Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  Tyranny looked around. The first slaver Micah had been struggling with lay dead in the corner, awash in his own blood. Crevin had succeeded in rendering the last one unconscious. Still seated in his chair, the slaver’s head lay slumped over the table.

  Lowering her bloody sword, Tyranny walked to the door and poked her head out. Atop distant sections of the wall, she could just make out more white-skinned demonslavers treading the guard path. No alarm had gone out. She was grateful that the thick stone walls of the guardhouse had muffled most of the noise. Then she heard the soft flurry of wings, and Lan and K’jarr landed with Scars and Shailiha. Tyranny urgently waved them inside and shut the door.

  Scars walked over to the unconscious demonslaver. Casually lifting the creature’s head by one earring, he examined its face. Then he let go and with a thud, the demonslaver fell back onto the table. Scars smiled at Tyranny.

  “It isn’t fair of you to hog all of the fun, Captain,” he whispered.

  Ignoring him for the moment, Tyranny ordered Crevin and Micah to opposite windows of the guardhouse to watch for approaching demonslavers. Then she smiled at Scars.

  “Sorry you missed all the excitement,” she said. “But you’ll get your chance. I’ve decided we’re going farther.”

  “What are you talking about?” Shailiha protested in a whisper. “We have what we came for. We should leave right now, while we still can!”

  “I’m not leaving until I know more about this place,” Tyranny replied.

  The princess was dumbfounded. What Tyranny was saying made no sense.

  “Are you mad?” she asked. “What could you possibly hope to accomplish—other than getting us all killed?”

  Tyranny glared at her companions.

  “Listen to me—all of you!” she said quietly. “I have no more wish to die than you do. But we’ve managed to come this far, and I say it’s worth the risk to try to go farther. This citadel has been the source of all of our troubles, has it not? This is the chance of a lifetime, and we owe it to the Conclave to try to learn everything about this place that we can!”

  Then she gave Shailiha a conspiratorial wink. “Besides,” she added, “you know as well as I that well-behaved women rarely make history.”

  Shaking her head, Shailiha obstinately pointed to the unconscious slaver. “What can we possibly learn about the Citadel that he can’t tell us?”

  “That’s what I want to find out. But I do agree with you about keeping our prize safe.” Tyranny looked over at Micah. “I want you to fly him back to those high rocks on the shore. For the time being, you should be safe there. If we have not joined you in two hours’ time, do your best to fly the slaver to the litter. I know it will be difficult to locate, but if you are forced to leave the island without us, we are probably all dead anyway. Then I want you and the others to try to make your way back to the Reprise, and from there to Faegan’s portal. Go now. And good luck.”

  Micah lifted the demonslaver. K’jarr took his place at the window. After a silent nod of farewell, Micah carried the slaver through the door. They heard a few short steps, followed by the familiar sound of wings.

  Shailiha glanced skeptically at K’jarr. The look on his face told her that he was as unsure about Tyranny’s plan as she was. Scowling, the warrior returned to his surveillance.

  “I know you have your doubts,” Tyranny whispered. “Just answer one question. If the Jin’Sai were here, what would he do?”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” K’jarr whispered back. As he turned back toward them, the look on his face was grim. “While we have been standing here talking, six slavers approach! I suspect they are coming to relieve the ones we killed.”

  With no time to lose, they lined up in threes on either side of the door. Silently cursing Tyranny’s decision, Shailiha grimly raised her sword.

  Soon the approaching slavers’ footsteps could be heard. They grew louder. Then they stopped. An ominous silence descended.

  As Shailiha tightened her grip upon her sword, the rusty hinges of the guardhouse door squeaked.

  CHAPTER LI

  _____

  AS THEY WALKED TOGETHER, ADRIAN LOOKED WORRIEDLY AT Abbey. Lionel’s death had hit both women hard. There had still been no word from Faegan’s group. Ottikar said he could easily find Valrenkium again, but if Abbey’s hunch was right, getting there would be only half the battle. With every passing moment, her concern for the wizard and his warriors grew.

