Tristan ran across the shaking rooftop to join Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay. The three mystics were huddled together, talking urgently.
“Are you ready?” he pleaded. He turned back to see that the first of the Black Ships was already passing over the shattered palace walls. “It must happen now!”
Faegan gave him a weary nod. “We will try,” he said.
Wigg and Faegan went to the very edge of the roof. Jessamay stood to one side. The two wizards raised their hands and closed their eyes.
The resulting explosion was deafening, filling the heavens with a thunderous roar. For a split second, a spot of azure light appeared high in the sky, directly over the center of the city. Far brighter than any star, it burst apart, sending brilliant, concentric circles of light cascading for leagues in every direction. As they spread and fell, the circles gradually vanished. In their place a massive azure dome formed, covering the entire city of Tammerland. Its sheer beauty and raw power resonated everywhere at once.
Tristan took Shailiha’s hand. Together they stared in wonder at the awesome work of the craft. The trap had closed. There was now no way out for any of them, friend or foe.
As Wigg and Faegan held the dome in place, Tristan turned toward Jessamay. The future of their world now rested upon her abilities alone. Stepping to the edge of the roof, Jessamay raised her hands and closed her eyes.
Across the city, glowing, liquid azure appeared, dripping slowly from the surviving houses, their roofs, and even from the remains of the palace walls. As the precious seconds ticked by, Tristan looked east toward the sections of the city that were still intact. The oozing stuff was showing up everywhere; already eerie, winding rivulets snaked down into the streets and alleys, forming countless, glowing pools. The mission Faegan had sent the other members of the Conclave out on two nights earlier had been successful.
From the first of the glowing pools, a creature took shape. As its head came up to take living form from the enchanted, primordial ooze that gave it birth, it turned to examine the bloody scene with its slanted, yellow eyes.
The first of the Wingwalkers rose.
The Wingwalkers, Tristan thought, as yet another of the Earthshakers’ explosions rocked the palace—the same terrible breed of beings that had nearly killed him, along with Wigg and Celeste, in the bowels of the Recluse. Failee’s onetime servants, born again from the fluid that Wigg had risked his life to gather in Parthalon. Faegan’s attempts to magnify the volume of Wingwalker fluid had been successful! Now tens of thousands of the creatures were rising to the aid of the palace.
Or were they? Tristan’s blood ran cold as he suddenly remembered the other, equally important half of the wizards’ plan.
Had Faegan and Jessamay been successful in all they had needed to accomplish? Which side of the craft now owned the Wingwalkers’ allegiance—the Vigors or the Vagaries?
Tristan held his breath as he watched multitudes of the dreadful things soar up toward the palace roof. As Wigg and Faegan used all their power to support the azure dome, Jessamay raised her hands higher. Thousands of Wingwalkers gathered before her, their number growing by the moment. Legions of slanted, yellow eyes stared at her.
Jessamay’s gaze was as hard as granite. Lowering her arms, she pointed down into the palace courtyard.
“Kill,” she said.
The Wingwalkers didn’t hesitate. At Jessamay’s command they turned and tore into the Jin’Sai’s foes—those who served the Vagaries and possessed blood signatures that leaned leftward.
With their talons and long, pointed teeth, the Wingwalkers were an equal match for the demonslavers and K’tons. But merely being their equal would not win the Wingwalkers the day, Tristan knew. Their victory would be in their superior numbers. Turning to look back at the northeastern section of the city, he saw thousands upon thousands more rise to join in the fray.
Breathless, he watched as the Wingwalkers descended upon an Earthshaker, digging in with their talons. Screaming in agony, the Earthshaker shook its huge head wildly as the creatures bit great hunks from its flesh. The demonslaver astride it also screamed as the Wingwalkers plucked him from the Earthshaker’s back and tore him apart.
Each of the other five Earthshakers met the same fate. One by one the great beasts fell, the ground trembling as they hit. In their death throes, their great, bony tails flapped up and down, smashing against the ground. With each great blow, more of the palace walls came tumbling down.
The demonslavers and the K’tons fared no better. Massively outnumbered by the Minions and the Wingwalkers, they died by the hundreds. Tristan watched in awe as the Wingwalkers defied gravity to scurry sideways along the walls, hang upside down beneath roof alcoves, then spin and cartwheel deftly in the sky to strike down their prey. Bit by bit, the Minions and the Wingwalkers—both onetime servants of the Coven—gained the upper hand.
Some of the K’tons attempted to flee, but were vaporized when they tried to break through the azure dome. Undeterred, still more of them suffered the same fate.
And then the six Black Ships finally entered the grounds of the palace. The six skeletal captains rained bolt after bolt down upon the Wingwalkers and Minions. Many fell, and for a moment Tristan feared that all would be lost despite their valiant efforts. He felt Shailiha’s grip on his hand tighten.
But then another great horde of freshly born Wingwalkers descended upon the scene, turning the tide. They swarmed darkly over the vessels’ captains and demonslavers, killing them all.
Without their captains to guide them, the great ships careened out of control. Tristan watched, his mouth agape, as the first nosed down to plow along the ground. As its hull tore across the earth of the inner ward, it took down countless hastily erected hospital tents; the people who had been hiding inside of them went screaming and running for their lives.
