Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  But it isn’t the chair that’s flying, Faegan realized. It is Jessamay, her blood signature going wildly out of control as it changes. Then he suddenly understood why Failee had kept her in a sorceress’ cone for all of those years. It had been to protect her experiment by keeping this from happening. His mouth agape, Faegan watched Jessamay’s speed increase as she soared about the Hall of Blood Records.

  I beg the Afterlife, he asked himself in terror. What have I done?

  “Stop her!” Abbey screamed. “If she smashes into one of the walls, she’ll kill herself!”

  But try as he might, the wizard remained powerless to stop Jessamay. He sat there, wide-eyed, as pieces of the room’s furniture suddenly flew against the walls and smashed to bits. Hundreds of the alphabetized file drawers secured in the walls flew out; thousands of carefully categorized blood-signature records sailed about the room in a blizzard of parchment.

  From the upper floors, ancient scrolls were sucked off from their shelves and unrolled, soaring down to the first floor to join the maelstrom of whirling paper.

  Many of the jars and beakers holding herbs and precious oils suddenly burst, their colorful contents splashing into the air, spilling across the tabletops and floor. The oil chandeliers swung violently back and forth. Two of them smashed to the floor, threatening to start a fire among the growing collection of litter. Abbey rushed to quench the impending cataclysm.

  Then things calmed. The wind died away, the drawers stopped opening, and the remaining scrolls on the upper levels stayed in place on their shelves. The parchments and other scrolls floated gently down until nearly every square inch of the floor was covered.

  But to Faegan and Abbey’s horror, Jessamay’s chair continued to soar. Suddenly it changed course and crashed into a wall.

  Despite Faegan’s wizard’s warp, the chair burst apart on impact. Jessamay tumbled out and landed in a heap near the center of the room. She lay there unmoving.

  Faegan and Abbey hurried over. Faegan caused the warp surrounding her to disappear. He examined her for broken bones and could find none. Satisfied that she could be moved, he levitated her body to lie on one of the nearby tables. It had been his warp, he realized, that had kept her from being killed.

  He was about to examine Jessamay further when she groaned. Her eyes opened.

  He smiled at her. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  Jessamay rose upon her elbows and looked in horror around the room.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “You had a violent reaction to the last potion and spell,” he told her. “In truth, that may have been exactly what we were looking for. Do you think you can stand?”

  Jessamay nodded. Faegan helped her to her feet, secured a drop of the sorceress’ blood, and caused it to fall upon a blank piece of parchment. The droplet twisted itself into Jessamay’s blood signature and then died.

  Faegan hurriedly placed the signature scope tripod over the blood signature and looked down. Several tense, quiet moments followed.

  When he looked back up, he was beaming. Slapping his hand upon the arm of his chair, he let go a sharp cackle. Then he levitated his chair and soared around the room.

  “We’ve done it!” he shouted. “We actually managed to change the lean of a blood signature!”

  Jessamay shuffled weakly over to the scope and peered down through its crosshair lens. Lifting her face, she smiled.

  It’s really true, she thought, as Abbey walked over to embrace her. I am myself once more. After three centuries of nearly becoming a slave to the Vagaries, my blood has finally been returned to its natural state.

  Just then the huge double doors parted. Shailiha, Adrian, Tyranny, and Duvessa stood there covered with soot. The four of them looked wide-eyed around the ransacked Hall of Blood Records and then at Faegan, who was still flying about the room whooping for joy.

  Faegan lowered his chair to the floor.

  “What in the world happened here?” Shailiha demanded.

  Faegan smiled broadly. “We’ve done it!” he exclaimed. “Jessamay’s blood signature has returned to normal!”

  Then he noticed for the first time how filthy the newcomers were, and he remembered the mission he had sent them on. Shailiha’s expression was not reassuring.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Shailiha nodded. “I know this is a happy moment but, yes, the news is terrible.” In quiet, measured tones, the princess described everything that they had seen.