  Adrian carried a basket containing a quill, a bottle of ink, and several rolls of blank parchment. Abbey held a flask of green liquid. She had spent several hours preparing it, using Faegan’s stores of herbs and precious oils, and she would be the first to admit that she couldn’t trust its effectiveness. Not only had the formula been complex, but it had been gleaned solely from memory. Without Faegan or Lionel to help her, the process had been difficult.

  At their destination, they found the door guarded by a quartet of stern-faced warriors. The Minions snapped to attention.

  “There have been no incidents, I trust?” Abbey asked.

  The warrior in charge shook his head. “Another pair of guards has been with him the entire time. There has been no trouble.”

  He unlocked the door and swung it open, and the two women walked into the room.

  The chamber was spacious and tastefully decorated. A table laden with food and drink sat in one corner. There were no windows and no balcony; the only door was that which they had just come through.

  Uther limped about the room like a wounded tiger. The two guards assigned to him sat quietly nearby, watching his every move. Uther’s face was bruised and there were gaps in his teeth where Lionel had knocked two of them out during their brief scuffle. I wish Lionel could see that, Abbey thought.

  When he heard the women enter the room, Uther swung around. He pointed an accusatory finger at them.

  “Who are you?” he shouted. “What is this place, and how did I get here? What happened to my face?”

  He started to approach the women, but the two warriors intervened. At a gesture from Abbey, the Minions halted, stopping just short of taking hold of him. Uther glowered at the acolyte and the herbmistress.

  “And most important,” he breathed, “how is it that I no longer possess my gifts of the craft?”

  For a moment, Adrian found his questions odd. Surely he must already know, she thought. Then she remembered that Faegan had wiped Uther’s mind clean of certain memories; in addition, should he try to use the craft, he would find himself powerless. He would presumably stay that way until Faegan ended the spell.

  “We’ll be the ones asking the questions,” Abbey answered. She ordered the warriors to move the room’s writing desk and chair to the center of the floor.

  “Sit down at the desk,” she ordered the Valrenkian.

  “No!” Uther growled. “Go to the Afterlife, bitch!”

  Abbey raised an eyebrow. Looking over at the two warriors, she snapped her fingers. The Minions grabbed the Valrenkian and dragged him across the room, lifted him high, and smashed him down into the chair. Dazed, Uther shook his head.

  “Bind him,” Abbey ordered.

  The Minions produced a length of rope and tied Uther securely to the chair. As his consciousness cleared, he glared back at the two women with venom in his eyes.

  “Who are you?” he asked thickly. “What do you want?”

  “We want some answers,” Abbey said. “And you are going to give them to us. As a wizard friend of mine is so fond of saying, we can either do this the hard way or the easy way.”

  “No.” Raising his face, he spat at them.

  “Suit yourself.” Abbey looked over at the warriors. “Do whatever you must to open his mouth.”

  The warriors took hold of Uther’s head. Struggling wildly, he screamed. When he managed to bite one of them on the hand, the w
arrior laughed and swiped the Valrenkian hard across the face. Then they wrenched his head back and forced open his jaws. Blood dripped from one corner of Uther’s mouth.

  Abbey didn’t like using violence, but if the Valrenkian wouldn’t cooperate, he left her no choice. She opened the bottle of green liquid and poured it down his throat. Uther coughed and then quieted. His head lolled, and his eyelids drooped heavily.

  “What is it that you just gave him?” one of the warriors asked.

  Abbey bent down and closely examined his eyes.

  “It’s a crude form of truth elixir,” she said. “And it appears that it’s beginning to take hold.” Relieved, she walked back over to stand next to Adrian. “Your turn,” she said.

  Adrian closed her eyes and raised her palms. Almost at once, Uther was engulfed in azure haze. His eyes widened, and his head snapped back.

  “You have succeeded in entering his mind?” Abbey asked. “And he will do as he is asked?”

