In measured tones, the wizard began to explain his theories. As he did, the people before him turned to one another, aghast. Several of those with endowed blood wept openly. Those without did the best they could to comfort the others.
The wizard’s talk lasted hours.
CHAPTER VI
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BY THE TIME TRISTAN, WIGG, AND THE MINION PHALANX SAW the cause of the terrible destruction, the village of Brook Hollow was already in flames. Wigg ordered the Minions to take the litter as close as they dared.
The terrible noise shot like daggers through Tristan’s ears, a plaintive screeching howl. He watched, dumbstruck, as the thing continued on its path of annihilation across the land. Then he lowered his head, as if by doing so he might somehow make the whole scene disappear.
All the death and chaos originated from the same revered phenomenon that sustained the benevolent side of the craft: the Orb of the Vigors.
Night had fallen, and the golden sphere lit up the land and heavens for leagues in every direction as it soared above the earth. So huge that it seemed to take up the entire sky, it was a wondrous, terrifying sight. Although the prince had seen the orb only a few times in his life, he was sure that it was now spinning faster on its axis than ever before. It was almost as if some form of madness had overtaken it.
Its mate—the dark, ominous Orb of the Vagaries—was nowhere to be seen. Pale white spears radiated from its center and darted off into nothingness. From a jagged tear in its lower half, the orb dripped pure, living energy. Whatever the gold stuff fell upon either vaporized instantly or was severely burned.
White-knuckled, Tristan gripped the sides of the litter. Suddenly, he understood. Wulfgar, he thought. This damage was a result of that night on the roof of the palace, when his half brother had tried to pollute the orb.
Tristan was about to shout his suspicions to the wizard, but Wigg was already calling new orders to the Minions, telling them to take the litter even closer to the deadly orb. The warriors obeyed, and as they neared, the orb illuminated the litter and the straining Minions flying alongside it, turning them into surreal specters in the sky. Tristan could feel the orb’s intense heat.
Then the orb’s shock waves struck. The litter swung wildly, and the warriors carrying it nearly lost their hold. Twice it listed so badly that Tristan and Wigg almost fell. Finally righting the litter again, the warriors did their best to inch forward in the sky. Tristan watched in awe as they fought against the blasts that whipped at their bodies and wings.
The orb’s awful energy threatened to set the litter ablaze. If that happened, Tristan thought, he and the wizard were done for.
Suddenly two of the warriors carrying the litter burst into flames. Screaming wildly, they plummeted to the scorched earth below. Warriors fell all around them now, bodies and wings ablaze as they tumbled. Tristan could only watch, horrified, and hope they died before they hit the ground.
The wizard stood up in the litter. His arms outstretched, he braced himself precariously against the bludgeoning force of the orb. The wind and heat tore wildly at his hair and robes. Tristan knew that were it not for the First Wizard’s powers in the craft, he would have been blown from the litter. At first Tristan didn’t understand what Wigg was doing, but then he realized that the wizard was trying to save Brook Hollow.
Tristan had seen the wizard call forth the orb several times before. But he had no idea whether the First Wizard could summon enough power to actually change the thing’s course.
Just as twin azure bolts shot from Wigg’s hands, a massive spray of the orb’s golden energy tore into the litter and its bearers. The last thing Tristan saw before tumbling from the burning litter toward the earth was Wigg’s robes catching fire.
Then he heard the wizard scream.
CHAPTER VII
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PERCHED ON THE WINDOWSILL IN THE CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS of her flagship, Teresa of the House of Welborne—known to friend and foe alike as Tyranny—calmly regarded the Sea of Whispers. It was nearly dawn. The winds were steady, and the three Eutracian moons were high, bathing the ever-shifting ocean in their magenta glow.
Tyranny stretched her back against the window frame and ran one hand through her short, dark hair. She had never bothered preparing for bed: She still wore the high-waisted brown-and-tan striped pants and worn leather jacket that she’d put on the previous morning. Her short sword hung from her left hip and her pearl-handled dagger sat in its sheath, tied down to her right thigh. Lost in thought, as she had been most of the night, she fiddled with the single gold hoop that dangled from her earlobe.