  Faegan’s face fell.

  “How long do you estimate before the throngs reach the palace?” he asked.

  “Hours, at most,” Duvessa answered. “By dawn the palace will be awash in refugees trying to gain entrance.”

  “And the dark mass of pollution in the Sippora?” Faegan asked.

  “It moves far more slowly,” Shailiha said. “My guess is that it will reach the palace environs in two days, perhaps three.”

  “By the time it reaches us, half of Tammerland will have gone up in smoke,” Faegan said unhappily.

  “What shall we do?” Tyranny asked.

  Faegan pulled on his beard as he thought. “Wigg was right,” he commented.

  “Right about what?” Jessamay asked.

  “Wigg said that in his absence we would have to prepare for a siege,” he answered. “But now it is even worse than we imagined.”

  “Why?” Shailiha asked.

  “Most of the population of Tammerland will be trying to smash down our gates to acquire what they believe will be greater safety and adequate food. They don’t realize it, but if Wulfgar cannot be stopped, they will have chosen the worst possible place in which to find sanctuary. And it will all happen very soon now.”

  “Is there no way that you or the others can employ the craft to extinguish the fires?” Tyranny asked. “Or, at the very least, warn the people away from the palace?”

  Faegan shook his head. “I wish that there were,” he answered. “We could quash some of the fires, but surely not enough to do much good. And once the pollution reaches the most inhabited sections of the city, it will cause ten new fires for every one that we could extinguish. It would be like shoveling sand against the tide.”

  “What shall we do, then?” Adrian asked.

  “What we have been doing, with a few notable exceptions,” Faegan answered. He looked at Duvessa. “After Tristan and Traax, who is the ranking Minion officer?”

  “A warrior named Ancaeus,” she answered. “He is very capable. But Traax ordered that Ancaeus go with him to attack Wulfgar. Of the other warriors you are acquainted with, Ox is of course with Wigg and Tristan, and K’jarr is aboard Tyranny’s flagship. What do you have in mind?”

  Faegan thought for a moment. “The Minion captain named Dax, the one who first brought us the news about the Sippora being polluted,” he said. “He impressed me. Do you know whether he is still attached to the warrior group defending the palace?”

  “Yes,” Duvessa answered, “I believe he is. Do you wish me to send for him?”

  “All in good time,” Faegan answered. “You and Dax are about to receive the promotions of a lifetime. Until either Traax or Tristan returns, you are both to be promoted to the temporary rank of field commander. You are to be in charge of the palace defenses—including the siege preparations. I know that you are both relatively inexperienced, but you can glean advice from others as need be. I want to be familiar with those giving the orders.”

  Duvessa’s mouth fell open. She had never expected to have so much responsibility thrust upon her. She knew that Dax would be equally overwhelmed.

  “As…as you wish,” she whispered.

  Faegan’s face darkened a bit. “I’m afraid that your jobs will not be easy,” he added. “As much as it pains me to say it, you must both harden your hearts. If Traax fails and Wulfgar comes, many
of the citizens outside the palace are sure to die. If and when that day arrives, we will protect them as best we can, but you mustn’t allow more of them access to the palace grounds, no matter how much they plead. Their added numbers will only harm our efforts to defend this place. I don’t like it any better than the rest of you. But desperate days call for desperate measures. They always have.”

  He turned to look at the other women. “Adrian, I want you to select one acolyte to sail aboard each of Tyranny’s vessels,” he said. “Choose them wisely, for they will be helpful in battle. The remainder of Wulfgar’s demonslaver fleet can be expected to arrive soon. When they do, we can only hope that our fleet of ships has been repaired and that they are ready to fight.

  “Tyranny, I want you to go back to your fleet immediately and oversee the repairs. When you are ready and your vessels have been provisioned, do not wait for further orders from me. Take the remaining warriors still under your command and sail immediately.”

  “I understand,” the privateer said. “We may be few in number, but with the Minions and the acolytes aboard, we will give the demonslavers a reception they will never forget.”

