Turning his gaze to the bay, Wulfgar looked over to the growing fleet of strong, new ships that he had only recently released from the depths where they had been imprisoned for more than three centuries. Superior to the demonslaver vessels in every way, they would prove to be the mightiest armada of the Vagaries ever assembled. Then would come the captains to sail them. Unlike the unendowed, white-skinned slavers who had failed him, these beings had once been masterful commanders of their craft.
All this was due to the new Forestallment—and the voices it had brought. Einar had promised he would hear them, but nothing in the world could have adequately prepared Wulfgar for the experience.
It had been early evening, and the Enseterat and his queen were taking dinner on the spacious balcony of their quarters. Wulfgar was about to ask her how she was feeling, when, to Serena’s horror, he suddenly clutched the sides of his head. With a scream of agony, he fell backward, chair and all, and began to writhe uncontrollably on the marble floor. Helpless, Serena watched as Wulfgar struggled in the grip of something neither of them understood.
Then, fearing for her husband’s life, she sent for Einar. But by the time the lead consul arrived, Wulfgar’s pain had departed and he had calmed.
Rising from the floor, the Enseterat turned and looked at Einar and his wife. There was a renewed sense of power and majesty about him, a greatness that they had never seen. As though he were the only person in the world, Wulfgar silently turned his gaze away from them and out toward the shifting sea.
That was when the voices first came, a soulful chorus that overwhelmed him. Out of sheer reverence, he fell to his knees.
“Wulfgar,” they began, “you have finally been granted the Forestallment that allows us to commune with your mind.”
“Who are you?” he thought. Instinctively, he knew that he did not need to speak aloud to be heard by them.
“We are the Heretics of the Guild.” The voices were melodic, soothing.
“We welcome you to our service. The pain you just endured was the result of our initial communication; you shall not have to bear it again. Despite the initial defeat of your demonslaver fleet, you have done well. The Orb of the Vigors continues to bleed, and we must allow nothing to interfere with that. Your employment of the female assassin was a wise precaution, but in the end, you shall require far more than just her unendowed skills to secure the prizes you seek. You must remember well the information we are about to impart to you, for what we grant you now will lead you to the final victory.”
The chorus faded, and was replaced by a whirling riot of azure numbers and letters roaring in his mind—all of them in Old Eutracian. He closed his eyes and stared at the glowing formulas that danced brightly against the infinite blackness behind his eyelids. Finally they slowed, and he began to grasp what they represented.
They comprised an index to the massive Scroll of the Vagaries.
Wulfgar’s heart leaped for joy. Until now, both the scroll’s great size and its overwhelming complexity had made it difficult to decipher. The calculations for the thousands of Forestallments it contained were recorded upon it randomly. No concern had been given to categorizing what type of gift each individual formula might grant, or what subdivision of the craft it fell into.
As a result, it took weeks for his consuls to find any particular set of calculations. But with the index at their disposal, they would be free to peruse the scroll at will and quickly make its teachings their own.
Over the course of the last two days, Wulfgar and Einar had done exactly that. The calculations that the Heretics had granted the Enseterat gave him the power not only to free his new fleet from the depths, but to summon the majestic beings who would man them. It would be an unparalleled force able to crush the Jin’Sai, his Minions of Day and Night, and the wizards of the Redoubt. But first Wulfgar had to retrieve the ships.
Wulfgar smiled. The clearing sky revealed the three Eutracian moons, their magenta glow shining down upon the ocean. He raised his hands.
Almost at once the sky crackled with azure lighting, and the Isle of the Citadel trembled before the cascades of thunder. Concentrating with all of his might, he caused the water of the bay to burble and roil.
First a ship’s crow’s nest appeared, breaking through the waves. The tips of several masts soon followed. Then the massive hull and superstructures emerged, their lengths awash with seawater. After more than three centuries, the great vessel finally rose to float again upon the ocean beside its sisters. Wulfgar lowered his hands and stared at the vessel with rapt admiration.
The Black Ships—the most powerful armada that ever commanded the seas.
As the thunder and azure lightning abated, Wulfgar examined the vessel. Even though he had liberated several of them by now, each time another rose from the depths his jaw dropped in wonder.
With ten full masts and spars as thick as several tree trunks combined, the gigantic black frigate was easily quadruple the size of the largest vessels in his failed demonslaver fleet. For a time her hulk rocked dangerously to and fro, as if she were trying to again become accustomed to lying atop the waves. Finally she found her natural balance and settled down, her only motion coinciding with the normal movement of the sea.
The entire ship was an inky black. Moonlight twinkled on the seawater still running off her topsides, hull, and masts. As the Heretics had told him, eight full decks lay within her, and a massive hinged door took up nearly her entire stern. It could be opened and lowered to a safe distance just above the waves—much the way a drawbridge could be lowered from within the walls of a palace. Even the frigate’s massive, furled sails were of the darkest black, as were those of the other Black Ships already anchored nearby.