Too often, of late, she was eschewing sleep for a night of thinking. She still could not believe her good fortune—a full fleet under her command; and official letters of marque, a pirate’s dream; and the fact that she had been made a permanent member of the newly formed Conclave of the Vigors. The latter was an honor she’d never dreamed of, and she wondered how she could both fulfill her duties to the Conclave and continue to ply the waters in search of any possible surviving demonslaver ships of the late Wulfgar’s fleet.
Her jaw hardened at the thought of the demonslavers. She had reasons aplenty to hate those monsters, the greatest of those reasons personal: The demonslavers had murdered her parents and captured her beloved brother, Jason. Although she had rescued him and returned him home, he would never be the same. Jason had been an expert swordsmith. After the torture by the demonslavers, his hands were ruined: He would never practice his chosen art again.
Most of her allies who had participated in the destruction of the demonslaver fleet assumed them all to be dead. Tyranny had her doubts. And as long as there was a single demonslaver still alive in these waters, she would search out and kill him.
Shrugging off her thoughts, she rose from the windowsill and crossed the cabin to her ornate desk. She took up a carved wooden box, opened the lid, and removed one of her small, dark cigarillos. Placing it between her lips, she reached for a common match, which she struck against the sole of one of her scuffed knee boots. Cupping her hands around the flame, she lit the rolled tube of dried leaves and inhaled deeply.
As she breathed out a long stream of smoke, she pulled out her desk chair and sat down. Then she reached for the open bottle of red wine atop her desk and took a long swallow straight from the lip. Leaning back in her chair, she gave herself to the seductive rocking of the Reprise as it plowed through the waves.
The comforting sound of ship’s bells rang out on the night air. She was so used to their sound that they automatically registered in her mind, without the need to be counted.
“Ding…ding…” came the clear, bright tones. Two hours to dawn, she thought, as the last of them faded away.
She walked back over to the windowsill and sat down again. She took a pull on her cigarillo, and then flicked the ash from its glowing end into the sea before having another sip of wine.
She had begun as a pirate, and ended up…legal. And it was all due to Prince Tristan of the House of Galland.
Tristan had seen to it that she received her letters of marque and the one hundred thousand kisa that had been part of their bargain for taking him safely home. She was now most probably the wealthiest woman in all of Eutracia. It had also been Tristan who had given her the twelve stout, ex-pirate vessels she now commanded, not to mention her new seat on the Conclave of the Vigors. She owed him much. And she missed his company, though she would never admit it, except here, in the safe confines of her own cabin before dawn.
Taking another swallow of wine, she closed her eyes. Tristan’s heart belonged to Celeste, a woman whom Tyranny had come to count as a friend. And that was that.
An urgent pounding at her door sent her thoughts flying. She knew Scars’ insistent knock when something was wrong.
“Come!” she shouted.
The door swung open to reveal her first ma
te. At seven feet tall, he seemed to take up the entire entry. His head and face were clean shaven, and his only clothing was a pair of ripped, worn trousers. His body and face were covered with scars, the most marked of which was a prominent line that ran diagonally down over his left eye and across his cheek.
“What is it?” Tyranny asked.
Scars smiled. “The Minion K’jarr tells me that his scouting warriors have sighted a lone ship. She tacks her way west-northwest toward Eutracia, about one hour’s sail from our current position.”
“And…” Tyranny prompted.
“She is manned by demonslavers.” Scars grinned widely. “She sails alone. They are either amazingly brave or equally stupid. Unless they sighted our Minion patrol—which I seriously doubt—there is no way for them to know that we are in the same waters.”
Tyranny beamed. At last, she thought. She took a final pull on her cigarillo, blew the smoke toward the ceiling, then dropped the butt to the floor and crushed it out beneath her boot.
