Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “By the way, Lionel the Little, as he was called, is quite dead. He committed suicide in his own quarters three nights ago—and in the royal palace, of all places. It was a hanging followed by a disembowelment. What a mess! Just imagine the uproar it caused!”

  It was clear that despite his sarcasm the consul was impressed—a rare occurrence. Holding the wine glass high, he tipped it in her direction. After talking a sip, he placed the glass back on the table.

  “How on earth did you manage it?” he asked. “I half expected never to see you again. But here you are.”

  Leaning her forearms on the back of the chair, Satine smirked at him.

  “No assassination is impossible,” she answered. “I thought you might understand that by now. I told you I could do it, and I did.” She flashed Bratach a look that was all business.

  “I didn’t come here to listen to something I already know,” she said.

  “The sign in the shop window tells me that you have news. It had better be more than the fact that the gnome has met his maker.”

  Bratach looked at Ivan, then back at Satine. “Oh, my news is important, I assure you,” he said. “But you aren’t going to like it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The wizards of the Redoubt know who you are. Worse yet, they have your description.”

  Her jaw set, Satine took a breath and sat back a little.

  “How?” she asked.

  “A captured Valrenkium told them. The prince’s Minions took him from his village and the wizards forced him to talk. They also know about Reznik. We have no word that search parties have been sent out looking for you, but we don’t know that they haven’t been, either. How do you wish to proceed?”

  Taking a deep breath, Satine looked toward the ceiling. This was the worst possible news. Still, she remained calm. She looked back at Bratach.

  “I will continue with the sanctions,” she said.

  Bratach looked narrowly at her. “Very well—it’s your neck. I needn’t tell you that you must use extreme caution from now on. Wulfgar will be arriving soon. Because of that we have decided to up the ante, so to speak. This will only make things more difficult for you, but there it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bratach reached into his robe and produced a parchment, which he flattened on the tabletop. He picked up a knife and rammed it through one of the portraits depicted there.

  “This is your next victim,” he said. “I suggest you approach your task with care.”

  Satine recognized the face immediately. They’ve upped the ante indeed, she thought.

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. As far as we know this person is still out of the country. We await word from our confederate inside the palace. When we have more information, we will tell you. Until then you must wait.”

  Looking around the dingy cellar, Bratach smiled. “Might I recommend that you hide here until we learn more? I know it’s not much, but staying here would save you time.”

  Satine shook her head. This was the last place she wanted to be holed up. Now that the wizards had her description, she knew she needed to stay off the streets, but it wouldn’t be here, in a dank cellar with Wulfgar’s consul and his greasy lackey.

  “I’ll make my own arrangements,” she said.

  “Very well,” Bratach answered. “But you must check the shop window every day—twice a day would be even better. We cannot be sure when your target will return to Eutracia. But when it happens, you’ll have to move fast.”

  Nodding her agreement, Satine stood from the chair. “Is there anything else?”

  Bratach shook his head. “Just make sure that you come into the shop the moment you see that we have news for you.”

  Satine walked to the door. As she opened it, its hinges creaked. It would be a long walk back around to pick up her horse, but it would be the safest way.

  After giving the two men a final look, she entered the tunnel and closed the door behind her. The winding, dimly lit passage yawned before her.

  She had been wise to refuse Bratach’s offer to stay in the cellar. But she also knew that she could no longer risk staying at the inn she had chosen. After going back to collect her things, she would have to move on. As the sound of her footsteps rang out against the bricks in the tunnel floor, her mouth turned up into a slight smile.

  The Gray Fox knew exactly where to go, but there were things she needed to do first.

  CHAPTER LXIII

  _____

  “Even if we find the Scroll Master and make Tristan’s blood whole again, Faegan and I fear that his struggle against his half brother may alter the craft forever. But if the craft is to survive, the confrontation must occur—no matter the outcome…”

  —wigg

  AS TRISTAN ENTERED THE LITTLE ROOM AND SAW THE demonslaver in the glowing cage, he couldn’t help but have mixed feelings. Forced into slavery by the consul Krassus, then morphed into the nightmarish creature now glaring back at them, this being had once been a Eutracian citizen. Did I once know this person? the prince asked himself. If I did, does it matter now?

  Wigg, Faegan, and the prince had come to this lonely chamber of the Redoubt just after Tristan dismissed the Conclave. Wigg, Tristan, and Celeste would depart Tammerland soon. If Wulfgar attacked before they returned, Faegan and the others would be left alone to defend the capital. Whatever information they might glean from the slaver could prove vital.

  The cage Wigg had conjured to hold the demonslaver was fairly large. The azure bars shone brightly in the relative darkness of the otherwise empty room. A tray of uneaten food and a flask of water lay on the floor of the cage.

  When the demonslaver saw them approach he charged angrily to the front of the cage, the black talons at the ends of his fingers curling tightly around the bars. Curling his lips back, he hissed at them, his pointed teeth and black tongue showing up eerily in the glowing light of the cage.

  “Trying to get answers from him without the use of the craft will be pointless,” Tristan warned Wigg. “I suggest we don’t waste the time.”

