Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  “Whether these rumors have merit is not for me to say,” Aeolus stated. Then his demeanor stiffened, and he leaned forward a bit.

  “The path you have chosen will be dangerous,” he said seriously. “You are about to go to war with those who command the craft of magic. They are far more proficient in death-dealing than you or I could imagine. I cannot condone what you are about to do. But if you need a place to hide in order to save your own life, you will be welcome here.”

  Aeolus thought for a moment. “Given what you have just told me, I assume you will be visiting the community of partial adepts?” he asked.

  Satine nodded.

  Aeolus sighed. “Such a vile place,” he said. “Are you sure that you must go there?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “These new sanctions will surely be the most difficult of my career.”

  “Will you be dealing with the rogue herbmaster, Reznik?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There is no other choice.”

  Realizing that she had accomplished everything she had come to do, Satine knew it was time to leave. She reclaimed her sword from the floor and stood. Aeolus came to his feet with her. She had almost forgotten how tall and imposing he was.

  “Goodbye, my child,” he said softly. “May the Afterlife watch over you.”

  She took both of his gnarled hands into hers. “And you,” she said softly, then turned, walked out the door, and didn’t look back.

  The master instructor sat back down upon the floor mat and took another sip of tea. Distantly, he heard the almost inaudible sound of the skylight hinges creaking shut, telling him that his greatest student had just departed. Then the muffled sound of thunder signaled the return of the storm.

  Typically, Satine had been purposefully coy about the identities of her targets. He knew that had he asked her their names, she would not have told him—and he appreciated her desire to protect him by keeping him in the dark. But he could guess. And if he was right, and her targets were those of the royal house or the wizards they commanded, he wasn’t sure he could accept that.

  Short of killing her, Aeolus knew that there would be nothing he could do to stop Satine, and killing her wasn’t an option he was willing to consider. He understood all too well that her impending mission would soon force him to make a life-altering choice. A choice between two people he very much loved and respected.

  The thunder came again, and he looked sadly down into his teacup.

  CHAPTER XII

  _____

  TRISTAN SAT IN A HIGH-BACKED CHAIR ATOP THE CARPETED dais and watched people stream into the Chamber of Supplication. A flood of terrible memories plagued him. The last time he had appeared before so many of his subjects had been on his coronation day, when the Sorceresses of the Coven had attacked. This time, although the room and the purpose of the gathering were very different, the mood was in many ways the same. As on that awful day not so long ago, these citizens gathered before him were angry, terrified, and unsure of the future. As before, they believed the craft lay at the heart of all their troubles.

  The prince couldn’t help but wonder whether any of these people had actually seen him kill his father, or witnessed the barbaric slaughter of the Directorate of Wizards. The terrible things he had done that day had been forced upon him, but many of these people would not know that. They no doubt had also lost loved ones to the ferocious Minions of Day and Night, long before he had become the winged warriors’ new lord.

  Worse yet, rumor and innuendo always tore through Eutracia like wildfire, especially where the royal family was concerned. As was always the case with gossip, much of it was sure to be outright lies. He desperately needed his subjects’ trust and understanding. But he knew that securing those things would be difficult.

  Tristan glanced around. The Chamber of Supplication was the second largest room in the palace; only the Great Hall was larger. He had ruled out the Great Hall as a meeting place. That was where the Coven and the Minions had first appeared and then done so much of their dirty work. Asking his already traumatized subjects to return there would have been too great a burden for many of them to bear, not to mention the effect the place would have on Wigg, the prince’s twin sister, and perhaps even him.

  Excepting Geldon, all the members of the Conclave of the Vigors were seated with him upon the dais. The hunchbacked dwarf and Ox had left the previous evening with a phalanx of Minion warriors to determine the whereabouts of the ruptured Orb of the Vigors. So far, no word had been received.

