Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  “It seems to me that the Minions need someone to travel with them, to act as a human emissary on their behalf,” he replied. “I would like to offer my services.”

  Tristan looked at the hunchbacked dwarf with true admiration. The small man with the very large heart had proven invaluable to them in the past, and Tristan was sure that this new mission would prove to be no exception.

  “Of course,” the prince said. “And thank you.”

  Unable to contain her news any longer, Tyranny spoke up.

  “I know all of this is incredibly important, but so is what I have to tell you,” she said.

  “What is it?” Tristan asked.

  Taking a deep breath, Tyranny looked around the table. “Only hours ago, a demonslaver frigate slipped through my fleet,” she said. “I believe she was making for the Cavalon Delta. If I’m right, she may already be there.”

  Tristan’s face became grave. “How can that be?” he asked. To Tyranny’s relief, he seemed to be more stunned than angry. Reaching up, he ran one hand through his dark hair. “I’ve sailed with you, and I know how skilled you are! How could a lone frigate slip through a dozen vessels under your command?”

  The muscles in Tyranny’s jaw clenched. “I had her dead to rights,” she answered grimly. “I ordered the fleet to fan out in a battle line and take her. There should have been no possibility of escape. As I watched her approach, she was simply there one second, and gone the next.

  “Someone of the craft must have been aboard her, and caused the frigate to disappear,” she added. “The same way they did not so long ago, just before we finally smashed their fleet.” Sitting tiredly back in her chair, she knew that everyone around the table understood what she wasn’t saying.

  “Could it be true?” Tristan asked Faegan. “Could Wulfgar still be alive?”

  Faegan pursed his lips. “It would explain much,” he answered. “Still, that may not be the case.”

  “Why not?” Celeste asked.

  “We believe that Wulfgar received his gifts through Forestallments,” the old wizard answered, “the calculations for which came by way of the Scroll of the Vagaries. It is possible that he could also have granted Forestallments to one or more of his consuls before he came to Eutracia to destroy the orb. It could have been one such consul aboard that frigate.”

  He turned to Tyranny. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, my dear,” he said. “Even Wigg and I might not have been able to find that vessel, once she had vanished. Still, all of this doesn’t answer the greater question, does it?”

  “Why Wulfgar or one of his emissaries is really here,” Shailiha said.

  “It must have to do with the ruptured orb.”

  Despite all of their concerns, Faegan’s impish, familiar smile returned. He loved nothing so much as a good riddle, especially when he was the only one holding the answer.

  “Oh, really,” he teased Shailiha. “And why must that be the case?”

  “He has come here to complete the job he started, has he not?” Shailiha asked. “Or he is dead, and his consuls are carrying on in his stead. Either way, they mean to finish destroying the orb.”

  Suddenly, Tristan knew what it was that Faegan was getting at. He looked over at his twin sister.

  “They don’t need to destroy the orb, Shai,” he said. “Don’t you see? As the Orb of the Vigors continues to drip its energy across the land, it will eventually die on its own.”

  He looked first at Faegan, and then at Wigg. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked.

  “In truth, we do not know,” Wigg answered. “This is a calamity that we never thought we would have to face. We cannot be sure the orb will die, or whether the energy inside of it that sustains the Vigors will replenish itself.

  “Either way, Faegan and I fear that without the energy of the orb to sustain the Vigors, our side of the craft will soon cease to exist,” he went on. “After all, isn’t that what Wulfgar wanted all along? So you see, now the real questions become not only whether he lives, but if he does, whether he knows about the continued draining of the orb.”

  Looking down at the table, Wigg laced his long fingers together. A grim silence fell over the room.

  Tristan looked to Faegan. “What can you tell us about the orb that might help us heal the rupture?” he asked. Despite his exhaustion, his mind was alive with questions.

  But Faegan was not ready to answer. “With your permission, I think we should adjourn,” he said. “Everyone is exhausted, and Wigg is injured. Besides, he and I need to research this further, if we are to give you a proper answer.”

  Reluctantly, Tristan nodded. “Very well,” he said. “But I want everyone with the exception of Geldon to stay in the palace for now.” He looked at Traax. “And I want those search parties sent out immediately. For all we know, the orb could be bearing down on Tammerland this very moment.”

  Traax nodded. “I live to serve,” came his traditional reply.

  Tristan gave Tyranny a short smile. “I trust you will not mind accepting our hospitality for a while longer,” he said. Not knowing quite what to say, Tyranny smiled back.

  “I have one other request,” Tristan announced. He looked first at Shailiha, then at Abbey and Adrian.

  “The three of you have been treating the wounded in the courtyard and the palace,” he said. “Have you gotten any sense of the general feeling among them?”

  “We have,” Adrian answered. “Most of them remain distrustful of both us and the Minions. Frankly, I can’t say I blame them.”

  “Precisely,” Tristan said. “But I think we might be able to turn this awful situation to some useful purpose.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wigg asked.

  “Tomorrow morning I want Shailiha, Abbey, and Adrian to try to convince as many of the refugees as possible to meet with us in the Chamber of Supplication,” Tristan said. “They need to be told that the heir to the throne still lives, and that I care about them. This tragedy belongs to all of us, and I want to use it to bring us all back together again, if I can. If we can convince even a few, the word will spread. I realize it will only be a small beginning, but we must try. I want everyone in this room to be there with me.”

