“To the Black Ships!” she toasted. “May they take us far and always bring us home again!”
Everyone smiled at that. After draining his cup, Tristan refilled it. But just as he was about to take another drink, he noticed an odd tingling in his blood. He looked up to see that everyone was staring strangely at him. He soon realized that they weren’t looking at his face, but at the gold medallion lying around his neck. He looked down to see that the medallion was glowing.
Tristan was delighted. This was the first time that Shailiha had called on her matching medallion to communicate with him. Placing his cup on the worktable, he grasped his medallion and turned it over.
As he expected, the medallion’s opposite side showed an image of his sister. She was seated in her chair at the great mahogany table in the Conclave meeting chamber, deep in the bowels of the Redoubt. Tristan could see Traax seated on one side of her; the empty chair on the princess’s other side belonged to Jessamay. Caprice the field flier sat perched at the top of Shai’s chair and was gently opening and closing her great wings. Given the limited confines of the medallion, Tristan could not tell whether anyone else was in the room.
As he looked closer, he saw that his sister’s face bore a worried expression. She held up a parchment, and he saw that its words were written in her handwriting. As Tristan read them, a sudden chill went down his spine.
Come quickly, the parchment said. The wizards need us.
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE END, THE CITIZENS OF TANGLEWOOD NEVERstood a chance.
As the once beautiful city burned in the night, the vicious man-serpents raged wildly through the streets. Tanglewood held many more inhabitants than had Birmingham. But that was of no consequence, for even now more snakelike beings continued to rise from the stream in Hartwick Wood to swell the monsters’ ranks. As though there were no end to their numbers, they flowed through Tanglewood like a dark, undulating river. Standing in the town square, their leader watched as his servants went about his bidding. He would kill every human he encountered during his quest to find and serve Failee.
From all around him came the screams and sobs of the innocent, as one by one they were impaled like those killed along the Birmingham shore. Because there were so many more victims here, the process would take far longer. But that didn’t matter, for he had all the time in the world.
The grisly impalements were ingenious, ensuring the immobilization of his captives while leaving his servants free to rummage about in the victims’ innards. Some succumbed straightaway after being impaled; others lingered in agony before dying. The crude impalement poles and their bleeding human adornments already filled the great square, and their numbers had started overtaking the connecting avenues and byways. In many cases the impalements wound far up the cobblestoned streets and out of sight, into the inky blackness of the night.
The master turned to look at the writhing victim impaled directly before him. The man had once been hardy and vigorous. He appeared to be somewhere near fifty Seasons of New Life and he had thick, graying hair. Although he had been one of the first to be impaled, he still lived. Despite how tenaciously he clung to life, his death would soon be at hand.
Like all the Birmingham victims, he had been stripped of his clothing. A sharpened pole had been viciously shoved into his groin, then threaded up through his abdomen to emerge near his collarbone. His hands were raised above him and impaled through his palms; pieces of wood had been fixed to the pole below his hands and feet to prevent him from sliding down the bloodied staff. Blood dripped slowly from his groin and onto the dirty cobblestones. Like all blood, it looked black in the dark of night.
How curious, the serpent master thought. Sometimes the men die so quickly, while the physically weaker women, children, and the elderly often linger for hours. It no doubt had to do with whatever bits were punctured, he reasoned. Clearly, the impaling process was not a precise one. Nor did it need to be.
Hearing another building cave in, he turned to look. Every structure in the city was ablaze. Carrying torches, the grotesque man-serpents had furtively slithered into the dwellings and set them afire, or simply tossed their blazing torches atop the thatched roofs and left them to do their work. Many screaming victims fled the infernos with their clothing and hair afire, and they were allowed to burn to death before being impaled. Some buildings had already tumbled into ruin, while others still spewed orange-red flames from their destroyed doorways and smashed windows.