  Adrian nodded. “But not to the same degree that Wigg or Faegan could manage,” she answered quietly. “We can only hope that combining your liquid with my use of the craft will be enough to get what we need.”

  “Then we’ll start with a few test questions, to which we already know the answers,” Abbey whispered. She returned her gaze to the prisoner.

  “What is your name?”

  Uther was still staring blankly into space. “Uther—Uther of the House of Kronsteen.”

  “Are you a Valrenkian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you practice the Vagaries?”

  A cruel smile came to his lips. “Yes.”

  “Do you know a fellow partial adept named Reznik?”

  “Yes.”

  Deciding he was telling the truth, Abbey stepped closer.

  “Other than scaling the bluffs or traveling through the stone maze, is there any way in or out of your village?”

  “Only by flying in,” he answered thickly. “But people can’t fly. Only birds, insects, and your grotesque servants can fly.” The smile came again.

  “Tell me about the sandstone maze,” she asked. “Do you know the way in and out?”

  “Of course.”

  “The safe route is committed to your memory?”

  “Yes.”

  Abbey nodded at Adrian. The acolyte walked to the desk and put down the basket she carried. She removed the writing items and set them before Uther. She opened the ink bottle and placed the quill into it. Then she unrolled the parchments and flattened them out. As though Adrian didn’t exist, Uther gazed at nothing. Adrian returned to Abbey’s side.

  “Free his arms,” Abbey ordered.

  The warriors freed his arms but passed several coils around Uther’s chest before reknotting the rope. Even so, the Valrenkian didn’t move.

  “There is now paper and ink before you,” Abbey said.

  Uther looked down dumbly at the items lying there. He nodded.

  “Draw a map showing the safe way in and out of the stone maze,” she said. “Leave nothing out. Do you understand?” Hoping against hope that he would comply, Abbey held her breath.

  “Very well,” Uther answered.

  Numbly, he took up the quill and began to draw.

  For Abbey and Adrian, the time passed with agonizing slowness. Trying to rid herself of nervous energy, Abbey walked to the other table and poured herself a glass of wine. They waited impatiently, listening to the scratching of Uther’s quill. Finally he put it down and stared blankly into space once more.

  “It is done,” he said.

  Abbey and Adrian walked to the table and stared down at the drawing. Sure enough, it was a map of the maze—complete with arrows pointing toward the passageways that would presumably lead one safely into the village. After blowing on the map to dry the ink, Abbey rolled it up and asked Uther, “How do I know that your map is valid?”

  “I would stake my life on it.”

  For the first time since entering the room, Abbey smiled. “That’s not a bad idea,” she mused. She turned to the guards.

  “Go and find Ottikar. I want him and an entire phalanx of armed warriors ready to depart at once.” She pointed to Uther. “And bring the captive along. I have something special in mind for him.”

  The warrior nearest them snapped his heels together and untied the prisoner. As the two women walked to the door, Adrian asked Abbey, “You’re bringing Uther with us? True, my spell still affects him, but I thought you told me that your potion wouldn’t last very long.”

  Abbey gave her a wink. “Unless I miss my guess,” she said, “it won’t have to. In fact, I’m counting on it.”

  More confused than ever, Adrian followed Abbey down the hall.

  CHAPTER LII

  _____

  AS VIVIAN APPROACHED THE FAR END OF THE PALACE COURTYARD, she nodded to the warriors guarding the drawbridge. Even though she was in a hurry, she kept her pace slow and deliberate. The warriors smiled and snapped to attention as she walked by.

  Pulling the hood of her red cloak up over her head, she exited the grounds and wended her way down one of Tammerland’s busier streets. Only when she knew she was out of sight of the palace did she change direction and pick up her pace.

  This time she would have both good and bad news for Bratach. He would be pleased to hear that Lionel the Little was dead, but Satine’s identity had been revealed, and Vivian could see no end to the trouble this news might bring. Who could have imagined that one of the Valrenkians would be captured and interrogated? Silently cursing, she hurried on.

