Nodding at the officer, Geldon looked over at Ox.
“What do now?” Ox asked.
“We do what we came for,” Geldon answered. “We find the ruptured orb, and we send a report back to the Jin’Sai. May the Afterlife grant that we find no more disasters such as this.”
Turning, Geldon left the death site of the anonymous child and led the Minions back to his litter.
TWO HOURS LATER, THEY STILL HADN’T LOCATED THE ORB. They knew that finding it would only be a matter of time, for the destruction it left in its wake was impossible to miss. After Brook Hollow, the charred, smoking chasm in the ground was the most telling sign of its passing.
They soon came upon the place where the orb’s zigzagging path entered the waters of the Sippora.
The dripping energy had apparently entered the river directly east of where Fledgling House sat quietly nestled at the base of the Tolenka Mountains. Fed by melting snows and glacial runoff, the river was notoriously cold. But as they all looked on in awe, it was clear that the mighty Sippora had been assaulted by a power that even Wigg and Faegan could not have mustered. The Sippora was boiling over its banks.
Multiple geysers of steaming water flew hundreds of feet into the air—so high that the flying Minions had to convey the litter farther up. As the hissing, superheated water landed again, it scorched white all of the vegetation it touched. The heavy steam rising from the river made it difficult to see, and even at this altitude it burned their skin.
The litter rocked back and forth wildly, threatening to buckle in the heat. Geldon had no choice but to order his bearers higher yet. Urgently wiping the moisture from his eyes, Geldon looked down.
Thrown free by the surging geysers, dead, stinking fish lay all along the banks. New plumes of steam and water continued to erupt. It was as if all of the various powers of nature had suddenly joined to go berserk in this one spot. But it wasn’t nature that had gone berserk, Geldon realized. It was the very craft itself.
The spectacle was as hypnotizing as it was terrifying. Still, he knew there was nothing that they could do here. They needed to move on. Finally, he shouted orders to Ox, and the litter and its protective phalanx traveled north, between the base of the majestic Tolenkas and the impossible, boiling river.
AFTER ANOTHER HOUR OF FLIGHT, GELDON AND HIS WARRIORS caught up to the orb. It had finally ceased following the river and had begun zigzagging its way northwest, the telltale canyon snaking along in its wake like the blood trail of a wounded animal.
As they drew nearer, the heat from the scarred earth below became far more intense and the smoke thickened. Then they began to hear screeching and howling. The noise was deafening.
At last they saw it. Thunderstruck, Geldon watched as the wounded Orb of the Vigors burned its way across a field, and then tore into the pine forest lining the base of the Tolenka Mountains, setting fire to everything in its path and lighting up the dark forest in every direction. Undeterred by the thick trees, it crashed through the woods with offshoots of the palest white radiating from its sides. Around it, the raging forest fire leaped higher and higher. Soon the rising smoke became so thick that they could barely see what was happening. Tears filling his eyes, the dwarf lowered his head.
This was not the same orb Geldon had seen that night on the palace roof, when Wigg and Abbey had defeated Wulfgar. This was a wounded, suffering thing. Careening to and fro without reason, it screamed in pain.
Geldon had no idea whether the orb might actually be a sentient being. But right now he pitied it and wanted to help. He just didn’t know how. That was when the other sounds of torment began reaching their ears.
Many of them already ablaze, beasts and birds barreled from the fiery inferno in wild-eyed panic. The hordes of terrified beasts trampled one another as they tried to escape. Geldon had never known that animals could sound so human as they screamed in their suffering.
Now hundreds of birds—many of them ablaze—were flying out of the forest and directly at the litter and the Minion phalanx. They were a living, breathing cloud of darkness and fire.
Part of Geldon’s litter burst into flames. Through the fire and smoke, he caught sight of Ox signaling to the others, and the litter lurched sickeningly upward. Holding on as best he could, Geldon felt his stomach rise into his throat.