The crackling of the fires sometimes drowned out the wailing of the victims, and thick, choking smoke curled into the air, blotting out the stars. Many people tried to run, but they were invariably snatched up by the man-serpents’ strong arms or winding tails. Children toddled about aimlessly, wailing and crying out for parents who would never again hold them. Some people emerged to find friends and loved ones already impaled. Many collapsed in grief, sobbing as they hugged their beloveds’ bloody feet before they too were taken up.
The serpent master smiled. Despite ordering the fires to be set, he cared nothing about destroying the city. Rather, the fires were an easy way to force the humans from their dwellings so that they could be caught and spiked. He enjoyed seeing their hovels burn, even though he too had once been human.
He watched as his grotesque servants dragged ever more struggling citizens toward the square. Stacks of freshly hewn impalement poles lay nearby on the blood-slicked cobblestones. There the captives were stripped naked and impaled and their clothing tossed into the raging fires. If they resisted, their livers were harvested quickly by the monsters’ slashing talons and biting teeth, and their dead bodies were impaled anyway.
To better view the grisly scene, the master reached up and lowered the hood of his robe. As he did, the raging fires highlighted his grotesque face. He was called Khristos, and his tale was a twisted one.
Like the heads of the man-serpents that he commanded, his cranium was also hairless, with long, pointed ears. Although his face could not be called entirely human, it was less snakelike than those of his followers. He bore no sharp, twisted horns, and his skin, nose, and lips were human. But his eyes, his tongue, and his teeth told a far different tale.
His large eyes were human in contour, but they held almond-shaped pupils that lay embedded vertically in bright yellow irises. Like those of his followers, his teeth were long, sharp, and yellow, and he possessed the same two pairs of incisors. Also like his servants, his long tongue was bright red and forked, and continually tested the cool night air. The rest of his muscular body was human.
His simple black robe was tattered, and in one hand he held a gleaming silver staff. As he had hundreds of years before, he again commanded the craft with a power and a mastery that easily rivaled any wizard in Eutracian history. And of perhaps even greater significance, there was a secret about Khristos that only a few surviving mystics knew.
Three centuries ago-long before his transformation into the being that commanded the terrible man-serpents-Khristos had been Failee’s secret lover.
Khristos returned his gaze to the impaled man. Somehow the fellow still lived. But whether the man was alive or dead was of no importance, for he would not survive what Khristos was about to do to him. Khristos raised his staff and pointed it at the bleeding man. At once the entire instrument shone, and the death-dealing began in earnest.
An azure beam, so narrow that it could hardly be seen, leapt from the staff and struck the man squarely in the chest. As his skin burned and smoked, he struggled against his impaling pole and cried out in agony. But he soon realized that it was no use, for the more he struggled, the greater the searing pain became.
Khristos used his glowing beam to carve an incision down the man’s body from his throat to his groin. Then he ordered the beam to crack apart the victim’s sternum and separate his rib cage, exposing the man’s working organs. As the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh rose into the air, it took only a few more moments for Khristos to find and free the man’s liver.
By this time the man had died, his chin slumping forward onto his chest. Like wriggling serpents suddenly liberated from a snake charmer’s basket, the man’s glistening intestines slipped free from his gaping body cavity and dangled toward the ground.
His job done, Khristos recalled the azure beam, and his staff reclaimed its gleaming silver color. Using his free hand, he calmly pointed toward the prize he sought and ordered it to float into his grasp. Smiling as blood ran down his hand, Khristos admired the liver in the moonlight. It was a fine specimen, but many more like it would be needed. He turned and handed it to one of the man-serpents standing by his side. Hissing with satisfaction, the monster greedily accepted the bloody prize and devoured it on the spot.
Turning, Khristos walked to the next victim. This one was an elderly woman who was already dead, but neither of those distinctions mattered. Amid the constant screaming and begging of those still being impaled, he once more raised his silver staff. The azure glow again began building within the shining instrument of death.
Just as he was about to incise her body, Khristos heard an unknown voice call out from everywhere, nowhere. Its sudden and unexpected presence startled him.