  Wigg and Faegan exchanged smiles.

  “Then we are adjourned,” Tristan said.

  As Tristan led the way from the meeting room, Faegan silently indicated to Wigg that he wanted the First Wizard to stay behind. Wigg nodded back, and then whispered to Abbey that he would meet her later in her private quarters. Abbey was reluctant to leave him, for she was anxious to examine his wounds more closely, but she knew better than to try to change his mind.

  When the two wizards were alone, Faegan came straight to the point.

  “There is only one way to save the orb, you know,” he said.

  Wigg nodded. “The Tome states that only the Jin’Sai may heal such damage,” he said. “To do that, he must first be trained. And in order for him to be trained, his blood must first be returned to its original state. Why didn’t you tell him?”

  Faegan sighed. “It wouldn’t have been fair,” he answered. “I think we owe it to him to inform him in private. I know one thing for sure, old friend. There is far more to all of this than first meets the eye.”

  “Wulfgar?” Wigg asked. “Do you think he is still alive?”

  Faegan sat back in his chair. Wigg could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

  “I wish I knew, First Wizard,” Faegan answered softly. “I wish I knew.”

  One of the hearth logs slipped down in the grate. Slowly it collapsed into charred ash while the two ancient mystics sat in silence.

  TRISTAN ENTERED HIS PERSONAL QUARTERS, CELESTE RIGHT BEHIND him. She watched fondly as he unbuckled his sword belt and baldric, and tossed his weapons onto a chair. Then the knee boots came off. In stocking feet, he walked to
the windows and closed the draperies.

  Celeste smiled. He was filthy from head to toe, and a dark growth of stubble covered his face, yet even so disheveled, he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen.

  Returning to her side, he took her in his arms and he kissed her. Closing her eyes, she let herself luxuriate in his presence for a moment. How good it felt to have him back.

  “Your time with the orb—was it as awful as Father said?” she asked. Then she saw his face fall, and she immediately regretted her question. His dark eyes looked down into hers with a terrifying sadness.

  “Yes,” he answered. “It was more horrible than you could possibly imagine. Even after seeing it with my own eyes, I still find it hard to believe. Right now, however, more discussion about the orb is not what I desire.”

  Celeste smiled mischievously. “Just what might you desire, my lord?” she asked. “Something that I, your humble servant, might be able to provide?” Then she remembered that the wizards had forbidden them to be together in that way.

  “Sleep,” Tristan answered, his eyes half closed. “I want to sleep for one hundred years.”

  He walked over to the huge four-poster bed and collapsed upon it, dirty clothes and all. Holding one arm out, he beckoned to her, and she went to lie beside him, her head on his chest. In the silence of the room, she could hear the comforting beat of his heart. Then she realized that there might be no better time to tell him what she must.

  “Tristan,” she whispered. “There is something that you need to know.” Raising her head, she looked into his face. His eyes were already closed.

  “Tristan?” she asked softly.

  No answer came. Her prince was asleep.

  CHAPTER IX

  _____

  AS SATINE GUIDED HER BLACK GELDING THROUGH THE BY-ways of Tammerland, she took in the sights and sounds of the human suffering that seemed to fill the streets. She was not surprised by what she saw, because Bratach had explained both the condition of the orb, and its expected effect. Following a discreet distance behind the carriage-of-four that the consul had hired, she quickly realized that even his detailed description had not done the situation justice.

  It was afternoon in Tammerland. The gray sky threatened heavy rain at any moment. Pre-storm winds rose occasionally, picking up litter from the streets, where grim groups of citizens served in makeshift burial details, pushing wheelbarrows or pulling handcarts piled high with corpses. Arms, legs, and heads hung over the carts’ lips; the lifeless eyes stared out into space, giving the unnerving impression that they could still see.

  Pulling her horse to a stop for a moment, Satine reached into her cloak and removed a black silk scarf. Hoping to keep the stench of death from her nostrils, she tied it around the lower part of her face. She clucked to her horse and they began moving again.

  She hadn’t wanted to come into Tammerland this soon. Too many people knew her here. She had hoped that this visit could wait until later, after she had drawn out her primary targets. Then she could finish her sanctions quickly and retire. But Bratach wanted to be sure that she was familiar with the address he had given her, the place he referred to as his sanctuary on this side of the Sea of Whispers. She would soon have need of it, he told her.

  Narrowing her eyes slightly, she realized that she still didn’t know what he had meant by that.

  She remained in awe of the technique the consul had employed to slip them safely past the prince’s fleet. Bratach had finally ordered the frigate anchored just off the Cavalon Delta. After augmenting his spell to keep the ship invisible in his absence, Bratach had ushered Satine and a group of armed demonslavers into a skiff, in which they had made their way up the Sippora River to the very outskirts of Tammerland proper. Only then had Bratach caused himself and Satine to become visible again. The skiff and her demonslavers had departed, heading back to the frigate waiting offshore.