  Abbey, Celeste, Adrian, Shailiha, and Tyranny were seated on the prince’s right. Wigg, Faegan, and Traax were on his left. He had given some thought to excluding the Minion warrior from these proceedings, for Traax’s presence would no doubt startle and inflame many of the attendees. Then he had reconsidered. Traax was a full-fledged member of the Conclave, and he deserved to be treated as such.

  Tristan looked around the room, remembering how important this chamber had once been to his father and to the Directorate of Wizards. The Chamber of Supplication was the hall in which the king and the late Directorate had heard requests from the populace at large. This usually occurred on the first of each month. Hundreds of people had attended, each seeming to bear a request more urgent than the last.

  Tristan remembered sitting here by the king’s side, as Nicholas quietly considered petitions. The prince had listened intently, in preparation for when he would become king. Those days seemed far away.

  The morning breeze gently moved the patterned draperies by the open stained-glass windows. Dappled pillars of morning sunshine streamed in, making the highly polished marble of the chamber shine. It was almost as if Wigg and Faegan had enchanted the room, making it eager to be of use again.

  Seeing that the hall was now filled to overflowing, Tristan looked over at Wigg. The First Wizard nodded. Shailiha gave her brother a brief smile of reassurance. After taking a deep breath, Tristan stood and held his arms wide in a gesture of welcome.

  “Citizens, subjects, and friends!” he began loudly. “I am Prince Tristan, son of Nicholas and Morganna, the late king and queen of Eutracia! You have been invited to this hall in peace, and no harm will befall you. I know you have many questions and concerns, and we on the dais will attempt to answer them for you. Before that begins, I must tell you the story of how and why our nation has arrived at this crossroads. It is a tale that you may find incredible. But it is true, nonetheless.”

  Pausing, Tristan looked out over the crowd. The faces staring back at him looked angry and skeptical, and not a few of them glowered with outright hatred. But all were silent. For the time being, at least, they seemed willing to hear what he had to say.

  He went on to tell them of the attack by the Coven of Sorceresses, of how Shailiha had been kidnapped, and of what he and Wigg had suffered to bring her and the Paragon home again. He explained the return of his son Nicholas from the Afterlife, and the subsequent construction and destruction of the Gates of Dawn, followed by his son’s death. Lastly he told them of the Scrolls of the Ancients, and of his lost half brother named Wulfgar, who had tried to employ the scrolls to pollute the Orb of the Vigors. He went on to say that this was the manifestation of the craft that had already wounded so many of them and caused the destruction of Brook Hollow.

  He introduced each person on the dais, explaining the various contributions each of them had made in the name of their nation. By prior agreement with Faegan and Wigg, when he introduced Adrian he was careful to make no mention of the secret order of the Acolytes of the Redoubt. When he finally finished, he cast his gaze back and forth over the crowd, searching for reactions. They weren’t long in coming.

  The first to address him was a man dressed in modest peasant garb. He looked tired and worn, and his right hand had obviously been recently bandaged. Jumping to his feet, he raised his injured limb and pointed it at the prince.

  “Liar!”
he shouted loudly. “You say your newly formed Conclave wishes to protect us from the orb! But what you really want to do is to kill us all! Don’t lie to us! I saw you do it, that day you destroyed Brook Hollow! You and your wizard came flying out of the east in the litter your winged monsters carried. Then I saw Wigg raise his arms and cause the orb to fly directly over the town and turn it to ash! What other cities have you ordered that abomination of the craft to destroy, while at the same time you try to blind us with your little speeches about goodwill, eh? Don’t lie to me! I lost my wife and both my sons in Brook Hollow! I watched them die, helpless to do anything about it! If I thought I could get away with it, I’d kill you right now with my bare hands! You aren’t half the man your father was, and everyone here knows that!”

  As others in the crowd began to shout and wave their fists in agreement, the man who had just berated Tristan suddenly took a brazen step toward the dais. Traax immediately leaped to his feet and drew his dreggan.