“Khristos…” it said. Then it was gone.
Turning this way and that, he saw no one except the many terrified victims and his servants who were still hard at work committing the grisly atrocities. With no answer at hand, he again raised his staff. Just as he did, the strange, otherworldly voice visited his mind again.
“Khristos,” the voice repeated.“Stop your work and hear me.”
At first he was overjoyed, hoping that the voice might be that of Failee. But no, he realized sadly, for it had been male. Suddenly gripped by an overpowering yet unexplained need to supplicate himself, he went down on his knees. He placed his staff on the ground beside him and bowed his head. Amid all the gore and mayhem, he waited.
Despite his great prowess in the craft, Khristos did not know what to do. Three centuries ago Failee believed that she might one day have the power to reach out and touch his mind. Now, three centuries later, he somehow understood that he needn’t speak to answer the voice’s mysterious owner.
“I am here,” Khristos thought.“Who are you? What do you wish of me?”
“First, know this,” the voice said.“Your beloved mistress is dead.”
Like a raging river, an intense, overpowering sorrow flowed through Khristos’ being. He wanted to weep and wail, but he steadfastly held his posture of supplication. He dared not move, for a being that could reach out and touch his mind this way must surely be more powerful than he. Summoning up his courage, he decided to ask the question that burned so hotly in his heart.
“How did Failee die?” he asked.“Was she killed in the Sorceresses’ War?”
“No,” the voice answered.“Nor did the Coven win that war. The Directorate of Wizards prevailed.”
“Which of them killed her?” he demanded.“Was it Wigg? Does he live still? Tell me and I will force that Vigors worshipper to rue the day that he was born.”
“It was not Wigg.”
“Who, then?”
“Failee was killed by the reigningJin’Sai. He murdered her less than three years ago. The Jin’Saioualso walks the earth. ”
As Khristos’ sorrow turned to rage, his anger became so great that he could barely respond. His body trembled; he cried aloud; he beat his fists upon the bloody cobblestones. Finally he relented and he returned his attention to the mysterious voice.
“Who are you who knows so much and commands such wonders of the craft?” he asked.
“My name is Gracchus,” the voice answered.“Listen carefully and I will tell you many things. Much has happened since Failee committed you to the river. With the First Mistress gone you must abandon your search for her. In her stead, you must now serve me.”
“Why should I do so?” Khristos asked.“With my beloved dead, I am a free entity.”
“True,” Gracchus answered. “But your new, overriding concern is to kill theJin’Saiand his followers, is it not? Like you, I serve the Vagaries. Unlike you, I command powers that you could only dream of. But even with all your newly born servants you cannot touch the Jin’Sai, for he hides behind the palace walls with his Conclave and his grotesque winged army. If you join forces with me, together we can destroy him. Should you succeed, I will grant to you a reward beyond your wildest dreams. ”
“What reward?” Khristos asked.
“You will have complete rule over Eutracia and Parthalon,” Gracchus answered.“Destroy the Conclave and all this will become yours.”
“But how am I to destroy theJin’Sai,” Khristos asked, “given how well protected he is?”
“He will soon depart the safety of the palace,” Gracchus answered.“But only I know his destination. So tell me-do we have an arrangement?”
Khristos raised his head for a moment and looked out over the atrocity-laden square with nearly unseeing eyes. The events of the last few moments had been stunning, life-altering. He and his servants had been released from the river for but a few hours, yet already had come another great crossroads to navigate. Is following this unseen mystic what Failee would want him to do? he wondered. Could the sacred trust she instilled into him still be honored if he accepted this strange voice from the beyond as his new master? After thinking for a time, he again lowered his head.
“I will serve you,” Khristos finally answered.“Tell me more.”