With a loud groan, the great ship lay over on her port side, but inertia kept her barreling straight for the entrance to the Great Hall. Sending up clumps of ragged earth in all directions, her bowsprit tore through the chamber’s double stained-glass doors. With a mighty crash, the ship came to rest.
The other five ships crashed in a similar manner. One by one they banged into the earth and skidded across the palace grounds. Tristan felt the palace quake beneath him as two more ships rammed into its walls.
As the fighting in the courtyard died down, Tristan looked out over Tammerland again. Some of the Wingwalkers and Minions soared over the smashed palace walls to chase down and kill off the demonslavers and K’tons still ravaging the city. New fires were still erupting, and the courtyard resounded with the screams of the wounded and dying.
Tristan and Shailiha went over to join the others. Wigg and Faegan continued to support the azure dome with the craft. Jessamay and Abbey stood staring in horror at the carnage. Wingwalker, Minion, and demonslaver bodies seemed to lie everywhere, as did the dead and wounded who had first come to the palace seeking refuge from the Orb of the Vigors.
As he looked down at his traumatized subjects, Tristan lowered his head. He recalled that day not so long before when he had addressed many of them in the Great Hall and asked them for their trust.
But how will I ever gain their allegiance now? he wondered. How can they trust me when, yet again, the craft has brought them nothing but pain and death?
Then he thought about the three Forestallments remaining in his blood, and the muscles in his jaws tightened.
Hearing the flurry of approaching wings, Tristan turned to see Traax, Duvessa, and Ox land on the roof. They were all worn out and splattered with blood. Dax was not present. Tristan hurried over to them.
“Dax?” he asked anxiously.
Traax shook his head. “No,” he said. “But he died well.”
“And the state of the battle?”
“Our scouts tell us that it is over,” Traax answered. “The wizards may dispense
with the dome.”
Wigg and Faegan gladly lowered their arms. They both looked past the point of exhaustion. The azure dome surrounding Tammerland slowly faded and then vanished, releasing the smoke that had collected beneath it.
“It is now time for you to complete your part of it,” Tristan said to Jessamay.
The sorceress nodded and walked over to the map table. She picked up Failee’s red leather grimoire. A golden bookmark extended from between its pages. As everyone watched, she went back to stand at the edge of the roof.
Opening the grimoire to the marked page, she balanced the book in one hand and raised her other. She looked down at the swarming Wingwalkers.
“Come to me,” she said.
Almost at once the horrific creatures obeyed. Soon the night sky was black with them. The entire multitude hovered in the air before Jessamay, their numbers so vast that they blocked out the stars and the three Eutracian moons.
Taking a deep breath, Jessamay looked down at the grimoire and started to recite a spell.
Tristan stared sadly at the throngs of Wingwalkers. They had proven invaluable in the defense of Tammerland, but his mind was made up: though they were truly little more than killing machines, and despite the fact that their blood signatures now leaned to the right, they could not be allowed to live.
And so, Jessamay recited the secret words in Old Eutracian—the same spell that Wigg had tried to find that day in the bowels of the Recluse, but could not—and the leathery skin of the Wingwalkers burst into flames. As they cried out in pain, Tristan couldn’t help but feel a touch of remorse. Steeling his heart, he put one arm around Shailiha and watched them die.
One by one they fell to the earth, dead. Their bodies burned until only their skeletons remained.
Tristan looked down into the courtyard and out across the city to see the streets piled white—as if it were the Season of Crystal and it had just snowed. Stunned citizens, their clothing and faces black with soot, stared in wonder.
Jessamay turned to look at the Jin’Sai. “It is over,” she said wearily.
He shook his head. “You’re wrong,” he answered. “There is still much to be done.”
Tristan looked down into the city that he so loved. From the west, the fires were fast approaching the palace. Surviving citizens had formed bucket brigades, but their efforts accomplished little. Soon the entire city would be lost.
He looked at the bend in the Sippora River where it curved to flow near the palace. He then looked upriver. Because of the smoke and the darkness, at first he couldn’t find what he was searching for.
Then he finally saw it. He was quickly running out of time, he knew. If he didn’t play his part now, the final act of this tragedy would soon open.
Tristan called Ox to his side and pointed to a spot on the ground just outside the smashed walls.
“Fly me there!” he ordered.
Without hesitation Ox picked up the prince, ran to the roof’s edge, and took flight. As they went, Tristan gave Shailiha a final look. Panic and confusion gripped the princess as she watched her brother go.
Then they saw Tyranny’s litter and her host of warriors cross before the three moons. As quickly as the litter touched down, the privateer came running to Wigg. Shailiha ran to join them, and she and Tyranny looked at the wizard with trepidation.
“What is Tristan doing?” the princess asked.
“What he was born to do,” Wigg answered, placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. There was a worried, resigned look on his craggy face. “And may the Afterlife see him through it.”
Wondering what was about to happen, Shailiha and the others could only stand and watch as Ox and Tristan soared away.