  Hearing the blade’s familiar ring, Tristan snapped around. He shook his head, tacitly ordering the warrior to stand down. It was clear that the situation could rapidly deteriorate, and violence was the last thing he wanted. His face a mask, Traax finally slid the sword back into its scabbard and reluctantly took his seat.

  Even though Tristan had not been prepared to hear it, sadly he had to admit that the bereaved man actually made a sort of perverse sense. Had their roles been reversed, Tristan could imagine himself coming to the same conclusion—especially considering all of the false, hateful tales circulating about him. But before he could formulate a reply, Wigg came to stand by his side.

  “The truth is that I was trying to turn the orb away from the village, not toward it,” the First Wizard said to the crowd, “but I was unsuccessful. If you choose not to believe me, there is little I can do about it. But before you make up your minds, there is something I would like to show you all.”

  Raising one arm, Wigg pulled back the sleeve of his robe. Despite the spell of accelerated healing he had placed over it, the skin of his arm still looked raw and painful.

  “This is my reward for trying to help you,” the wizard said, as he held his arm up for all to see. Lowering it again, he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. “We must all fight this disaster together if we are to have any hope of succeeding. The rupture of the orb is the greatest threat we have ever faced, including the return of the Coven of Sorceresses.”

  “But I saw you kill your own father!” a woman shouted at the prince, jumping to her feet. She had two small children by her side. “You can’t deny that!” Her voice was nearly hysterical. “I was there! It is said that you carry that very sword to this day!”

  Looking down at her, Tristan took a measured step forward. Silence crept over the room. Reaching behind his back, he slowly drew his dreggan. As it left its scabbard, the blade sent its familiar ring through the air.

  “Do you mean this one?” he asked.

  Then he calmly pushed the hidden button on the hilt that was common to all such Minion swords. He felt the dreggan jump in his hand as its blade immediately shot forward by another foot. Many in the crowd jumped back in their seats.

  “Yes,” Tristan said. To anyone who knew him well, it was clear that his frustration was beginning to seep through. “This is the sword that I used to kill my father! I admit it. Had I not, the warrior Kluge would have killed your king slowly, hewing him to pieces.” Walking still closer to the edge of the dais, the prince looked down at the woman.

  “So you tell me,” he said. “Given only those two choices, had it been your father’s head upon the block, what would you have done?”

  Tristan thrust the tip of the blade into the carpeted dais. The sword stood upright before him, swaying gently back and forth. When it slowed, he took another step nearer, he opened his palms, and raised them for all to see.

  “Look at my hands!” he shouted. “Do you see these scars? I put them there myself, when I took a blood oath to find my parents’ killers and to bring the princess and the Paragon back to Eutracia! If we are to have any hope of surviving both the ruptured orb and those who would use it against us, you must trust the Conclave!”

  “And what if we do believe all of your rubbish?” another man yelled. Around him, others had jumped to their feet and were talking with one another in urgent tones.

  “We don’t trust the craft, and we don’t trust your dealings with it!” the man went on. “The craft has brought us nothing but suffering and death, while its practitioners constantly vie for control of it! As far as we know, you may be as bad as these supposed enemies you speak of—or perhaps even worse! And pray, tell us, my lord, with King Nicholas now dead by your own hand, do you profess to be our new sovereign?”

  Tristan lowered his head. The title of king was once something he would have done anything to avoid. Now he found that he wanted it with all his heart. He had yet to formally take the oath that would grant him that privilege. Eutracian law stated that until he did so, he would remain prince. For some time he had kept silent about his reasons for waiting. But now he decided that he should reveal his feelings both to his subjects and to the newly formed Conclave.

  Beckoning Wigg closer, Tristan walked to the very edge of the platform. When Wigg reached him, Tristan leaned over and whispered into the First Wizard’s ear.

  A skeptical look came over Wigg’s face. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered back.

