The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Just as Tristan had taught her, she wasted no time gloating over her victory and instead spun on her heels like a dancer, searching for the other slaver. But she was not as experienced as her brother, and she was too slow.

  Had her sword not already been raised she would have died there and then, as the second slaver’s blade came singing down at her. The two swords clashed together, sparks flying from their razor-sharp edges, and the princess immediately knew she had lost the upper hand. Turning, she backed up on the balls of her feet as quickly as she could to afford herself some maneuvering room. But her opponent was just as fast.

  The tall, white-skinned monster slashed relentlessly, raining down blow after blow, forcing her to keep backing up. She nearly panicked when she felt the heat of the fire licking at her back and realized she had nowhere left to go. As the monster’s blade came whistling through the air yet another time, she knew she had only one option left.

  Raising her sword with both hands, she purposely fell to one side before the roaring fire. The monster’s blade flashed over her head, its edge coming so close that she felt it tearing through the ends of her long blond hair. Just as her right hip touched the ground she brought her blade around with all her strength, slicing through the slaver’s calves. Screaming wildly, he fell to the ground next to her.

  Coming quickly to one knee, Shailiha raised her sword high and rammed its point straight down between the slaver’s eyes and out the back of his head, impaling his skull. She stood, put one boot against his face, and pulled back hard on her sword, freeing it. Blood dripping from her hands and blade, she quickly looked around.

  Dead slavers and gnomes lay everywhere. Celeste’s bolts had ceased, and an eerie quiet descended over the glade, punctuated only by the snapping of the fires and the somewhat more subdued crying of the surviving gnomes.

  Turning frantically to search for Celeste, the princess found her alone at the edge of the glade, her right hand still outstretched. The tips of her fingers were badly scorched.

  Before her knelt three demonslavers—apparently the last of those remaining alive. Disarmed, their weapons in a pile a short distance away, they glared up defiantly with a hatred that made Shailiha’s blood run cold.

  Shailiha walked to Celeste and gratefully placed a hand upon one of her shoulders. “Are you all right?” she asked. Without taking her eyes off the slavers, Celeste nodded. “If any of them make the slightest move, kill them all,” Shailiha said sternly.

  One corner of Celeste’s mouth turned up. “Love to,” she answered, her eyes never wavering.

  Shailiha walked back to the site of the battle. Some of the survivors had begun to gather up their dead and wounded, while others remained bent over the victims’ small, broken bodies and sobbed. It seemed to Shailiha that the wailing might never stop. Another group of survivors had formed bucket brigades, and they were furiously working on the fire. She was heartened to see that some of the homes might be spared, after all.

  Seeing her coming, some of the stunned gnomes stepped tentatively forward. A few of them fell at her feet, kissing her bloody boots. Some others wrapped their arms around her legs, weeping openly. As the gnomes gathered around her, Shailiha lowered her head.

  Looking at what was once Tree Town, she saw that the houses that had been set alight were all but gone, the charred ash of their remains cradled strangely in tree branches that stretched forth like dark, skeletal fingers. But about a third of the houses seemed to have been spared, including Faegan’s mansion. About a dozen of the canvas bags that the slavers had been burning remained untouched. She turned back to the gnomes.

  “I am Shailiha, princess of Eutracia,” she said loudly. “Some of you might recognize me from the last time I was here. Tell me, does Lionel the Little still live?”

  At first no one spoke, no one moved, and Shailiha’s heart fell. Then the crowd parted slightly to allow an old gnome to pass through. His head was bald and shiny, with a single island of gray, wispy hair growing in the center of where his hairline used to be. Sharp, highly intelligent-looking eyes stared back at her. He was dressed in dark, torn trousers, a matching shirt and vest, and upturned shoes. He came to stand before the princess and bowed his head briefly.

  “I am Lionel,” he said. “On behalf of all of us, I would like to thank you for what you have done, I would,” he said oddly. The gnomes standing around him buzzed with agreement.

  With a bloody hand, Shailiha reached beneath her jerkin and retrieved both the letter Faegan had written, and the list Abbey had provided. She gave him the letter first.

