Wulfgar turned and looked down the mountainous slope. The Minion warriors who had watched over the pass had died the same way as those at the coastal outpost. There had been fewer of them to contend with, and they had perished valiantly but quickly.
His lone Black Ship sat heavily in the grassy field below. Lit torches had been shoved into the ground, their flames highlighting the dark lines of the vessel and lending the scene a surreal, ghostly quality. The corpses of warriors and demonslavers littered the nearby ground. The surviving demonslavers milled about, watching the azure wall from afar. Some scavenged the bodies of the dead Minions for dreggans and returning wheels.
Smiling, Wulfgar turned back toward the pass. As he did, he felt the touch of the Heretics on his mind. The mixed chorus of voices was as lovely and commanding as ever. He went to his knees.
“Wulfgar…”
“I am here,” he answered silently.
“It is time to reach deep into your blood and call forth the special Forestallment that allows you to breach the azure pass. Do not be alarmed by what emerges from its depths. They do not possess the intellect of your dark captains or even your demonslavers, but your new servants will be the blunt instruments of your eventual victory. The Old Eutracian word for them is K’ton. Unlike the Minions of Day and Night, they know no hierarchy within their ranks. Bring them now, Wulfgar. Bring them and watch their swift evolution take place before your eyes. Then you must leave this place and travel to Tammerland. As you near the city, we will speak with you again.”
“As you command,” Wulfgar replied.
He stood and raised his arms. Bolts streamed from his outstretched fingers. Streaking up the slope, they snaked over the surface of the wall to form a vertical line, separating the pass into two equal halves. He moved his hands apart, and the line split and moved toward either side, opening a dark gap in the wall. Then he lowered his hands, and he and Cathmore backed away.
Snarling, grunting sounds came out of the darkness, becoming louder as something neared the entrance to the other side of the world. Finally one of the K’tons walked through to stand and face the Enseterat in the moonlight.
Wulfgar held his ground as he looked at the first of his new servants. Standing at least seven feet tall, the K’ton had skin of the darkest black. It stood on two massive, humanlike legs; simple, black warrior’s sandals adorned its feet. The massive arms and torso rippled with bulging muscles. Its head was huge—even in relation to its great body. Its dark, straggly hair fell down past its shoulders.
The K’ton’s bright red eyes were small, giving its gaze a furtive look. Its nose was wide and constantly testing the air. Its thin lips and pointed teeth were covered with drool. The only garment it wore was a black, fringed warrior’s skirt. As more K’tons appeared, Wulfgar saw that their only weapons were either short swords or huge, bulbous clubs with silver blades extending from the club heads.
As they gathered to stand before Wulfgar, the K’tons’ collective snarling and grunting grew ever louder. As the night wore on, they continued to march out to stand in the torchlight. Wulfgar suddenly wondered how he could load so many aboard a single Black Ship. But then the monsters started to change and he had his answer.
One by one, they became surrounded by azure. Twisting and turning, crying out in agony, they sank to their knees or fell to the ground. The sound of ripping and tearing filled the air. As he watched, Wulfgar recalled part of the Heretics’ last message:
“Bring them,” they had said. “Bring them, and watch their swift evolution.”
Wulfgar suddenly understood: Having been released to the world, the K’tons were changing.
The skin of their backs split open down the center. Fully exposed spinal columns rose to rest upon the surfaces of their backs. Then their shoulders split open. Appendages extended from within the fresh wounds.
As the new limbs exited the K’tons’ bodies, Wulfgar smiled. The freshly formed appendages were wings. Dark and leathery, they looked very strong. The K’tons quickly snapped their new, wet wings into place behind them.
At last, Wulfgar realized, the Minion advantage of flight is ours as well!
The winged K’tons now covered the slopes of the mountains for as far as he could see. The azure glow slowly faded away, and the breach in the wall closed. The K’tons waited in the torchlight, their weapons at the ready.
Wulfgar walked up to the first of them and pointed at the Black Ship lying on the field below.
“Walk to the ship,” he ordered.
Its teeth curling back in a vicious grimace, the K’ton raised its head and gave a cry that was half scream, half snarl. Its red gaze held Wulfgar’s for a moment. Wulfgar glared back. Then the K’ton turned and lumbered down the slope; thousands of others followed his lead. Their dark numbers were so vast that as they walked it seemed the entire hillside was moving. But as the first of the K’tons neared the recent battle scene, they slowed. Wulfgar tensed.
The K’tons at the edge of the field raised their heads. Their sensitive noses began testing the night air.
They’ve detected the blood of the fallen, Wulfgar realized.
The K’tons charged down into the killing field, roaring with delight as they grabbed up corpses.
Wulfgar smiled. He looked over at Cathmore; his captain smiled back at him.
“How marvelous,” Wulfgar said softly. “Frankly, I was wondering how we were going to feed them all. Now I know.”
Cathmore turned his glowing eyes back to the grisly scene. “Indeed,” he answered.
When the feeding frenzy was finally over, Wulfgar and Cathmore walked down the slope to stand among the K’tons.