  “Just do it,” the prince said under his breath. He held out his right arm.

  A small incision formed in Tristan’s wrist. Under Wigg’s guidance, a single drop of azure blood rose from the wound and hovered in the air.

  From beneath his robes, the First Wizard produced a small pewter vial. He opened it and caused a single drop of the red water of the Caves of the Paragon to come floating through the air toward the single drop of Tristan’s blood. There was a pause, and then the two raced toward each other and joined. As they did, a hush came over the crowd.

  Tristan watched as the combination of fluids twisted and then turned into his glowing azure blood signature. With a swift calculation of the craft, Wigg magnified the blood signature’s size, so that everyone in the Chamber of Supplication could see it. As Tristan had hoped, the chamber was now absolutely still.

  Speaking quickly into the silence, Tristan went on to explain, in the simplest of terms, what the blood signature was. He told them about how his blood had turned azure the day he defeated the Coven of the Sorceresses. At last he paused and pointed to his blood signature as it twinkled wetly in the soft morning light.

  “Rather than controlling the craft, I am as much a prisoner of it as anyone, perhaps even more so,” he said. “For until a way can be found to return my blood to its original state, the wizards may not train me in the arts of magic. Nor am I allowed to give the kingdom an heir.” A distinct sadness crept over his face.

  “One day, I shall take the oath as your sovereign,” he finished at last. “But I shall refuse to do so until my blood is whole again and I can be trained in the craft, just as my late father would have been. Not until then will I presume to call myself your king.”

  With that Tristan dismissed the meeting. As he watched the somber crowd disperse, the remaining members of the Conclave came forward to join him.

  He reclaimed his sword from the floor and returned it to its scabbard. Celeste and Shailiha each gave him a reassuring hug. Tristan looked down at Faegan, and then at Wigg.

  “Do you think they believed us?” he asked.

  “That is difficult to say,” Wigg answered. “Some may have, but many certainly did not. They have suffered much and, until we can find a way to heal the orb, may suffer a great deal more. In my more than three centuries, I have never seen the populace more distrustful. Even during the height of the Sorceresses’ War they were more trusting. I sense that they would like to believe in you,
and that is what is most important. Now that the spark of trust has been rekindled, we must be careful how we fan the flame.”

  Faegan wheeled his chair a bit closer. “I never had the privilege of knowing your parents,” the ancient wizard said in his gravely voice. “But I have no doubt that they would have been proud of what you did here today. At the very least, this is a start. Remember, even the greatest of journeys must always begin with a single step.”

  AT THE VERY BACK OF THE ROOM ONE OF THE MEETING ATTENDEES walked out promptly, well ahead of the other departing subjects. Quickly traversing the palace grounds and striding across the lowered drawbridge, the cloaked figure jumped upon the waiting horse and then wheeled him around.

  Gathering her cloak around her, the Gray Fox galloped away, up the narrow street and on toward her next assignation.

  CHAPTER XIII

  _____

  WHEN THE VOICES FIRST REVEALED THEMSELVES TO HIM, HE feared he had suddenly gone mad. Then he understood. They were the result of the activation of the Forestallment.

  That had been two days ago. Now, as he stood on the terrace overlooking the broad ocean, the Enseterat had never felt more confident or more powerful.

  Just as the Jin’Sai had his wizards, Wulfgar now had his own allies. But his were were infinitely more powerful in their abilities to aid him. Tristan, his mind still burdened with his tainted, untrained blood, had yet to unleash such power. And the Scroll of the Vigors—the only tool that might possibly help him heal the great orb—was irreversibly damaged.

  It was late afternoon at the Citadel, and the sea was high again. Seabirds swooped and called out to one another as they skimmed the frothy waves, their sharp eyes searching the blue-green shallows for their next meal. The sky was overcast and the wind blustery, and the salt-laden air smelled pleasantly of both brine and the tangled seaweed that continually washed up against the rocks of the shore.