  Seeing Faegan’s familiar red wax seal on the back of the envelope, Lionel took it from her eagerly. Reaching into his vest, he produced a pair of cracked spectacles. Pinching them as best he could into place near the end of his nose, he broke the seal on the envelope and opened the letter. As he read, Shailiha gave another quick, anxious glance back at Celeste and the captive slavers. Nothing had changed.

  “I understand, yes I do,” Lionel finally said, refolding the letter. For some reason he looked even more crestfallen than before, and Shailiha was reasonably sure she knew why. “And your list?” he asked quietly. The princess handed it to him.

  “This will be nearly impossible, you know,” he said apologetically as he scanned the list. “In the end, there may be little I can do, yes, very little.”

  “I understand, but it is imperative that we try,” Shailiha answered. She turned to look at the slavers, then faced Lionel again. “Please take your survivors away from here,” she half asked, half ordered him. “You may come back later for your dead. We will join you at Faegan’s mansion. But first there is something I must do, and your people have already seen enough.”

  Understanding, Lionel carefully folded the list and tucked it into a vest pocket. “I will await you both, I will,” he said simply. “In the meantime, I will do what I can.”

  After an indication from the diminutive caretaker, a few of the male gnomes picked up the remaining canvas bags. Then as a whole the crowd began to trudge tiredly out of the glade.

  Still holding her bloody sword, Shailiha walked back to the three slavers. Celeste’s arm was still raised, poised to let go another bolt. The demonslavers continued to glare at them with their strange, white eyes.

  Without speaking, Shailiha came to stand before the first of them. Bending down, she wiped her sword in the grass, cleaning its blade of demonslaver blood, and slid it back into its scabbard. Then she drew her dagger from the sheath on her right thigh.

  After blatantly running his white eyes up and down her body, the demonslaver leered up at her. Smiling, he ran his black tongue up and over his lips. “You’re pretty, bitch.”

  Shailiha’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t.”

  With a quick, unforgiving stroke, she slashed the dagger across the slaver’s throat. Blood rushed out, cascading down his chest. At first his eyes registered surprise, then glazed over. Raising her right boot, Shailiha kicked him beneath the chin, launching him over onto his back.

  She stood there for a moment, listening to the desperate gurgling sounds as the life force poured out of him.

  She walked before the second of them. Placing the dagger hard against one of the thing’s lower eyelids, she gave it just enough of a nudge that a single drop of blood ran slowly down the dagger’s blood groove and onto the handle.

  With her free hand, she pointed to the slaver she had just killed. “That was an object lesson,” she said quietly. “I want some answers, and I want them now. Krassus sent you here to eradicate Faegan’s stores of herbs, didn’t he? That’s what was in those canvas bags you were burning. Tell me, how much of it did you destroy?”

  The second slaver just looked up at her. Then he spat all the saliva he could muster into her face.

  With a single thrust, Shailiha drove the point of the dagger upward, cleaving the monster’s eyeball. Blood and vitreous fluid poured out of the ruptured orb as the point of the knife continued on, slicing into his b
rain. As she pulled it back out, his face contorted into a mask of pain, and he fell facedown at her feet.

  She stood there quietly for a moment watching his tortured death throes and listening to the last bit of breath rattle from his lungs. Calmly, slowly, she stepped before the third of them.

  “Hopefully you are bright enough to have learned by example,” she said, pressing the bloody point of her dagger up against the base of his right eye. “I’ll keep this simple,” she snarled. “Where is my brother—the man you took away that night in the alley fight in Farpoint?”

  The slaver smiled up at her. “He is off to the place that is the most horrible on earth,” he said softly. “Some even say it is the birthplace of the craft. It is a place from which your brother will never return. And even if he did, you would find him quite unrecognizable, Your Highness.” He paused for a moment and smiled again, showing pointed, black teeth.

  “So kill me if you must,” he hissed, “for I will tell you no more. No death by your hand could ever match the horrors that would be visited on me by Krassus should I talk.”