“I will speak to K’jarr immediately,” she said. “In the meantime, turn us west-northwest and douse our running lamps. And make sure every ship in the fleet does the same.”
Scars turned to go, and she followed him, running, up the gangway to the main deck of the Reprise.
AS OX SOARED HIGH OVER THE SEA OF WHISPERS WITH HIS COTERIE of warriors, his eyes scoured the moonlit waters for Tyranny’s fleet. He and his troops had searched almost the entire night, and they were close to exhaustion.
Making matters worse, he was frantic over what might have happened to the prince and the First Wizard. He knew he was not among the most intellectually gifted of the Minions. Still, what he lacked in quickness of mind he felt he more than made up for with devotion and loyalty—especially where the Jin’Sai was concerned.
The wheels of thought ground slowly in his head. His immediate focus had to be on finding Tyranny.
He had a general idea of where to look—information supplied by one of the prince’s newly constructed seaside outposts—but that still left a huge area to search.
Pulling his dark, leathery wings through the sky, Ox became more and more concerned. They needed to find Tyranny’s fleet soon, for they had already flown too far from shore—long past the point of no return. It would be dawn in about two hours; he could only hope that the light would help.
Banking slightly to the left, he led his warriors in a curving turn designed to compensate for the reported movement of Tyranny’s fleet. This maneuver should work, provided the privateer had not changed her course since the last heading supplied to the outpost. It was all the information Ox had, and it worried him that it might no longer be valid.
If it wasn’t, they would soon all suffer a cold, watery death.
AS TYRANNY AND SCARS RAN TO THE FOREDECK OF THE REPRISE,REPRISE, a stiff, westerly wind greeted them. The moons provided excellent visibility over the ever-restless sea. But as she scanned the ocean through her spyglass, the eager privateer saw nothing.
Before she knew it, K’jarr, the Minion officer Tristan had assigned to her, was standing by her side. He looked tired and worn, and she understood that he had led the patrol that had sighted the demonslaver vessel.
“Your report,” she said briskly. Despite his exhaustion, with a click of his heels K’jarr came to attention.
“She is a demonslaver ship, of that there is no doubt,” he answered. “I saw the white-skinned bastards with my own eyes.” Then he smiled. Exhausted as they were, he and his warriors were as eager to engage the Jin’Sai’s enemies as anyone aboard.
“They’re about one hour’s sail from our current location—provided the winds hold and they haven’t changed their heading since then,” he continued. “I doubt they have, since they seemed to have been tacking for the Cavalon Delta. By my estimates, we should be able to see their running lights within the next quarter to half hour.”
Tyranny looked back out over the gunwale. Despite how much she wanted to engage the enemy, that a single demonslaver ship would brave these waters alone gave her pause. Most, if not all, of Wulfgar’s fleet had been destroyed. Tristan’s bastard brother had been killed that same night, on the roof of the royal palace. So why would a leaderless slaver frigate ply these waters now, trying to return to a nation that would most certainly prove deadly to her? Was this the scout vessel for a new host of warships that they knew nothing about—the vanguard of another invasion force, perhaps? Suddenly, she understood.
This was no invasion. The demonslaver ship traveled alone because she had a singular mission.
Tyranny turned to Scars. “Put on all the extra sail we can muster!” she ordered. “I don’t care if we crack every spar in the fleet doing it! We must not let her slip away! We will board this one, but not sink her immediately. My gut tells me that she carries secrets with her.” As she looked back out to sea, another thought came to her.
“I want every ship in our fleet rigged for stealth,” she added. “There must be no warning bells from the crow’s nest. Send word to the fleet by whatever Minion warriors are still able to fly, rather than by signal lantern. I want quiet and darkness.”
With a quick nod, her first mate went to carry out his captain’s orders.
Then she heard the unmistakable flurry of Minion wings. She looked up just in time to see a number of dark, winged silhouettes crossing the luminous discs of Eutracia’s three moons. She was surprised, because after K’jarr’s group had landed she had sent out no new patrols. Suddenly, a mass of unfamiliar Minion warriors came half crashing, half landing onto the decks of the Reprise.