Not a shred of once-living tissue remained. Blood colored the ground. Minion body armor and weapons lay scattered over a wide area, as did the clothing and weapons of the fallen demonslavers who had vanquished them. The K’tons stood quietly, blood staining their hands and mouths. Even now they seemed unsatisfied.
Cathmore turned to look at his lord. “There wasn’t enough for them to eat,” he observed casually. “Such a pity.”
Wulfgar nodded. “We’ll just have to get to Tammerland faster. There will be lots of soft-bellied citizens for them to feast upon in the city.”
Cathmore smiled.
“Even so, we must first deal with the orb,” Wulfgar reminded his captain. “And it needs to be done on the plains, far away from the azure wall. Then we can join the rest of the Black Ships and take Tammerland.”
Wulfgar walked over to the demonslavers. “Get aboard!” he yelled at them. “We leave at once!”
He turned to face the K’tons.
“Half of your number are to follow my ship by air,” he ordered in a craft-enhanced shout. “The rest are to fly to Tammerland to join the other Black Ships. When you find them, follow the orders of Captain Merriwhether. Stragglers will be killed. We will join you there. In the capital there will be plenty of food for all!”
The K’tons in the front ranks snarled and beat their bloody fists upon their chests. Soon all of them followed suit in a massive display of power.
Wulfgar raised one hand. Calling upon the craft, he caused a blank parchment to appear. He pointed at it and writing appeared upon its surface. When he was done, the parchment rolled itself up.
Wulfgar took the scroll from the air and walked it over to one of the K’tons. The drooling monster simply looked at it for a moment. Then it took the scroll from its master.
“Give that to Captain Merriwhether,” Wulfgar ordered the K’ton. “Fail to do so and you will pay with your life. Do you understand?”
Raising the parchment high, the K’ton gave a fierce battle cry.
Satisfied, Wulfgar levitated himself to the foredeck of the ship. Cathmore followed. The last of the demonslavers entered the open stern of the ship’s hull, and the door slowly rose up. The ship lifted into the
air.
As the Black Ship sailed away, the K’ton throngs snapped open their wings and lifted into the night.
CHAPTER LXXIX
_____
TRISTAN AWOKE TO FIND HE WAS STANDING UP, THE YOUNG Scroll Master beside him. As his vision cleared, the Jin’Sai looked around in awe. He had long believed that he would never see a room larger than the Hall of Blood Records, but what he saw here made even that great place seem small by comparison.
Like the others before it, this chamber was also constructed of glowing azure glass. The ceiling had to be at least one hundred meters high. Massive columns rose to meet it.
A seductive cross between the finest of choir voices and the gentle tinkling of glass wind chimes teased his hearing. Saying nothing, the young Scroll Master watched and waited as Tristan took in the scene.
Row upon row of glowing azure bookcases stood in neat ranks, filling the hall from one side to the other. They seemed to stretch into infinity.
“What is this place?” Tristan asked with wonder and respect.
The Scroll Master turned to him. “Your wizards and sorceresses are wrong,” he said, “about so many things. They always have been. But even without the direct guidance of the Ones, and with only the Tome and the Scroll of the Vigors to guide them, their advancement has been exemplary.”
It was not lost on Tristan that the Scroll Master hadn’t actually answered his question. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What have they been wrong about?”
“A great many things, I’m afraid,” the boy answered. “Perhaps their greatest mistake of late has been their misguided theories regarding the art of Forestallments. But that is understandable. Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay are little more than three centuries old. That length of time is but a single heartbeat in the life of the craft. They remain infants in the ways of magic.”
Tristan was becoming impatient. “You haven’t answered my first question,” he said. “What is this place?”
“We are standing in the presence of one of the greatest achievements of the Ones,” the boy said. “The Well of Forestallments. Come with me.”
The boy floated toward one line of shelves. As Tristan followed along, his boot heels rang out against the floor, mingling with the comforting sounds that came from everywhere at once. They traveled a long way before stopping. Pointing to one of the bookcases, the boy indicated that Tristan should walk around to face it.
“Do not be threatened by what you see,” the boy said. “Although it will be unexpected, it cannot hurt you.”
Tristan was devastated by what lay before him. Taking a quick breath, he stepped back. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
It was the face of Failee.
Failee—the mad First Mistress of the Coven and onetime wife to Wigg. The woman who had ordered the deaths of his parents and the Directorate of Wizards, absconded with both the Paragon and his twin sister Shailiha, and one of the Coven of Sorceresses he had killed with his first and only use of the craft. Memories flooded his mind as he stood there looking at the face of the woman he had hated for so long.
He finally realized that he was looking at only a death mask. He relaxed a bit. Taking a deep breath, he walked closer.
From the depths of the shelf, Failee’s face hovered behind what seemed to be a curved pane of clear glass. Her eyes were closed. Azure light highlighted the contours of her face, and words in Old Eutracian were inscribed into the area just below the mask. He looked down.
The cubicle below the one holding Failee’s likeness was also encased in glass, but what it contained fascinated Tristan even more.
Like tributaries snaking away from a river, dozens of azure Forestallments twinkled there. Many more words in Old Eutracian were inscribed below them. The Forestallments hovered vertically in space; amazingly beautiful, they sent out shimmering waves of azure as they rotated side by side.