  Her mind made up, Shailiha took a step backward. Resheathing her dagger, she drew her sword and grasped it with both hands. Then she walked around behind the slaver and raised the sword high.

  Swinging it down and around with everything she had, she beheaded the thing with a single stroke.

  Celeste dropped her tired arm, and they looked at each other. Shailiha held her sword limply, its point hanging toward the ground. Thunder rumbled softly across the sky. Then the wind picked up, blowing the debris of the battle around in little maelstroms.

  Shailiha cast her tired eyes upward. The clouds had become darker, and the rain suddenly began. As the water collected on the ground, it swept up the fresh blood of both the tortured and the tormentors into little red rivers flowing through the grass.

  Shailiha sheathed her sword, and then she and Celeste walked into the charred remains of Tree Town.

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  You’re worried, aren’t you?” Abbey asked.

  Wigg took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had, of course, known that Celeste and Shailiha had been trying to maneuver him into letting them go to Shadowood. He knew, too, that his eventual agreement to their request had perhaps not been altogether prudent. But he also understood their frustration at being virtual prisoners here in the palace while Tristan remained missing. And so, knowing how much each of them cared about the prince, he had finally relented.

  Wigg sighed. On the surface of it, letting the two strong-willed women go alone had at first seemed safe enough, especially given the emergence of Celeste’s Forestallment. In his more than three hundred years of experience in the craft, he had never seen bolts so dynamic as those his daughter could now command. While it was true that she needed more training, the degree of power she already possessed was unmistakable. But now that they were gone, he was having misgivings about his decision.

  He scowled. If Celeste and Shailiha did not exit Faegan’s portal tomorrow by the end of the appointed hour, he would enter the enchanted passageway himself and bring them back by their ears, if he had to. Would that retrieving Tristan could be as simple.

  Four Seasons of New Life before, Wigg had himself chosen Krassus for the position of first alternate—a fact that added heavily to the lead wizard’s increasing sense of guilt. At the time, Krassus had been everything the wizards could have asked for. He was very powerful and learned for a consul, and seemed humbly, steadfastly devoted to the exclusive practice of the Vigors. Famous among the Brotherhood for the number of good deeds he had performed, he was well known for his compassion and patience—so much so that Wigg had nominated him to the post without the slightest reservation.

  The Directorate had heartily agreed, installing him into the lofty position by unanimous vote. Even when Nicholas had begun abducting the consuls to help him construct the Gates of Dawn, Wigg had hoped that Krassus might be among those who had eluded his grasp.

  But all that had changed that day in the gaming room when Krassus appeared with his evil demands.

  The Krassus that Wigg had observed that day had been far more than simply evil. He had also been angry, impatient, and quick to employ force without thinking—much the same way the sorceresses of the Coven had been. Not only had he become far more powerful than ever before, but he clearly now had a wild, unpredictable side, making him the worst possible kind of enemy. And his new illness—the sudden, violent coughing up of endowed blood—remained a mystery.

  The memory of the unmistakable glint of depravity in those eyes made Wigg more fearful for Tristan’s welfare with each passing moment. They simply had to have the goods from Shadowood as quickly as possible if there was ever to be any hope of finding the prince and bringing him home alive.

  “A kisa for your thoughts,” Abbey said, breaking into his reveries.

  Turning over in Wigg’s huge, four-poster bed, she raised herself up on one elbow and smiled. Lifting his left hand, he gently ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek.

  “You surprised me this night,” he said softly. “Although I cannot say I am disappointed.”

  “Three hundred years is a long time, Lead Wizard,” she teased, “in spite of the time enchantments.” Moving her face closer to his, she smiled again. “A girl shouldn’t have to wait forever, you know, simply because forever has been made available to her.”

  Wigg smiled back at her.

  It was well after midnight, and from the open doors of his balcony came the gentle peeping of the tree frogs and the sound of the breeze as it rustled through the palace’s once well-tended gardens. The night sky was clear, and the stars twinkled brightly, as if winking to the lovers that the heavens knew of their secret, and approved. Occasionally the form of a silent, patrolling warrior could be seen eerily silhouetted in black, flying across the triplet spheres of the rose-colored moons.

