The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  The thing she and Marcus had stolen was glowing again. Dozens of pinprick-sized rays of azure light streaked up through the soft dirt where it was buried, hauntingly illuminating the underside of the cot and the walls and roof of the shed with their shimmering, ethereal glow.

  Ever since she and her brother had found the object in the midst of the rubble, she had begged him to leave it behind. Having it always with them made her so nervous. But Marcus had remained adamant about keeping it, telling her that he thought it had to do with magic. It might be valuable, he’d said. And so they had kept it, and secretly brought it to the only place they knew where such a thing might be coveted.

  She just wanted the rays of light to stop. She began clawing at the earth, trying to gather up more dirt in the hope of covering up the frightening, invasive light. But the more she tried, the more the glow just kept coming, seeping up through the ground like a silent, neverending ghost. Frustrated and frightened, she began banging her fists on the ground as the tears ran down her cheeks. Finally she gave up and fell to the dirt beside the cot.

  It was just then that she heard the rusty hinges on the door creak, and she turned around. Sitting up and wiping her dirty, tear-streaked face with one hand, Rebecca looked up hopefully.

  Marcus stood there with a bag in his hand. He looked like he had just been through a war. He appeared distraught and tired, and parts of his clothes were splattered with what looked like dried blood. Closing the door quietly, he walked into the room and placed the bag on the table.

  Getting up on her good foot, she limped to him and held him tightly. They stood like that for some time, saying nothing. The azure rays of light mixed oddly with the yellow flickering of the solitary table lamp.

  Finally he let her go and looked meaningfully over to the cot. “How long has it been this time?” he asked tiredly.

  “Not long,” she answered. “It started just before you came in. I was terribly afraid . . . I’m so glad you’re back.”

  Studying him more closely, she saw that his hands were bloody. “What happened?” she asked nervously. “Are you hurt?”

  “I had some trouble, but I’m all right,” he answered as casually as he could manage.

  He took a moment to look at her. At seven Seasons of New Life, ’Becca was tall for her age, with a bright smile, long dark hair, and deep brown eyes. But she had been born with a clubfoot—something that she had always managed to shoulder with grace and dignity, despite her awkward, halting gait. She had a lot of strength, and he loved her for it.

  It had always been her dream that their parents might one day save enough kisa to make the pilgrimage to Tammerland and seek help for her at the royal palace. Once there they would gladly have waited for as long as it might take to gain an audience with the king and his wizards in the royal chamber of supplication. Then, if she was lucky, the king might order one of his wizards—perhaps even the lead wizard himself—to heal her. But the money for the trip had never come. Now the king was dead, and it was widely rumored that all the wizards of the Directorate had been slain, along with the entire Royal Guard.

  As Marcus looked down at ’Becca’s tattered plaid dress, grimy face, and clubfoot, his heart ached. Their parents were dead; all they had was each other. He did not enjoy stealing, but they had no money, and the way to Tammerland had been hard. That was why he was so determined to hold on to the amazing thing they had found. If there was any place in Eutracia where it might have value, he reasoned, it would be where the wizards had once lived, and where the craft was said to flourish. Even if he found no buyers for the object itself, he could at least sell off the gold.

  They had actually found two of the things, but had been forced to leave one behind. ’Becca had not been strong enough to carry off the other by herself, and he had not possessed the stamina to handle both at the same time. They had returned later to try to take the twin, but by then it was already gone.

  At first he had stolen it just for the gold. But when it had started glowing, he had immediately become convinced of its potentially greater value. As for what purpose of the craft it supposedly served, he had absolutely no idea. But if he could find someone who would pay enough for it, he might be able to secure a healer to help with ’Becca’s foot. And perhaps even have enough left over to help them start a new life here, in the capital.

  But they were strangers in Tammerland, and in the absence of the royal guard, the city had become a very dangerous place. That lesson had been abundantly proven today, when he had wandered into the wrong part of town. Being no fool, he understood all too well that he needed to be supremely careful, for what they had buried beneath the cot could just as easily get them killed as set them free.

  “Is there food in the bag?” Rebecca suddenly asked, taking him away from his thoughts.

  “Yes,” he answered. “This time I was able to get enough to last us for two days. Chicken stolen from a store, and bread taken from a windowsill.”

  “Can we eat now?” she asked eagerly. “I’m so hungry, Marcus!”

  He smiled. “You go ahead. I have something to do first. Just be sure you leave me some! I know what a piglet you can be!” Then his eyes turned again to the blue light beneath the cot.