Birds pummeled him and the struggling warriors, their beaks and claws puncturing skin. Flying with all their might, the Minions climbed faster, until they finally broke out of the swarming, dying birds.
Geldon leaned out to watch the scene below, and suddenly he understood what was about to happen.
All of the land animals so desperately trying to escape the fires were about to charge into the smoking, superheated ditch left by the Orb of the Vigors.
Their vision clouded by the smoke still spewing from the canyon, the unsuspecting creatures ran straight over the edge. Amid bloodcurdling cries and the sound of snapping limbs, they exploded into flames. After what seemed like an eternity their numbers finally thinned and it was over. A sickening stench rose from the mass grave.
Geldon looked over at Ox. Both were bloody and wounded, but alive. Looking around, he could see that they had lost some of their warriors. Those who remained alive were covered with wounds and completely spent. With a nod, he told Ox to order them down.
His damaged litter came to earth a safe distance from the forest, and Geldon set foot upon the ground on shaking legs. Turning, he looked back to find the rampaging orb. Despite all of the smoke, he could still see it: it was plowing through the woods, setting countless more trees ablaze.
As the exhausted Minions half-landed, half-fell to the ground around him, he walked as close to the smoldering canyon as he dared. He could smell the carnage.
Everything he had seen that day suddenly became too much to bear, and the waves of nausea came. This time he had no choice but to go to his knees and simply let the sickness come.
CHAPTER XVI
_____
LOOKING UP FROM THE SCROLL HE WAS READING, FAEGAN wearily rubbed his eyes. “Have you found anything?” he asked.
Wigg, Abbey, Adrian, and Celeste all glumly shook their heads. They had been deep into research for two days, but the secret they were searching for had yet to reveal itself. Frowning, Faegan let go a sigh as he watched his companions go back to their studies.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he took a moment’s respite to look around the great room. Nicodemus sat contentedly in his lap. Without looking down, Faegan scratched the cat under the chin.
The five of them sat at a table in the Archives—the great library of the craft, located deep beneath the palace.
The square chamber measured at least two hundred meters on each side, and was seven stories deep. Seven levels of bookshelves lined the walls, each level bordered by a walkway and railing and accessed by a magnificent set of curved mahogany stairs.
The floor and ceiling of the Archives were of dark green marble shot through with traces of gray and magenta. Several hundred finely carved desks, reading tables, and beautifully upholstered chairs were tastefully arranged on the bottom floor. Golden light was supplied by a combination of oil-lamp chandeliers, wall sconces, and table lamps, all enchanted to burn eternally and without smoke. The room smelled pleasantly of must and old parchment.
Faegan had asked the others here because they were the only other members of the Conclave of the Vigors who could read Old Eutracian, the lost language in which the Tome of the Paragon, the Scroll of the Vigors, and many of the other works housed in this room were written.
Having already read the first two volumes of the Tome, Wigg and Faegan knew that only the Jin’Sai would be able to save the damaged orb. But to do that, Tristan had to be trained in the craft, and that could not be accomplished without first finding the way to turn his incredible blood back to its proper red color.
And so ha
d come the mind-numbing work of trying to find the answer. Both of the wizards were convinced that it lay here, hidden away somewhere in the Archives of the Redoubt. But with thousands of documents to pore over, Faegan realized that it would be akin to finding a thimble in a sneezeweed stack, as Abbey was so fond of saying. With the orb destroying everything in its path, time was of the essence.
Faegan was convinced that the answer they sought lay somewhere within the Tome of the Paragon. He could recall countless references in the Tome to Tristan’s blood, including mentions of it turning azure, should the prince ever successfully employ his gifts without first having been trained. Still, the wizard had yet to recall any outright mention of how to reverse what Tristan had unwittingly done to himself.
Adding to their frustration was the fact that each of them wanted to be out in the countryside, trying to do something about containing and healing the damaged orb. Tristan was especially eager to leave the palace. But he agreed that little could be gained by going until they knew more about the disaster they faced.
