, and she reached out, taking his hands into hers. It was the first time she had ever done so. "I don't like the idea of taking us there, either. I would never have given such an order unless it was absolutely necessary. Nor would Scars have suggested it, brave as he is. It's a very dangerous place. During previous visits there I have always lost good people-crew who chose to stay on the isle, rather than return to the sea with me. I wouldn't like to lose any more of them to that place, but those here with me are here of their own free will. What will be will be." She looked away for a moment. "But there is also a personal reason why I avoid visiting the isle…"

  Seemingly resigned to her decision, she looked back at him. The commanding eyes of the daring privateer had somehow transformed into those of a lovely, desirable woman who suddenly seemed quite vulnerable in his presence.

  "You must believe me," she said, gently but insistently. "At this point, everyone on The People's Revenge wants to get home as quickly as you do. But we must have the necessary sails to speed our ship, or we may never make it at all." A small smile crossed her lips. "Unless you'd like to row again, of course."

  Tristan found his mood softening. Nonetheless, his mind was still full of unanswered questions. "But why do you say that this place has to do with the wizards?" he asked. "How could you possibly know that? Why is it so dangerous? Why did some of your men choose to stay there?"

  She gave a short laugh. "You sound like a schoolboy!"

  Tristan felt his face flush with embarrassment.

  Suddenly the commanding, calculating expression returned to her blue eyes, and she let go of his hands. "No more questions now," she said. "The Isle of Sanctuary is but one day's sail from here, even in our current condition. You will have all of your answers soon enough. Now please help me up. I'm still dizzy, but I must get topside and look over my ships." The wry smile came again. "The crewmembers need to know their captain is still able to pull her own weight."

  Standing, Tristan reached down to help her. As she rose to meet him, she winced at a pain in her left thigh and stumbled against him. For a long, uncomfortable moment, they stared into each other's eyes. Then he turned and helped her up the stairway to go look over her crippled ships.

  It would be a depressing sight.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-four

  A s Wigg and Faegan followed the ancient watchwoman through the portal, they were engulfed in darkness again, save for the light that came from the Paragon hanging around Faegan's neck. Then the watchwoman stopped. Without turning around she raised one white, fleshless hand in a gesture of warning.

  "Follow my footsteps exactly, and do not stray from the path," she ordered. "The fall on either side is endless."

  She set off again, tapping her wooden staff against either edge of the stony path as she went along. Tentatively, the wizards followed behind her in single file. Fog loomed up on all sides, and the air was so cold that the wizards could see their breath streaming out before them. Although their minds were still brimming over with questions, neither of them spoke.

  At one point, Faegan produced a gold coin from the pocket of his robe and tossed it over the side of the path. Using the craft, he trebled his wizard's hearing and waited for the sound.

  None came.

  After that, both wizards picked their steps with even greater care.

  Finally the watchwoman stopped and indicated that it was safe for the wizards to come up alongside her. When they did, she raised her hands.

  Radiance stones lining the ceiling immediately began to glow with sage light. As they grew in brightness, the light from the Paragon faded, until at last the jewel returned to its normal state.

  Faegan and Wigg saw that they were standing in a very large cavern. Within the boundaries of its walls lay a small lake, its waters glowing with the hue of the craft. Fog steamed up from the lake surface and encroached onto the jagged shoreline.

  All around the lake rose tall, black rocks whose slick sides shimmered in the glow from the lake. On the edge of the shore lay a small rowboat. There were no oars to be seen. A slight breeze rippled the water and rustled the wizards' hair; it felt good on their faces.

  Looking out at the azure lake, Wigg was reminded of the azure waters he had seen in the Caves of the Paragon, just before he and Tristan had been bled and taken to Ragnar, Nicholas' servant. He wondered how it was that such waters could exist here, as well.

  Without speaking, the watchwoman walked to the boat, pushed it into the water, and climbed into its stern. Raising her staff, she then beckoned the two wizards forward to join her. After exchanging a quick, questioning look with Faegan, Wigg stepped into the boat first. Then Faegan levitated his chair up and over the side, joining him.

  Still silent, the watchwoman began using her staff to pole them across the fog-shrouded lake. After a time the fog parted, and the wizards could see the far wall of the cavern, where it plunged down into the azure lake. Seven circular openings had been carved into it in a row, each filled about halfway with water. A light breeze emanated from each of them, softly disturbing the surface of the water.

  The watchwoman carefully guided the little boat into the center opening and began pushing them down a long, dark tunnel. She paused only to raise her skeletal hands to illuminate the radiance stones that lined the roof of this place, as well, but though their l
ight was very bright, they revealed little. It seemed to be a stone passageway, nothing more.

  At last Wigg thought he could see an azure glow that signified the end of the tunnel. The watchwoman stopped poling the boat, and it slowly came to rest.

  "You search for the way to untangle the herbs and precious oils of the craft, you say?" she asked in her raspy voice.

  As Wigg turned around to face her, he saw that there was still nothing but empty darkness within the depths of her hood. "Yes," he answered.

  "Very well, then," she replied. Pushing down on her staff, she levered the boat forward again. "Behold," she said.

  As they exited the tunnel, the wizards were faced with a vision of such serene majesty that it nearly made them weep.

  The square, stone chamber was huge, stretching at least one hundred meters in all directions. There was no fog here. The waters of the tunnel spilled out into yet another large lake of glowing azure, this one so bright that its light filled the space and streamed across the stone walls and ceiling.

  As they approached the far end of the chamber, a sloped, earthen embankment could be seen stretching completely from one of the side walls to the other. Its surface was covered with variegated vines and dark, strong-looking roots. The sharply sloped embankment rose upward in layered, horizontal tiers. Each wide, flat step of earth held what looked to be dozens of small pools of azure water. Water flowed from holes in the rock wall above the highest tier to tumble gracefully from one pool into the next, all the way down to the lake.

  In each pool grew plants of the craft, their stems and blossoms rising just above the surface to create individual, floating gardens. These plants were bursting with every possible color, a vibrant rainbow of living energy. As the brilliant water coming from the wall above ran down and into each of the tiered pools, it burbled happily, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and the surface of the lake.

  As the wizards stared, entranced, they became aware of the incredible scents in the air. Each mingled with the next, yet was somehow also singularly distinct to the nose.