  Nodding, Wigg looked over at Faegan.

  “I agree,” the crippled wizard said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Wigg closed his eyes. The demonslaver’s eyes went wide, and his head snapped back and then came slowly forward again. His demeanor gradually calmed. He let go of the azure bars, and his muscular arms fell to his sides.

  Wigg opened his eyes and looked at the demonslaver. “What are Wulfgar’s battle plans?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” the slaver answered. “I am only a guard. We do not have access to such information.”

  “How many demonslavers does the Enseterat command?” Tristan demanded.

  “Perhaps ten thousand. Many were lost in the sea battles with the prince’s warriors.”

  “How many consuls reside upon the Isle of the Citadel?” Faegan asked.

  “There are many there who wear the blue robe,” their prisoner answered, “but I do not know their numbers. The most senior among them is named Einar.”

  Tristan saw a flash of recognition cross Wigg’s face. “Do you know this Einar?” the prince asked the wizard.

  Wigg nodded. “He is of highly endowed blood and an expert regarding the various calculations of the craft. Wulfgar could not have made a better choice to sit at his right hand.”

  “Is Wulfgar in possession of the Scroll of the Vagaries?” Faegan asked the demonslaver.

  “I have no knowledge of such things.”

  “Who is Wulfgar’s woman?” Tristan asked.

  “She is Serena, his queen. She is pregnant with his daughter. She will give birth in two moons.”

  Wigg and Faegan exchanged grave looks. “What are Wulfgar’s plans for the Black Ships?�
�� Faegan asked.

  “He will use them to crush the Jin’Sai. The Black Ships now carry great beasts—beasts too massive for demonslaver vessels to hold. That is why the Black Ships and their captains were summoned from the depths of the sea. But that is all I know about them.”

  His eyes alive with curiosity, Faegan wheeled his chair closer to the cage. “Tell us more about these beasts,” he said.

  “They are huge things, their backs so long that twenty of us can ride them at one time. Their tails end in massive, bony paddles. When they walk, the ground literally trembles beneath their feet. Our lord calls them Earthshakers.”

  Pulling thoughtfully on his beard, Faegan sat back in his chair. “What else can you tell us?”

  “I know nothing more. I am only a guard. Guards are never made privy to our lord’s plans, or granted access to the inner recesses of the Citadel.”

  Tristan looked at Wigg. “Can you tell whether he’s hiding anything from us?”

  Wigg closed his eyes again. After several more moments went by, he looked back at Tristan and Faegan and shook his head.

  “I hate to say it, but I believe him,” Wigg answered. “We’ll get no more out of this one, for he has no more to give. Like the Minions, it seems that the demonslavers have a strict chain of command. Within the demonslaver cadres, this one ranks among the lowest of the low.”

  They heard a knock on the door. Tristan walked over and opened it to see Shannon the Small standing there, his ever-present ale jug gripped firmly in one hand. A puff of blue smoke rose from his corncob pipe. There was a sad look on his face.

  “Please forgive the intrusion,” he said, “but the others asked me to come and tell you that all has been made ready. Everyone is gathered and waiting.”

  Nodding, Tristan took a deep breath. “Tell them we will be there momentarily,” he said.

  “Very well,” Shannon answered.

  As the gnome walked away, Tristan shut the door. He looked across the room at the two wizards.

  “It’s time,” he said softy. Then he looked at the demonslaver. “What about him?”

  “There’s nothing more that he can tell us,” Faegan answered. “There is only one thing to do.”

  He looked at Wigg. “Do you agree?” he asked.

  Pursing his lips, Wigg nodded.

  “And does the Jin’Sai agree?” Faegan asked.

  Tristan nodded. “But make it painless,” he commanded. “Not long ago, this bastardization of the craft was a fellow Eutracian.”

  Wigg shook his head. “I cannot do this in any fashion—painless or otherwise. You’re forgetting my vows.”

  Tristan nodded. He had forgotten the vows that had been made by all the members of the Directorate.

  “Faegan,” he asked, “will you—”

  “Yes,” the old wizard answered.

  Faegan pointed at the demonslaver, who continued to stand there placidly, his mind still under the First Wizard’s control.

  There is something very wrong about this, Tristan thought. But he had to admit that there was also something satisfying—even righteous—about it. As he watched, the slaver’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor.

  Saying nothing more, the three friends left the room, each aware that their next task would be equally unpleasant.

  Tristan quietly shut the door behind them.

  TRISTAN, FAEGAN, AND WIGG EMERGED AT THE BACK OF THE palace. It was a clear night, and the three moons cast their combined glow across the ground. The air smelled clean and sweet, but the prince knew that it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer.

  By prior order of the Jin’Sai, the wounded had been moved out of the spacious rear courtyards. The other members of the Conclave stood waiting. When Celeste saw Tristan she gave him a sad but encouraging smile. Pursing his lips, he nodded back at her. The rest of the area was filled to overflowing with Minions; more of the winged warriors circled silently in the sky above, their numbers sometimes blotting out the moons.