  In his worry over Tristan, Shailiha, and Celeste, Wigg had been unable to sleep. It had already been late when the door to his chambers had unexpectedly opened, then quietly closed again. He had sat up in bed and raised his arm, ready to defend himself. Then he’d seen Abbey’s form move silently across the doorframe of the open, moonlit balcony.

  He had tried to speak, but she’d moved to the bed and placed a finger delicately across his lips. She’d dropped her robe to the floor and stood for a moment, her body shining in the rose-colored light. Then she lowered herself into his bed. Wigg had taken her into his arms, and their three hundred years of separation had finally, truly come to an end.

  Turning, Wigg looked into her eyes. “I am most worried about the prince,” he said. The herbmistress felt warm next to him, and she smelled pleasantly of the many fragrances of her art. The long-missed sensations were both familiar and good. “Tell me truly,” he asked. “If you have the right supplies, will you be able to find him?”

  Narrowing her eyes with thought, she shook her head and sighed. “It would be far better if I had something truly of his body, like a lock of his hair or a clipping of toenail,” she answered. “But he and the princess are twins, so her hair may be sufficient. Or perhaps a drop of her blood. But remember, even if the flame allows us to see him, unless you or the others can identify some landmark or city, we still will not know where he is. I will do all I can, of course, but it may not be enough.”

  “And this ancient scroll Krassus spoke of—what of that?”

  “Viewing that will be much more difficult. Even impossible, I dare-say. I would need something of the scroll itself, and we do not have such a sample. Attempting to view that document will be like trying to find a needle in a sneezeweed stack, while wearing both a blindfold and pair of mittens.”

  “And Wulfgar?”

  “Hopefully, the lock of his hair will work. I will only know for sure once I try. I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but that’s how things are, nonetheless.” Silence reigned for a moment as they each retreated into their
private thoughts.

  “They love each other, don’t they?” Abbey asked unexpectedly.

  “Who?” he asked back.

  “Tristan and Celeste,” she replied. She smiled again. After having known the lead wizard for so long, she could easily tell when he was being purposely obtuse, and she wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

  “Only a fool could miss the attraction they have for each other,” she went on. “Although I am not sure even they realize how strong it is. Oddly, it is sometimes the lovers themselves who are the last to know, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Wigg remained silent for a moment; then one corner of his mouth turned up.

  “Yes,” he answered softly. “You’re right. About a great many things.”

  “But still they do not act upon it,” she said. “Why is that? Do they think it might displease you?”

  “It wouldn’t,” Wigg answered. “In fact, I would welcome it. To see Tristan, the male of the Chosen Ones whom I have loved with all my heart, and Celeste, the daughter I have only just discovered, finally unite would truly be one of the most joyous days of my life. But part of the reason Tristan does not act on his love for her, I think, is because he fears it might change his relationship with me. And it no doubt would, but not in the ways he probably imagines. The greater worry in this is Celeste, and she troubles me deeply. Tristan understands this other concern, as well. I can see it in his eyes. And I suspect it is yet another reason why he hasn’t tried to more deeply enter the recesses of her heart. In short, he is being a gentleman.”

  Lowering herself down, Abbey laid one side of her face on Wigg’s chest. “I don’t understand.”

  “Tristan is waiting for her psyche to heal,” Wigg answered sadly. “And that may never happen. Celeste never speaks of the abuse she suffered at the hands of Ragnar. It is as if she believes that by denying it, she can erase that part of her past. But until she voluntarily admits those horrors to herself, embraces them as an indelible part of her past, and then finally lets them go, she will never stop hiding behind the shield of denial that she carries. The same shield, I suspect, that bars Tristan from coming closer. I saw all too much of this during the aftermath of the Sorceresses’ War, three hundred years ago. I never believed I would ever have children, but I felt sure that if I did, as lead wizard I would be able to protect them. How wrong I was!” Wigg paused for a moment, thinking. “I have two other, equally deep regrets, you know,” he said softly.