By now Geldon and his party of warriors would have tracked the orb down and sent back a report. Faegan was eager to read whatever Geldon might have to say, and to learn where the orb had traveled. But there was nothing any of them could do until they had found and grasped the loose thread of knowledge they needed and pulled upon it to unravel the mystery of Tristan’s blood.
Faegan gently picked the cat up off his lap and placed him on the floor. After a luxurious stretch, Nicodemus walked over to Wigg and rubbed the length of his body up against the wizard’s leg.
Scowling, the First Wizard did his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Other than whenever one of them turned over a page of crinkled text or rolled some dusty scroll open or closed, the dense silence in the room went on unabated.
Faegan finally abandoned the disappointing scroll he had been reading and wheeled himself over to a nearby table. He took up his violin and bow, placed the instrument under his chin, and began to play. When he heard the sweet, sorrowful refrain begin, Wigg raised a critical eyebrow but did not look up.
Faegan often took up his ancient instrument when he was under great mental stress. Sometimes he would simply leave it on a table and allow the craft to select the notes and seesaw the resin-laden bow. Today he preferred to play it himself, and to let his mind soar freely with the music. Wigg shook his head and sighed.
After a half hour or so, Faegan abruptly stopped what he was doing and lowered his instrument. Wigg looked up to see that a strange expression had suddenly crossed his friend’s face.
“What is it?”
Faegan quickly held up one arm, indicating that he wanted silence. The others looked up to see him suddenly begin wheeling his chair about the room, much the way they themselves might pace about while trying to think. Then he abruptly stopped and quickly swiveled his chair back toward the others. He looked directly at Wigg.
“We have been going about this all wrong,” he said.
Wigg raised himself up in his chair. “How so?”
Letting go a great cackle, Faegan happily clapped his palms together. “Don’t you see? We’ve all been thinking in exactly the opposite way we should have been!”
A skeptical look on her face, Abbey leaned over and whispered to Wigg, “What’s he blathering about this time?”
“What I’m blathering about, dear lady, is the route to the solution of our problem,” Faegan replied happily, his wizard’s ears having heard every word.
Wigg folded his arms over his chest. “Pray tell us, then.”
“It’s all so simple, yet at the same time so complex,” Faegan answered. He wheeled himself back to the table. “If any of you commanded the gift of Consummate Recollection, you would understand.”
Celeste gave her father a wry look, then turned back to Faegan. “Understand what?”
“We have been searching for references to Tristan’s blood,” Faegan answered. “At first glance that would seem the correct thing to do. But we were looking for a way to go forward to solve our problem. What we should have been looking for was an act of reversal.”
“There are many references to acts of reversal in the Tome,” Wigg countered. “The reversal of spells and incantations has long been one of the subdivisions of the craft. There are likely to be as many references to them as there are to anything else—perhaps even more. I understand your line of reasoning, but I fail to see how this will narrow our search.”
“All of what you say is true,” Faegan agreed. The self-satisfied smile crossed his face again. “But tell me, how many references could there possibly be to the supposed reversal of endowed blood? The Tome states that only the Jin’Sai will ever be able to make use of the craft without first having been trained. And that if and when he does, his blood will turn azure. That has of course already occurred. So it would logically follow that if I use my gift to search for the phrase ‘blood reversal,’ the Tome will direct us to what we are searching for.” His smile surfaced again. “Or at the very least take us much closer.”
Wigg rubbed his chin. He had to admit that what Faegan was saying made sense. “Then I suggest you get started,” he said.
Faegan nodded. Turning his chair around, he looked over at the black pedestal that held the Tome of the Paragon. He called upon the craft, and the white leather-bound book rose hauntingly from its place. It glided across the room to land before him on the table.
Faegan then looked over at Adrian. “Please take up a quill and parchment,” he said, “and write down each of the page numbers as I dictate them. It is vitally important that you leave none of them out. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Adrian said. She carefully dipped the quill into the waiting ink bottle. “I am ready.”