  It was now late afternoon, the sun just low enough to play hide-and-seek among the higher rooftops. Shafts of fading sunlight sliced down into the alleyways, and the air felt warm and humid. Some of the food vendors were busily closing up their carts as they stopped work for the day. Little by little, enticing aromas faded from the air.

  But for each cart that departed, a tavern lamplight came alive, signaling the change of venue for the pleasure-seekers who frequented this part of town. Soon the mood in the streets would turn even more drunken and dangerous, she knew.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten for hours. She stopped to buy a bag of freshly boiled peanuts from a crippled, blind vendor about to close up his cart. Two blocks later, her fingers covered with oil and her belly quieting, she found herself reminiscing about how she had met Wulfgar. Even though their meeting had been brief, she had immediately become his—heart, mind, and soul.

  Like the other women of her kind, she had been silently called to the Redoubt through a process of the craft known as the River of Thought. At that time the wizards, the Jin’Sai, and the Jin’Saiou had been locked in mortal conflict with Wulfgar and his forces. Like the other women of her sisterhood she had immediately felt the River’s irresistible call, telling her to end her current duties and make her way to Tammerland. The women had been ordered to gather in the Hall of Supplication. Wigg and Faegan were already there, waiting for them. After showing the wizards the tattoo of the Paragon on her shoulder, each sister was asked to perform some small act of the craft. Next, their blood signatures were compared to those in the palace records and examined for any evidence of Forestallments or other tampering. Only then did Wigg induct them all into the newly formed Acolytes of the Redoubt. Finally they were shown their new home—the magnificent secret hallways and chambers lying deep below the palace.

  Vivian had been overjoyed. To gather with her sisters to study and practice the craft had long been her greatest dream. But then Wulfgar had come to her. He had introduced her to a totally different dream—one for which she would willingly discard her previous vows. Suddenly, the newly formed Acolytes of the Redoubt had become the object of her undying hatred, something that she would now do anything in her power to destroy.

  The meeting between Vivian and Wulfgar had
occurred on the night Wulfgar’s demonslavers attacked the palace. The royal residence was in turmoil, and those Minion warriors remaining were clearly losing the fight. Tristan, Shailiha, Wigg, Abbey, and the bulk of the warrior forces were away, trying to hold off Wulfgar’s fleet. Of those able to wield the craft, only Faegan, Celeste, and the acolytes remained behind.

  Frantic to help, Vivian and the other sisters had left the Redoubt to go to the aid of the warriors. Vivian had been hurrying toward the door of her chambers when it suddenly opened of its own accord. Strangely, no one stood on the other side. Shaking her head in confusion, she started to leave. That was when Wulfgar materialized before her. The magnificent Scroll of the Vigors also appeared, hovering gently by his side.

  On trembling legs she retreated into the room, almost falling as she stumbled against a nearby chair. The imposing man walked purposefully into the room, the Scroll following him. Without looking back, he caused the door to close. Then Vivian heard the lock turn over, telling her that she was his prisoner.

  She had no idea whether the man before her was friend or foe. He was tall, with long, sand-colored hair and commanding hazel eyes. She tentatively decided that, since he had access to the Redoubt and was obviously in possession of the Scroll, he must be some unknown ally of the wizards. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The man smiled at her. His mesmerizing gaze seemed to look right into her soul.

  “Who…who are you?” she asked.

  The man clasped his hands together. “I am Wulfgar,” he answered. “I am your new lord.”

  At the mention of his name, Vivian’s blood ran cold. The enemy of the Vigors that everyone was trying to vanquish stood here, in her personal chambers! But why?

  Stunned, she took another step back. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally, she found her tongue.

  “What do you want of me?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Where are Faegan and Celeste?”

  Wulfgar smiled. “I have just come from a meeting with them,” he answered. “After the application of some rather inventive persuasion, the wizard finally gave up the hiding place of the scroll. Celeste tried to resist me, and for that she paid dearly.”