Wulfgar took a moment to rest before attempting to salvage another of the menacing warships.
“Well done, my lord,” Einar said from his place near his master’s side. “All is nearly in place. Very soon the Jin’Sai will finally taste true defeat, and the world will be yours. I am proud to stand by your side in this greatest of endeavors.”
Wulfgar only smiled. As he raised his arms, the moonlit skies began to cry out once more with the coming of the azure lightning and the deafening thunder. The surface of the bay burbled and roiled again, and another massive crow’s nest poked through the surface of the waters, searching out its freedom.
CHAPTER XIV
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“A little of this, and a little of that, shall make my concoction both potent and fat.
When my brew is finally done, the deaths it will cause shall be second to none.
Should the fixings be added too slow, or too quick,
The potion won’t work, nor the healthy go sick.
So with patience and care I nimbly proceed,
And I now cast this spell, to strengthen the deed!”
UPON COMPLETING THE INCANTATION, REZNIK LOWERED HIS arms and placed his face near the pungent steam that rose from the small pot atop the woodstove. Inhaling the wispy aroma, he smiled.
This batch would prove his finest yet. But before it was ready, it would need another incantation. It would also need a few more ingredients before it could rise to the level of quality demanded by Satine.
Crossing to the other side of his spacious cottage, he took down an amber jar from a shelf.
The jar was filled with Eutracian derma-gnashers that he had painstakingly netted the day before. Although not dangerous, the winged, blue and gold-striped insects were a great nuisance. One bite would produce itching, swelling, and redness that lasted for days.
Back at his worktable, he placed the jar down and, using one of his collection of finely honed cutting instruments, carefully enlarged one of the holes in the perforated seal that stretched tightly across the jar’s top. Into the widened hole he placed the tip of the small ladies’ perfume sprayer that he had purchased secondhand at a local Eutracian
fair and gave the spray bulb a quick squeeze. The poison, formulated from one of his personal recipes, worked quickly. The derma-gnashers began to die and fall to the bottom.
One by one he removed them and started to dissect them under a magnifying lens. As was his habit when he was happy with the progress of his work, he began to whistle. Eventually he had what he needed—approximately one teaspoon of runny orange-red venom. He walked the stuff over to the pot and poured it in.
Then he took down a thick volume from a bookshelf. Blowing the dust off its cover, he checked the title: Accelerants and Retardants in the Use of Potions and Poisons. Balancing the massive book in one hand, he thumbed through it with the other. After several moments of searching, he found the page he was looking for.
He went into an adjoining room and contemplated the bottle-lined shelves. There were hundreds of containers here, each one holding a different ground herb, root, or precious oil. He found the oil of encumbrance and returned to the other room.
Looking back to the book, he ran one finger down the page until he found the line he was looking for. Carefully he measured out a portion of the violet oil and added it to the pot one drop at a time.
Reznik took a deep breath. Almost done. By previous agreement with Satine, he was to have a new batch ready every ninety days. He also knew that she would be here within the next couple of hours, for one of the sentries had seen her enter the labyrinth and had sent a runner with the news. Reznik wanted the formula done by the time she arrived. Satine was never one to sit in one place very long. If, for some reason, she was forced to do just that, her mood could markedly change for the worse.
For the final ingredient, Reznik walked to the center of the cottage floor, pushed the throw rug to one side, and reached down to grasp the iron ring embedded in the floorboards. With a quick tug, he pulled open the trapdoor and then let it fall over backward onto the floor. As he walked down the steps and into the darkness, he started to whistle again.
AS SATINE GUIDED HER GELDING THROUGH THE LABYRINTHINE passageway, a shudder went through her. She did her best to remain calm. If she didn’t, she could become disoriented, take a wrong turn at some point, and die in this place. This was the only way in and out of the community of rogue partial adepts, Reznik had once told her. She hated coming here—but it was a necessary evil.
No potion she had ever found rivaled the quality and effectiveness of Reznik’s. Nor had any other tool of assassination ever granted her the all-important margin of safety this one did. It had been one of the mainstays of her art for several years now. Her current sanctions would most certainly call for its use, and she had little left of her last supply.
In order to supply the community with goods, the smooth, square-cut tunnel was wide enough to accommodate even the largest of wagons and teams. But this path was meant only for those partial adepts accepted into the community and able to employ magic in order to recall the safe route through the unforgiving maze. For them, it held no more danger than a walk through a flower garden. Reznik had accompanied Satine through the many twists and turns the first few times she came. After that, he coldly told her that she was on her own, no matter how many kisa she might be willing to pay him for his services. It had only been her ability to pay such large sums that had convinced him to show her the way in the first place. The other partials had been none too happy to know that he had brought her here.
But after Reznik’s payment of a few well-placed bribes, even the more distrustful had grudgingly decided to ignore Satine’s occasional comings and goings. Provided, of course, that she didn’t visit too often, or reveal the secret to anyone else.