  “What about the rest of us?” Shailiha asked.

  “You are to stay here and help Jessamay and me. And you can pray that Wigg and Tristan arrive home in time. Without the Jin’Sai and the First Wizard, everything else we do will be for naught.”

  CHAPTER LXXVII

  _____

  WITH CELESTE STILL UNCONSCIOUS IN HIS ARMS, TRISTAN followed the Scroll Master down the brilliant azure hallway. Wigg walked beside him. The prince’s shoulder hurt desperately, but he refused to give Celeste to her father. If he should lose the love of his life this day, he wanted to remember that it had been he who had carried her. The only sounds were their footfalls as they followed the hovering boy.

  Soon, though, they began to hear strange sounds as they walked. The sounds, which seemed to be a bizarre mix of moaning and sobbing, grew louder and more distinct, and at first Tristan thought he was imagining things. He looked over at Wigg. The First Wizard nodded; he heard it also.

  Another intersection loomed up ahead. It was circular, with still more hallways branching off from it. Dense, gray fog filled the space where a floor should have been and spilled out over the narrow walkway around the edge of the room. A white marble railing ran around the edge of the walkway.

  As he entered the intersection, Tristan’s nerves coiled up. Now he could recognize the sounds for what they were: the combined wails of a host of human beings. Not since the day of his ill-fated coronation and the attack of the Minions upon Eutracia had Tristan heard such a chorus of human suffering. But he could see nothing save for the marble walkway, gray fog, and circular railing that lay several steps beyond.

  The young Scroll Master stopped and turned to face them. His face was serene, his manner calm.

  “You may put the woman down,” he said. “She will survive for the time being. There is something I must show you. If you follow my instructions, you will be safe. Disobey me, however, and harm will befall you beyond even my control.”

  Unsure of what to do, Tristan looked over at Wigg. The First Wizard nodded. Tristan gently lowered Celeste to the floor.

  “Come with me,” the boy said. “Under no circumstances are either of you to violate the boundaries of the rail.”

  Doing as they were told, they followed the boy to the rail. As they did, the rising gray fog slowly wound around their feet. Tristan looked down.

  The breath rushed from his lungs, and for several long moments the prince was sure that he would become ill. Then his nerves began to quiet. As he had suspected, there was no floor beneath the fog. The circle was far larger than it had first appeared. Tristan now guessed it to be at least one hundred meters across. But how can this be? he wondered. Somehow, the normal rules of space and distance do not apply here.

  About five meters down, billowing waves of black fog washed to and fro. They looked bottomless. The wails and cries were much louder now.

  From amid the waves of fog, naked human beings rose and fell. Blood ran from their eyes. As if trying to save themselves from drowning, they fought their way to the surface, only to be sucked back down into the churning, swirling chaos.

  As they cried out, sometimes they would claw, strike, and bite one another in their never-ending attempts to rise free. Some of them would scrabble at the smooth glassy walls, only to fall prey to the grasping fog once again and disappear. Their bleeding gazes stabbed their way into the prince’s heart.

  Tristan turned to the Scroll Master. “Is this the Afterlife?” he asked, horrified.

  The young boy shook his head. “This is the Abyss of Lost Souls,” he said. “It is for neither the living nor the dead. It is, rather, the place in between. Only certain souls suffer the misfortune of imprisonment here. Each of them is of endowed blood, and once one is cast into the pit, his life and his suffering become eternal. Those you see here died over the course of aeons in your world, but they did not successfully cross over into the Afterlife.”

  “I don’t understand,” Wigg said.

  “The answer is as simple as it is complex, as crude as it is elegant,” the boy said. “You see, each of these lost souls—were they one time of either the Vigors or of the Vagaries—once possessed Forestallments. But when they died—their blood signatures dying shortly thereafter—in your world no thunder rumbled across the sky, and no wind rose. They simply went into the void, to end up here.”