Looking to the right, Tristan saw the death masks of Vona and Zabarra—two of the other sorceresses he had killed—along with two more cubicles of Forestallments.
Then his eyes fell upon the death mask of Succiu. He stepped over to stand before it.
He had never believed that he would see her face again, and doing so now gave him no joy. Under Failee’s orders, she had raped him and imbued still-dormant Forestallments in his blood signature. She had also been the mother of Nicholas, Tristan’s only child. As he looked at Succiu’s beautiful almond-shaped eyes, a shudder went through him. Like those of the others, her Forestallments were displayed just below her death mask.
Overcome with curiosity, Tristan looked down the limitless length of this case. Death masks and their accompanying Forestallments lined both sides for as far as he could see. Then he realized that it was the slowly revolving forestallments that were the source of the lovely tinkling sounds.
He turned to the Scroll Master. “Why would the Ones build such a place as this, only to record the expired Forestallments of the dead?”
The boy smiled. “Those persons who are represented here are quite dead, that’s true,” he said. “But the Forestallments that their blood signatures once carried are not.”
“That’s impossible,” Tristan said. “When one of the endowed dies, his or her blood signature and Forestallments die with them. That is why there is always an accompanying atmospheric disturbance—it is the craft’s way of reacting to the passing of a collection of Forestallments. Wigg and Faegan are sure of it.”
“No,” the boy said. “Your wizards are wrong. Forestallments do not die unless they are dismantled by a proper spell of reversal. If their host dies before this is accomplished, they leave the host and travel here, causing the disturbances you describe. They do so because of a process of the craft that the Ones refined just before they disappeared, but it does not always succeed. If they are unsuccessful in their journey, their owners are condemned to the Abyss of Lost Souls.
“The words in Old Eutracian inscribed below the Forestallments identify them and illustrate the spells required for their conjuring and their dismantling,” the boy went on. “Your wizards are right about one thing, though. The Scrolls of the Ancients were written by the Ones and the Heretics of the Guild. Collectively, they contain the spells required to both form and dismantle nearly every Forestallment known to man.”
Stunned, Tristan looked around the chamber once again. “But that still does not answer my question,” he said. “Why did the Ones build this place, and why are the Forestallment branches collected in this way?”
“Two reasons,” the boy answered. “The first is the most obvious. A properly induced Forestallment is a precious thing. Here they would always remain safe from harm, as would the required spells.”
“And the second reason?” Tristan asked.
“They built this place for the Jin’Sai and the Jin’Saiou,” the boy said gravely. “They knew that it would help you in your struggle to combine the two sides of the craft. Once your blood is healed, the Ones have dictated that three of these preserved Forestallments are to be given to you and activated—and then three shall be selected for Shailiha, should you die or otherwise fail in your destiny. Your wizards were wise not to activate the Forestallments that Succiu imparted to your blood. Had they been brought to life improperly, they would have killed you.
“Do not be misled,” he warned. “The Well of Forestallments has existed for aeons. But it was not built with such care and so lovingly maintained for all this time for only you and your sister.”
“Who else was it built for, then?” Tristan asked.
“It was built for the other Jin’Sais and Jin’Saious who came before you and Shailiha—and for those who may have to follow you, should you both fail to join the two sides of the craft.”
Tristan’s jaw fell and the breath rushed out of his lungs.
“But I am the Jin’Sai!” he exclaimed. “And Shailiha is the Jin’Saiou! T
he Tome says so! How could there have been others before us?”
“Think for a moment,” the boy said. “The Tome makes mention of a Chosen One who will be preceded by another. But does it say how many pairs of these twins there might eventually be?”
“As far as I understand it, no,” Tristan said. He simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“And does the Tome mention you or your sister by name?” the boy pressed.
“Not that I have been told,” the prince answered.
“Then how can you and your wizards be so sure that you and Shailiha have been the only ones?” the boy asked. “There have, in fact, been dozens of Jin’Sais and Jin’Saious before you. Over the aeons they have always arrived in pairs—one girl child and one boy. So far, each pair has failed to unite the two sides of the craft. And like you and your sister, each pair thought themselves the only ones—unless they succeeded in finding me, as you have, and were informed about the true nature of things. But you, Tristan, are the first to use his gifts without the advantage of training. Your blood is the first to turn azure. When the Tome speaks of this, it is referring directly to you. We know that now.”
“But how can that be,” Tristan protested, “when so much of what the Tome prophesied about me has already come true? Are you saying that the Jin’Sais before me also followed the exact same path as I have in life?”
“Of course not,” the boy answered. “That would be illogical. But only in your case have so many of the prophecies come true—that is why hope runs so high that you shall be the one to finally succeed. Only time will tell.”
Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “But the Ones hid the Tome and the Paragon in the Caves!” he protested. “During the Sorceresses’ War it was Wigg who first found them and brought them to light. If that is the case, how could previous Jin’Sais and Jin’Saious have learned about and employed the craft?”
“Because it was not Wigg who first discovered the Tome and the Paragon,” the young Scroll Master answered. “Nor was it the Ones who hid them. It was the previous Jin’Saiou.
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