  The Acolytes of the Redoubt were also here, as were all of the palace gnomes. Crude wooden stands had been constructed for the gnomes to stand upon, so that they wouldn’t become lost in the massive crowd. The ever-protective Shawna the Short held Morganna close.

  A clearing had been preserved in the middle of the courtyard. In its center stood two tall funeral pyres, with a ladder against each. Geldon lay upon one pyre, Lionel upon the other. Around them, hundreds of standing torches had been lit, adding to the sense of solemnity.

  The necropsy that had been performed upon Lionel’s body had revealed it contained the same substances that Geldon’s had: human brain matter, human yellow bone marrow, human red bone marrow, root of gingercrinkle, and oil of encumbrance. The only difference had been that Lionel’s blood showed traces of honey, rather than derma-gnasher venom.

  It was clear that despite the different ways in which Geldon and Lionel had taken their own lives, they had been poisoned by the same assassin. Every person here—human, Minion, and gnome alike—wanted the killer dead. For Satine, Eutracia was about to become a very small and dangerous place.

  Traax walked slowly forward, holding a flaming torch. Going down on bended knee, he handed it expressionlessly up to the Jin’Sai.

  Tristan took the torch and turned to face the crowd. The thousands of Minions suddenly went to one knee in the soft, dewy grass.

  “We live to serve!” came the thunderous oath, its power so great that it seemed to shake the earth. Lifting his hands, Tristan beckoned them all to stand.

  The prince knew that it had long been Minion custom that no eulogy should be given before the traditional lighting of the pyres. Like the Minions themselves, the philosophy behind the ritual was both solemn and simple. A disgraced warrior was never granted honorary immolation. The fact that these two bodies lay upon pyres tacitly told everyone all they needed to know.

  Still, as he walked to the pyres Tristan found himself torn about whether to speak. He hadn’t known Lionel well, but Geldon had been a close friend. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered the first time he had met the hunchbacked dwarf in the Ghetto of the Shunned in Parthalon. Physically, Geldon had been small. But the goodness of his heart and the quickness of his mind had more than made up for it.

  Standing before the pyres, Tristan made his decision and raised the torch. Better to let everyone say goodbye in his or her own way.

  Tristan touched the torch first to Geldon’s pyre and then to Lionel’s. The fire caught quickly, and he lodged the torch in Lionel’s pyre before stepping back.

  As the flames roared into the night sky, an idea came to him. There is indeed one last thing that we can do to honor you, he thought.

  Tristan reached back and drew his dreggan, its curved blade ringing as it slid from its scabbard. Raising it high, he pressed the button on the sword’s hilt. With a deadly clang the blade launched forward. Knowing what would happen next, the Jin’Sai kept his weapon high as he looked over his legions.

  Thousands of dreggans immediately left their scabbards, the combined ring of their blades filling the courtyard. With one heart, the warriors all triggered their blades, the clang nearly deafening. His jaw set, Tristan looked back to the pyres.

  We will find the one who did this to you, he silently swore. And she will pay with her life.

  CHAPTER LXIV

  _____

  TWO HOURS LATER, CELESTE STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER personal quarters. Despite the sadness of the immolation ceremony, the night still seemed beautiful, peaceful. She silently blessed the fact that her view did not overlook the flaming funeral pyres.

  The cool evening wind wafted gently into the room. The stars twinkled down at her as though she were the only person in creation. Normally these things would have given her great pleasure, but not just now. Another wave of awful pain came over her, and she was
forced to go sit on the bed.

  The first attack had come during the lighting of the pyres. The grinding, exquisite pain felt like thousands of tiny needles stabbing into the very essence of her being. It had lasted only a few moments, but that had been an eternity. As the pain recurred, she had done her best to hide it from the others, and she believed that no one had noticed.

  As this latest attack subsided, her hands shook and she was bathed in sweat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed that no one would see her like this—at least not for a while. If these attacks worsened with the progression of her illness, she knew she would not be able to keep them secret for long.

  She had told Tristan only part of the truth about why she wanted to visit these rooms. As his new wife, she would take up residence with him in his quarters. She had told him that she needed to come here to collect some of her things. The rest could be delivered by the Minions later, she had said.

  Her real reason was that she needed time to think. She was acutely aware of how guilty Tristan already felt about her condition—and how intensely worried he was about all of the other troubles plaguing the nation. She knew that if these attacks continued, soon there would be no way she could keep him from seeing them. Before that day arrived, she wanted to sort things out for herself—especially before she left with Tristan and her father to search for the Scroll Master. Once they departed the palace, she might never have the luxury of another private moment.

  Standing on shaky legs, she walked back to the window. An idea had been brewing in her mind ever since she and Tristan had been told about her condition. She was aware that he was trying to be as supportive as he could. But each of them knew that it was what they did not say that somehow always seemed to negate whatever assurances they gave one another. A dark cloud hung over them that could be banished in only one of two ways: if they found the Scroll Master soon and he agreed to help them, or if she were to die.

  She went to her writing table and sat down. She selected some paper and carefully dipped the quill in ink. Pausing for a moment, she gathered her thoughts.