  “Why?” Wigg asked.

  “Because their Forestallments were not collected successfully,” the boy answered. “That is why they bleed from their eyes. You have by now learned that blood runs closest to the surface of the body in the white of one’s eyes, have you not? And that if properly trained, one of the craft is able to detect the lean of a blood signature simply by looking into a subject’s eyes?”

  Wigg nodded. The boy turned to look at Tristan.

  “You, Jin’Sai, will be the first human in all of history to willingly give up his Forestallments,” he said. “Ridding you of the Forestallments that Succiu imparted to your blood is the only way that your blood can be changed back to red.”

  Stunned, Tristan looked back down into the Abyss of Lost Souls. “Why did you bring me here?” he asked. In his heart he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the Scroll Master say it.

  “It is important that you see and understand this place,” the Scroll Master said, “because if your Forestallments are not collected successfully, your body and soul will be condemned to this place for all of eternity. If that happens, then being the Jin’Sai will no longer have any meaning.”

  Tristan looked back down into the writhing mass of tortured souls. Closing his eyes, he hung his head as he contemplated such a fate. But, he knew, there could be no going back now.

  “You say that his Forestallments are to be ‘collected,’ ” Wigg said. “What do you mean by that? When a Forestallment dies, it simply vanishes into nothingness. Isn’t that so?”

  “No,” the boy answered. “But I may only share the answer with the Jin’Sai—or the Jin’Saiou, should that become necessary. I am forbidden to reveal it to any other. Should Tristan survive, he shall become part of one of the most hallowed, most intricate of the many processes left behind by the Ones Who Came Before. He shall also be witness to one of their greatest constructs. They knew his blood might turn to azure should he somehow fall into the wrong hands. I was placed here aeons ago to help him should such a fate befall him.”

  “Are you one of the Ones Who Came Before?” Wigg asked.

  “No,” the boy said. “I am but one of their servants.” He looked at Tristan again.

  “What say you?” he asked. “Are you prepared to come with me?”

  Tristan did not look up. “Yes,” he answered softly. “There is no other choice.”

 
; He turned toward Wigg. “If I never return, tell Celeste how much I loved her,” he whispered. “And tell Shailiha to be brave, for with me gone she will have to carry on the struggle to unite the two sides of the craft.”

  Tristan walked over to Celeste and took her into his arms. She felt cold and lifeless, as though she were already gone. A tear escaped from one of his eyes to land upon her wrinkled cheek. He kissed her gently on the lips.

  “Goodbye, my darling,” he said softly.

  He carried her over to Wigg and placed her into her father’s arms. Saying nothing, he touched Wigg gently on the shoulder and went to stand next to the boy.

  Wigg watched as an azure glow surrounded them. As the glow brightened, the figures of Tristan and the boy slowly disappeared. Then the glow vanished, leaving nothing behind.

  Wigg gently laid his only daughter back down on the floor and settled her head on his lap. As he cradled her, the wailing and crying continued from the Abyss of Lost Souls, and soon his own sobbing became no less plaintive.

  CHAPTER LXXVIII

  _____

  WULFGAR STOOD BEFORE THE NEWLY CUT PASS THROUGH THE Tolenkas, stunned by its raw beauty. Captain Cathmore stood by his side, his tattered uniform barely covering his skeletal frame and the dark organs within.

  Wulfgar was fresh from his victory at the Minion outpost, and his Black Ship had crossed the fields of Farplain to reach the majestic Tolenkas in a single day. The journey to the pass had been uneventful. If any sizable Minion force searched for him along the way, they hadn’t shown their hand.

  The glowing azure wall climbed high into the fog lying quietly upon the peaks of the mountains. Its surface was as smooth as glass, stretching from one side of the pass to the other. White-hot flashes of raw energy shot to and fro within its silent depths. Wulfgar felt as though the wall was begging to be opened. He yearned to see the wonders waiting on the other side come streaming through.