As usual she had seen the sentries high atop the sheer, smooth bluff. Recognizing her, one of them waved his hand and a section of the rock wall slowly darkened to reveal the passageway. Spurring her horse onward, she nervously entered the tunnel. The darkness closed in around her as the sentry sealed the entrance again.
The tunnels were slick and sheer, about five meters high. Enchanted wall torches burned continually, producing no smoke. There were numerous intersections, each of which had to be navigated correctly. Reznik had told her that if even one wrong branch was selected, the craft would immediately sense it and arise to kill her—but he never told her what form her death might take.
While Satine’s horse walked along, the clip-clop of his hooves rang out crisply, and the scent of the torches combined with the fetid smell of damp mildew clinging to the walls. Shivering slightly, she drew her gray cloak closer and began to search for the first of the marks she had surreptitiously scratched into the walls with her dagger the last time she had come here with Reznik.
But as she approached the first crossing, her heart skipped a beat and she pulled her horse up short. Even in the flickering torchlight, she could see that her life-preserving marks had been eradicated.
The partial adepts must have finally discovered her secret. Now she would have to find her way through twenty deadly intersections by means of memory alone.
Turning in her saddle, she looked longingly back the way she had come. She could turn her horse around and leave. She hadn’t been through any of the intersections yet, so going back now would all but guarantee her safety. Provided, of course, that one of the sentries sensed her presence and opened the exit. But if she turned back she would never gain her potion, which she absolutely needed to fulfill her sanctions.
She considered abandoning the mission entirely and running. But she had already accepted partial payment from Wulfgar. Should she try to double-cross him, his wrath would be great and his reach long. She had no desire to be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life, continually wondering when one of his vengeful consuls would suddenly come looming out of the dark.
Satine began to sweat. There was no man or blade in the world that she feared. This was different, however. The craft was at work here, and there was nothing she could do to change that. Trying to control her emotions, she looked carefully at the first of the intersections.
Four separate paths branched off in various directions. Wall torches hung at their entrances, beckoning her forward. She felt fairly certain about which path to take at this first juncture. Taking a deep breath, Satine reached down toward her right thigh and slid one of her daggers from its sheath.
She gently spurred her horse forward toward the first path on the right, reaching out as she did so to mark the wall with her blade. That should at least help guide her back during her return.
Providing, of course, she returned at all.
CHAPTER XV
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WITH HIS SHORT NECK CRANED OVER THE SIDE OF THE LITTER and the wind tearing at his hair and clothes, Geldon searched for the Orb of the Vigors. When the destroyed village of Brook Hollow came into sight, he ordered the litter down so that they might search for survivors. When his litter finally came to rest in a nearby field, the hunchbacked dwarf felt his stomach turn over as he surveyed the destruction. The accompanying Minion phalanx landed warily all around him, dreggans drawn.
Most of the village had disappeared, reduced to little more than piles of rubble. Strangely, random areas of the town stood unharmed, as though nothing untoward had happened at all. Smoke and ash swirled in the wind, occasionally blotting out the sun, and the stench of dead and burned bodies lingered with the heat.
Geldon turned sadly toward Ox. The Minion warrior was as overcome as he was.
“Ox never hear of so much bad happen so fast,” he said. “Even Minion war party not able make such death in so short time.”
Geldon pointed to the haphazard rows of surviving homes. “I want a group of warriors to search those dwellings for survivors. If you find any, bring them straight to me.”
Nodding, Ox went to pass on the order, and several warriors immediately took flight.
Geldon removed a handkerchief from his trousers and held it over his nose and mouth as he
walked deeper into town. Ox and the remaining Minions followed silently along, the still-warm cinders crunching beneath their boots.
A baby’s burnt crib lay here, a father’s boot there. Parts of chimneys still stood valiantly, like charred, broken fingers pointing accusingly at the sky. Those corpses that hadn’t been completely consumed by the orb’s energy lay all about, contorted in death, the remnants of their clothing flapping in the breeze. The charred skeletons of entire families could be seen holding on to one another.
Flies had been feasting here for some time. In the sky, vultures careened and turned.
His first instinct was to burn all of the dead upon funeral pyres. There were enough warriors to do the job, and he felt the victims deserved at least that much. But he couldn’t spare the time. Tristan would be aching for a report, and they had to keep moving if they were to find the rampaging orb. Saying nothing, he lowered his head and walked on.
Then, in an open spot in the rubble, Geldon saw a small, charred body. It had been turned to ash, but the shape remained: long hair splayed out and hands stretched forth in a posture of beseeching, as though begging the orb not to harm him or her.
Kneeling down, Geldon found himself saddened, yet mesmerized. It was like looking into the recent past, and seeing a moment captured forever.
A sudden gust came up and scattered the ashes to the winds. Just like the village of Brook Hollow, the memory of the young child was no more.
Standing slowly, Geldon saw that the Minion search party was returning—without survivors. Landing in the rubble beside him and Ox, the officer in charge snapped his heels together.
“All of the standing houses are empty,” the officer said. “Whoever once lived in them, do so no more.”
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