  Rebecca’s face fell. He was going to dig it up again. He did so every time it glowed, to make sure nothing had happened to it. And every time he did—which seemed to be happening more and more frequently—it made her nervous. But her hunger was greater than her anxiety, and the lure of the bag on the table was too great, so she turned her back on her brother and went to eat.

  Marcus knelt and peered under the cot at the narrow rays of light shooting up and out of the loose dirt. This was the seventh time it had glowed since he had stolen it, and each time its illumination had increased in strength. That was a large part of why he had decided to bury it, but clearly that was no longer working.

  Even before uncovering it, he could tell that this time would be the brightest yet. Narrowing his eyes against the azure light, he began slowly moving the dirt aside. Soon their treasure was exposed, filling the room with its brilliance.

  He did not touch it, but instead examined the scroll as it lay there. About a meter long and half a meter wide, it was secured in the middle with a gold band. The rod running through it was gold as well, as were each of the fluted end knobs. The writing on the parchment was in a beautiful script that looked utterly unfamiliar to him, which added to the mystery. The scroll appeared to be unharmed. He sat back on his heels, thinking.

  One thing was certain. He needed to find a buyer soon, for the glow was becoming too difficult to hide. He had no money to purchase any kind of container for it, and he’d buried it as deep as possible before hitting bedrock beneath the shack. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he turned it into kisa, the better.

  Quickly, he covered the scroll back up. As he did the glow began to extinguish itself of its own accord, just as it always did. He did not know why the glow came and went, but was glad to see it die for the time being. When it was completely covered, he stood and walked to the table.

  Her mouth and fingers covered with chicken grease, ’Becca beamed up at him and handed him a piece of bread.

  Standing on the mizzen deck of the Sojourner, behind Grizelda, Krassus was greatly encouraged by what he was seeing. It was a clear, starry night; and the three moons were out, bathing the ship and the sea in their familiar, rose-colored light. Though there was little wind, the Sojourner continued to make good time as she plowed her way east through the restless waves. The lights of the other two ships running alongside them twinkled in the night. Thinking of the Chosen One pulling on an oar, Krassus smiled.

  Grizelda selected some herbs from her bag and tossed them into the gazing flame. Hissing, the fire shot higher, and the viewing window in its center grew just a bit clearer. In his desperation to find the other scroll, Krassus had been forcing her to perform the ritual often, and by now both Grizelda’s stores of herbs and her own energy we
re running very low. But finally this time she had been more successful.

  The view was cloudy, but for the first time she actually had something to look at. Holding up a small piece of vellum taken from the Scroll of the Vagaries, she tried to make the scene unfolding before her clearer.

  The Scroll of the Vigors came into view. It was glowing with azure light, and a pair of hands were starting to cover it over with dirt. Then the hands pulled away, and all that remained in the viewing window was a dirt floor that could have been anywhere. She dropped her arms to her sides, and the flame lowered accordingly.

  “We have done it, my lord,” she said with a smile. The sea wind snatched at her long, gray hair, and she hooked a portion of it behind one ear.

  “I now know why we have had such trouble trying to view the scroll,” she went on. “Whoever took it is hiding it, burying it in the dirt. Only when it is exposed may we view it—which may not be often. Whoever is in possession of the scroll knows nothing of the craft—of that much I am certain. If it were with the wizards of the Redoubt, they would be busy trying to decipher its secrets, rather than burying it.”

  For a moment she looked perturbed, but then she smiled again. “When the herbs and oils you promised me arrive at the Citadel, I will be able to do much better—even from that far away.”

  Krassus looked down at her. “You may retire now,” he said simply. With a short bow, Grizelda picked up her bag and started for her cabin.

  Turning, the wizard in the gray-and-blue robe walked to the gunwale and leaned his forearms on it as he looked out to the ever-shifting sea. The wind had picked up a bit more, and the waves were frothy and whitecapped.

  Soon, he assured himself. Soon he would have the Scroll of the Vigors, and there would be nothing the wizards in the Redoubt could do to stop him. And once he had Wulfgar, the world would see wonders of the craft that had not been witnessed for eons.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-one

  Get up! Now, you Talis pigs! Time to get back to work!”

  The chorus of harsh voices, shouting the same thing over and over again, rang in his ears. He just wanted them to be quiet, so he could go back to sleep. Didn’t they know they were being rude, shouting like that? He would have to remember to speak to the lead wizard about it, after he got up and had his breakfast. Determined to sleep, he started to turn over on his side, but something tugged at him, preventing him from doing so.