  Bratach’s carriage stopped. Satine knew Tammerland well, for she had been raised there. But the city held bad memories, and the sooner she was gone, the better. She had two errands to perform, and then her mission could begin.

  Looking around to orient herself, she found that they were on Tamarac Boulevard, one of the main thoroughfares that led to Bargainer’s Square. The address she needed was just across the street.

  Just as Bratach had told her, number Twenty-Seven Tamarac Boulevard seemed to be an archery shop. The sign dangling above its doors was carved with the image of a single arrow. It truly was a working place of business. But according to Bratach, the shop had a good deal more to offer her.

  Without comment from its passenger, Bratach’s carriage moved away. He had told her that they should never be seen together, other than in the confines of the shop. Should she need him, she could arrange to meet him through its auspices. In truth, she was glad to be rid of him. He was, she thought, little more than Wulfgar’s endowed errand boy, and she disliked being told what to do by anyone, especially a subordinate. One corner of her mouth came up. Even if he can make ships disappear, she thought.

  Glancing up and down the boulevard, she saw no one familiar. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, she dismounted and tied the gelding to a nearby rail.

  She stepped onto the sidewalk, leaned up against an oil lamp pole, and cast her gaze across the street. There was no way to discern whether there were any customers inside the shop, so now seemed as good a time as any.

  Slipping her hands beneath her cloak, she found the handles of her four daggers and gave them each a tug, loosening them in their sheaths.

  She pushed off from the pole, removed the scarf from her face, and walked warily across the street. As she entered the shop, the little bell at the top of the door cheerfully announced her presence.

  The place was spacious and airy, belying the impression of shoddiness it gave from the street. All manner of archery equipment—some quite finely crafted, even by Satine’s high professional standards—lined the walls and littered the various tables. While looking over the goods with an expert eye, she surreptitiously studied the other end of the shop.

  A man Satine took as the proprietor stood at the far end, behind a long wooden counter. Two patrons stood there, loudly arguing with him over the price of a dozen arrows. They were impoverished, greasy-looking men, and their manners matched their appearance. The proprietor was a short, balding man. Red garters held up the sleeves of his sweat-stained shirt. He was doing his best to keep control of the situation, but the rowdy customers were becoming ruder and more threatening with every passing second. Their speech was slurred; Satine guessed that they had been drinking.

  Grabbing up a longbow from a nearby wall, Satine strode purposefully to the counter. As she approached, one of the men leered at her. Several of his teeth were missing, and she could smell the ale on his breath. Ignoring him, Satine held up the longbow.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Wha-what?” the owner asked, as he turned away from the two men. He gave Satine an angry look, as though she were a nuisance rather than a paying customer.

  This was getting her nowhere. It was time to let him know who she really was. Holding the bow higher, she pointed to its string.

  “Is this catgut, or something else?” she asked. “I understand catgut is hard to come by these days.”

  As expected, she watched a surprised look come over the man’s face.

  “It’s catgut,” he answered. “Makes for the best strings, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she said. His coded reply had been exactly what Bratach had told her to expect. Now the only obstacles were the two miscreants standing by her side.

  She placed the bow down on the countertop and slipped her hands beneath her cloak. As she did so, she sized up the situation. The man standing nearest her would have to be dealt with first. The other was a short distance down the length of the counter.

&n
bsp; She usually only killed for money, but this was different. Not only had they both seen her here, they were unnecessary distractions. Her sanctions had to be protected, and these men were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. One corner of her mouth came up. This would be so easy that it almost wasn’t worth doing.

  The nearest man turned to look at her. His angry eyes were bloodshot.

  “Someone ought to teach you some manners,” he snarled. Still refusing to look at him, she remained motionless. When she didn’t reply, his hand started moving toward her.

  When his hand was close enough, with a single, smooth move Satine turned on one heel, grasped his hand in midair, and then turned it over. She heard the bones crack.

  Then she grabbed one of her daggers and plunged the blade directly into his body. With a quick, upward thrust, she sliced him open from his groin to his breast. When she felt the knife strike bone she stopped, twisted the blade upward, and thrust its point into his heart. As he collapsed, she pushed him away with the sole of one boot.

  The other one was coming for her. She raised the bloody dagger over her head and let it fly. It twirled end over end twice, and then buried itself into the man’s throat. As the blood burbled from his mouth, he tried to reach out to her. Then the light went out of his eyes, and he collapsed facedown onto the floor.

  Silence fell as Satine removed the black scarf from her cloak. She retrieved her dagger from the dead man. After wiping it clean, she replaced the blade in its sheath.

  She looked calmly across the counter to the proprietor. His mouth was hanging open.

  “But…you’re a woman!” he breathed.

  “So you noticed,” she shot back. “Congratulations.”

  Saying nothing more, she walked toward the front of the shop. First she reached up and drew down the window shades. Then she opened the door and turned its sign around, so that it now read “Closed.” After turning the lock she walked back to the counter, placed her palms on it, and looked the sweaty man directly in the eyes.

  “Until I leave here and these two bodies have been disposed of, you’re closed,” she said. “You are the consul named Ivan, I presume? If you aren’t, I’ve just killed two men for nothing.”