Amid the fires, the chaos, and the sudden death, for the next full hour Khristos listened intently to Gracchus’ every word. Gracchus told him of the worlds on the other side of the Tolenka Mountains and of the great campaign that Rustannica was mounting against Shashida. He also enlightened Khristos about the outcome of the Sorceresses’ War, of Failee’s banishment to Parthalon, of her failed plan to abduct theJin’Saiou and to turn her into her into her fifth sorceress, and how theJin’Sai had defeated Nicholas, Wulfgar, and Serena. When thePon Q’tar cleric finished, Khristos was unwaveringly committed to his new master.
“I understand, my lord,” Khristos answered.“What are your orders?”
“Leave this place,” Gracchus answered. “Take your army of Blood Vipers and head south to the Caves of the Paragon. There you will await theJin’Saiand his forces. They will surely enter the Caves. That is when you will strike. ”
“Very well,” Khristos replied.“We will do as you say. When will you reach out to touch my mind again?”
“When theJin’Saidraws near, ” Gracchus answered. “Until then, travel only by night, for theJin’Sai’s winged ones are undoubtedly hunting for you. Enter the safety of the Caves unseen and await my word.”
Understanding his new task, Khristos bowed deeper. “It will be as you say,” he replied. With that, he felt Gracchus’ presence leave his mind.
Standing, the newly indentured Viper Lord turned to look at the ravaged city that had once been Tanglewood. Nearly all the buildings lay in ruins as dawn crept over the horizon. Victims sobbed and wailed as they were being impaled. Children still cried; the fires still burned. But he would leave all this work unfinished, for he had been given a far more important and worthy task. If he was successful, he could still avenge Failee’s murder and forever secure his place in history.
For several moments he thought of the magnificent Failee-of her great beauty, of her majesty, of her immense prowess in the craft. Then his mind turned toward theJin’Sai and his intense hatred began to rebuild. Failee had told him that the Tome predicted the coming of theJin’Sai and theJin’Saiou and that they must be dealt with to protect the Vagaries. But in those days even the First Mistress did not know when they might appear. None of that mattered now, he realized. The sun would rise soon, and it was time to be on the move.
Summoning his many Blood Vipers, Khristos issued his new orders.
CHAPTER XV
AS TRISTAN TOOK HIS SEAT AT THE ROUND MAHOGANYtable in the Conclave meeting room, he was eager to hear what his mystics
had to say, yet he was also fearful that their pronouncements might cause him even greater worry. For the last three days nearly all he could think about was the conundrum of how to cross the Azure Sea and reach Shashida, as well as finding and crushing the mysterious man-serpents that had so ruthlessly tortured and killed every man, woman, and child who had once lived in the coastal village of Birmingham. There had been no word from the Minion search parties that hunted the monsters, and that only heightened his restlessness. Each of these new challenges was of immense importance, and the dark consequences of their simultaneous arrival were not lost on him.
As Shailiha and the mystics waited in silence, the remaining Conclave members took their seats. Sister Adrian would be the only member not in attendance, for she was still piloting the Black Ships home. Once the nine members were situated, Tristan looked around the table. The people gathered here formed an impressive group, and he could think of no better allies to have by his side during the dark and challenging days that lay ahead.
To his immediate left sat Tyranny. Tristan was surprised to see her smoking one of her cigarillos-a Conclave meeting first. The bluish haze already starting to fog the chamber was garnering the privateer more than a few disparaging looks. But the set of her jaw told everyone that she would not appreciate being asked to forgo her habit. Failing to save the Birmingham impalement victims still deeply angered her, and whenever she was agitated, a lit cigarillo could be found clamped between her lips. In truth, Tristan had never minded her habit. But he smiled wryly as he wondered how long it would take Wigg to make a fuss about it.
To Tyranny’s left sat the First Wizard. His craggy face looked worried and drawn, perhaps due in part to lack of sleep, Tristan guessed. There was also a hint of sadness there, as if he had been reminded of some deep personal pain. Secured to its familiar gold chain, the Paragon hung around the wizard’s neck. The herbmistress Abbey sat on Wigg’s other side. A pot of steaming tea, nine cups, and a platter piled with sugared scones sat before her.
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