She finally recognized Ox. He looked completely played out, as did all of the Minions with him. Some of them were so spent that all they could do was sit or lie upon the shifting decks and try to reclaim their breath.
Tyranny and K’jarr ran to Ox. It was all the faithful warrior could do to look up at them. His expression was grave.
K’jarr helped Ox to his feet. The huge warrior could barely stand. He persevered as he wavered back and forth before her, his wings drooping behind him.
“Tyranny must come back palace,” Ox said as best his starving lungs would allow. “Bad thing happen since you gone…. Wizard Faegan call emergency meeting of Conclave. Must go now!”
Tyranny felt a shudder go through her, but it hadn’t been caused by what the warrior had just told her. It was what he hadn’t said.
Reaching up, she took Ox by his massive shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. “Of course I’ll come,” she answered. “But why would Faegan call such a meeting? Why didn’t the Jin’Sai order it himself?”
Ox looked resigned. “Jin’Sai and First Wizard leave palace with Traax, to chase down bad thing that kill so many people. Palace full of dead and dying.” He paused to catch his breath; the wait was maddening. “Tristan and Wigg not come back. No one know if they still alive.”
Tyranny stared at the Minion. “What are you talking about?” she asked.
Ox explained the situation as best he could. Tyranny blanched. K’jarr looked equally stunned.
Turning away, Tyranny walked the short distance to the starboard gunwale and rested her forearms on it, contemplating the decision she had to make. All around her, lights were being extinguished, as per her orders. Should she stay and take the prize that she was convinced might reveal so much? Or should she leave immediately for the palace as Faegan had ordered?
Scars came running. His eyes were eager, predatory.
“The crow’s nest has sighted her!” he said. “She’s north-northwest of us, about a half hour away. You should just be able to see her running lamps through your glass.” Smiling, he handed her the telescope.
Raising the spyglass to her eye, Tyranny scoured the sea. At first she could find nothing. Then she caught a pinprick of light. She carefully twisted the cylinders of the glass. What she saw did not disappoint her.
>
The light from the enemy vessel’s running lamps burned brightly enough to tell the privateer that she was looking at a frigate, the same vessel type used by the demonslavers. She appeared to be at full sail. Even though the ship was still too far away to tell whether demonslavers were aboard, as far as Tyranny was concerned, K’jarr’s word was enough. Her jaw set, she lowered the glass and looked back at Scars.
“I want the fleet to fan out in a straight line, with the Reprise in the center,” she ordered. “Leave just enough space between vessels for some maneuvering room, should I decide to change my attack plans. When we approach, at my order we will surround her. No other action is to be taken until I give the word for her to be boarded. As the flagship, we shall have the honor of drawing first blood. But not until we have found and secured her captain, and squeezed some answers from him. I want to know why he sails toward Eutracia without escort.”
She paused as she considered her next words. “Then we will kill them all,” she added.
While Scars hurried off to relay her orders, Tyranny looked back over the sea. The running lamps of the other ship slowly became visible without the aid of the spyglass. The wind rustled through her wayward hair, and a grim, determined smile came to the privateer’s lips. Her eyes still trained upon her quarry, Tyranny reached down and drew her short sword from its scabbard.
SATINE WATCHED BRATACH GAZE OUT OVER THE SEA. HE HAD been doing this nonstop for the last two days, and she knew that the only reason he hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion was his mastery of the craft. While he searched, the consul’s hawklike face moved slowly from side to side within the hood of his dark blue robe. The westerlies were brisk, the crimson-colored sea restless as their ship made her way toward the Cavalon Delta.
So far, the voyage had been without incident. Yet as Satine approached the consul, she knew something was afoot. She had been awakened by one of the demonslavers and told that Bratach wished to see her topside right away. Pulling her gray cloak around her, she shook off her sleepiness and closed out the cold wind.
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