Ox landed and lowered Tristan to the ground. Tristan looked around urgently. The place he had chosen was deteriorating rapidly. New fires were erupting all about them, and the heat was unbearable. He knew that he and Ox wouldn’t be able to stand this for very long. He looked into the faithful warrior’s dark eyes.
“You must leave me now!” he ordered. His voice was nearly drowned out by the roaring flames.
No sooner had he finished speaking than another building fell, its walls collapsing only meters from their feet. When the blast of heat hit them, it nearly knocked them down.
Despite Tristan’s order, the huge warrior seemed locked in place. Wondering why Ox hadn’t obeyed, Tristan steadied himself, then grabbed Ox by his massive shoulders.
“Fly back to the roof!” Tristan commanded him. “You must go now! Even I am not sure of what is about to happen! What I must do here, you cannot be a part of!”
As the flames roared all around them, Ox looked sadly into Tristan’s eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Then Ox did something that no Minion warrior had ever dared to do.
Taking a step forward, he embraced his Jin’Sai in his wings.
Both honored and surprised, for several precious moments Tristan embraced him back. Saying nothing, Ox released Tristan and took to the air.
Tristan looked around. He was near the banks of the Sippora, about thirty meters upriver from the palace. Buildings as yet untouched by the approaching inferno stood nearby, the fires’ shadows crawling along their walls—a haunting portent of things soon to come. The stinking heat and choking smoke were nearly overpowering. Feeling faint, Tristan placed one hand before his face. He couldn’t go any farther or he would die before he did what he had come here to do. And so he was forced to wait for the awful thing to come to him.
Finally, the dark, stinking mass of superheated pollution in the Sippora drew closer. The ever-changing cracks in its surface shot poison and hungry flames high into the air. In moments it would be alongside the palace. It was time to act, Tristan knew, and there wasn’t a moment to lose.
He reached over his right shoulder and took one of his throwing knives from its scabbard. Just as the Scroll Master had instructed him, he made a small incision in his left palm. He replaced the knife, then braved the heat to struggle to the edge of the river. He held his wounded hand out. Making a fist, he squeezed the wound until his blood dripped into the water. He stepped back from the bank, looked at the blood, and narrowed his eyes.
Almost at once the blood expanded, billowing outward, and began to flow upstream, against the current. As if it had a life of its own, it sought out the dark pollution coming its way.
The two substances touched.
The clouds of red blood slowly snaked their way around the mass. As Tristan concentrated with all of his might, the blood formed red tentacles that left the water and, like a spider’s web, reached up and around the mass. Once the mass was encased, the tentacles started to squeeze. As the mass flowed down the river, an azure haze formed around it.
The explosion that followed ripped through the heavens. Blinding rays of pure white light burst upward, illuminating the burning city. The mass disintegrated, cracking and splintering noisily. Its remaining fragments rained down harmlessly on the river and its banks.
And then it was gone. Amazingly, the river had returned to its natural state.
Exhausted, Tristan lowered his hands. The Scroll Master had been right, he realized. But there were still two Forestallments that remained to be employed. As he stood there among the flaming ruins, he could feel them calling out to him, begging to be released.
Turning to face the river, he raised his hands again. The Scroll Master had warned him that, due to his growing fatigue, each of the two successive Forestallments would be progressively more challenging to dominate. If he lost control, they could turn on him, killing him. Wondering whether he was about to die, Tristan looked to the water and concentrated all of his newfound power upon it.
Slowly, agonizingly, the waters of the Sippora started to rise. The plume that was being generated soared high into the sky. As the onrushing river water continued to
feed it, the whirling maelstrom of water flattened out at its top until it reached from one end of the city to the other.
Tristan’s body shook and the flames licked at his boots. He tried with all his might to enlarge the whirling plume. As he felt the power slipping away from him, he knew that it was time. He dropped his arms.
The plume broke apart, sending a torrential downpour crashing into the city. It flooded through buildings, rushed down the streets, and fell upon every fire. Jubilant citizens rushed out of hiding places to lift their arms and embrace the downpour.
In every part of the great city, the fires went out. Steam plumes rose into the air, blanketing everything for a time. Much of Tammerland lay in ruins, but the eastern half of the metropolis had been spared. And the Sippora River—once destined to annihilate everything it touched—now flowed clean and strong again, just as it had for untold centuries.
Trying desperately to see through the rising steam, Shailiha searched for her brother. At first she couldn’t see him. Then some of the haze lifted, and there he was. She stared in horror.
Curled up into a fetal position, Tristan lay unmoving on the bank of the river. His eyes were closed, and it was impossible to tell whether he was dead or alive. It looked like his hands were badly scorched from his untrained use of the craft.
Mad with worry, Shailiha turned to Ox. “You must take me to him!” she shouted. “He could be dying!”
Ox was about to obey when Wigg stopped him. His expression held no room for compromise.
“It’s true that he may be dead,” Wigg said, “and no one dreads that more than you and me. But under no circumstances are we to go near him. The Scroll Master warned Tristan of this, and the prince explained it to me. His wishes must be obeyed to the letter. If the Jin’Sai still lives, then what he must do, he must do alone.”
Savage Messiah Page 57