Faegan closed his eyes. After a few moments he began to speak haltingly, naming specific volumes and page numbers. When he finished, he opened his eyes. Adrian had recorded six different references.
Faegan eagerly grabbed up the parchment and made a mental note of the numbers. He closed his eyes again. The Tome opened itself, and its pages began turning over until they stopped at the first of Adrian’s references. Faegan opened his eyes.
“And now we shall see what we shall see,” he said, rubbing his hands together like a schoolboy in a candy shop.
Faegan looked down at the first of the referenced pages. As his eyes ran across them, the words duplicated themselves in gleaming azure and rose into the air. One by one they joined to form paragraphs, the paragraphs forming a completed page.
As the five of them sat there reading the glowing page and the others that followed, they were astounded by what they learned.
CHAPTER XVII
_____
AS SHE NEARED THE EXIT OF THE STONE LABYRINTH, SATINE could see the natural light streaming in up ahead. She knew that she was going to be all right, but she had never been so exhausted. Her nerves had jangled and her heart had raced for the last two hours. Her face and body were soaked with sweat, her breathing was labored, and her hands shook noticeably. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down.
Somehow she had made the correct decision at each of the twenty deadly intersections, and she would live another day.
Walking her horse out of the square-cut tunnel and into the light, she raised one arm up to block the sun. She squinted, trying to reaccustom her eyes to being outdoors. Though she was about to enter a place that held no attraction for her other than the goods that Reznik provided, her nerves welcomed the change of scene.
After having been on a horse for most of the day, she decided to stretch her legs. She slid from her saddle and walked around to face the gelding. She gave his face a comforting rub. She checked her weapons, took the reins in one hand, and began walking toward Valrenkium, the village of partial adepts.
She stood upon the short rise overlooking the secret town. Coming here was da
ngerous, the place ugly and distasteful. This particular group of partials were among the most secretive and deadly practitioners of the craft known to man. They called themselves the Corporeals, and for very good reason.
Reznik had told her that “Valrenkium” meant “The Parish of Death” in Old Eutracian. The partial adepts who lived here employed their skills in the organic arts of the craft to produce potions, poisons, and other means of death and mayhem. Supposedly, many of the abominations of the craft that had long plagued Eutracia could be traced back to this place.
To the casual observer, the village appeared to be much like any of the other hamlets scattered across Eutracia. Quaint brick houses stood in neat rows, their windows open. Smoke drifted lazily from their chimneys. Children laughed and played, dogs barked, and chickens ran about in the streets. Vendors sat in stalls displaying their wares. The sounds of a blacksmith’s hammer could be heard, pounding out its double clang.
But as Satine drew closer, she saw the gibbets lining the road into town. The curved iron cages, barely big enough for a single prisoner to stand up in, turned slowly in the wind. As she walked by, voices called out to her. Those still possessing enough strength reached out beseechingly from between the iron bands. She lowered her head and continued on.
Other gibbets held those already past help, their bloated and rotting corpses slumped within. They are the lucky ones, she thought.
Captured from the countryside and brought to Valrenkium to die of exposure, many of these prisoners would be taken down only after their dead bodies had aged sufficiently for use. Like a good cheese or a keg of wine, Reznik had said once, laughing. Others were used the moment they arrived; some were allowed to live for a time, depending upon the needs of the Corporeal partial adepts.
Every time Satine visited Valrenkium, her first instinct was to cut the gibbets down and set the prisoners free. But she resisted the urge. Not only would such a move endanger her life, it would also do no good. The entire village was surrounded by the same rocky bluffs through which the tunnel had just led her, and their tops were constantly ringed with archers. She couldn’t imagine herself scaling those sheer stone walls, let alone any of the weakened prisoners doing so. Besides, she needed to stay in the Corporeals’ good graces, at least through this visit. After today, the whole lot of them could go to the Afterlife, for all she cared.
Savage Messiah Page 12