  Suddenly the searing pain in his back returned, bringing him fully awake. His nostrils were immediately assaulted by the stench of his surroundings.

  He opened his eyes to darkness. Then faint light began to push away the shadows, and he saw that demonslavers were moving about, hanging flaming oil lanterns on the columns supporting the deck above. Other demonslavers were starting to unchain their captives from the floor. As the light in the hold increased, Tristan’s situation slowly came into focus.

  He didn’t remember being brought here, or being chained. All he could recall was passing out, just after one of the slavers had poured saltwater on his wounds.

  He looked down the length of his body. His hands and feet were still bound together by the same shackles he had worn while rowing. Additional chains lay across his chest and lower legs, securing him to the deck. Raising his head as best he could, he saw row after row of his fellow slaves, all male, also chained down like animals. It seemed their numbers took up every inch of the filthy deck. As they were unchained one by one, they stood awkwardly, blinking their eyes against the light.

  The pain in his back was excruciating. His vest had been put back on him, its laces retied in the front. His wounds must have begun to scab over, because they now itched, as well as hurt.

  One of the slavers sauntered over to him and looked down with lifeless, opaque eyes. Without warning the monster kicked Tristan in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Pain burned in his side. Then the slaver raised his trident high over Tristan’s face. Wondering if he was about to die, Tristan made a last promise to himself not to flinch. He kept it, even as the trident came down at him with unbelievable speed.

  The three silver points of the trident buried themselves loudly into the deck, just inches from Tristan’s head. Then the slaver let out a laugh.

  “If you give us any more trouble, I have permission from Krassus to add to the artwork on your back,” he sneered. “And I beg you to try, dear prince. For I would love another such excuse.”

  Tristan looked defiantly up into the white eyes. As he did, he noticed the ring of keys hanging from the slaver’s side. Then he remembered: This was the same one who had whipped him; he was sure of it.

  The monster unchained him from the floor. Still shackled hand and foot, Tristan was pulled roughly to his feet and shoved into the line of slaves waiting their turn to climb the stairway to the deck above.

  After being chained to his seat, Tristan looked out his oar slit and decided it was early morning. He then turned to watch as the rest of the slaves were chained down. The slaver who had beaten him was using one of his keys to close the massive padlock that secured the single chain running through all of the slaves’ shackles. The key that fit it was the largest of them, and lay in the center of the ring normally hooked on his belt. Tristan filed this information away in his head, even though he realized that, given the tight security of the slavers’ system, such knowledge would be unlikely to help him.

  One by one, the exhausted, weak-kneed men they were replacing were herded to the trapdoor between the rows and forced down the stairway. Several slavers followed them down, to chain them to the floor in the same filthy spots the fresh rowers had just vacated. Then the pacemaster started pounding out the mind-numbing beat, and Tristan and the others began to pull on their oars.

  Despite the searing pain, he rowed as best he could. He had no other choice: He wasn’t sure he could survive another savage beating from the slaver. As he rowed he felt his wounds rip open, the pain cutting through his back like hot knives.

  He looked up to see the slaver who had beaten him staring coldly at him, as if waiting for him to make another mistake. Pulling determinedly at his oar, Tristan drew comfort from the thought of the brain hook hidden in his right boot.

  As all of the unfortunates pulled on their oars, the Wayfarer began to plow faster through the Sea of Whispers.

  The demonslaver manning the crow’s nest aboard the Sojourner twisted the third cylinder of his spyglass as he tried to confirm what he had seen with his naked eyes. He had no wish to suffer the consequences of making a false report to Krassus. Peering across the sea, he scoured the horizon.

  There they were: Three frigates, sailing as a group and making a direct line from the north. They were running quickly before the wind, while Sojourner and her two sister ships were wearing out their rowers to stay on their easterly heading.

  He ran his glass over them carefully. They were not part of Krassus’ fleet, judging by the way their spars and masts had been lengthened to carry more sail. They were a fast lot—of that there was no doubt. Faster than the Sojourner could be even if she weren’t loaded down with slaves. And at their present course they would soon be upon the three slower, heavier slavers. But who were they, and what did they want?

  Searching for an identifying flag, he turned his glass to the lead frigate’s rigging. Finally he found what he was looking for. It was high atop the mainmast, fluttering back and forth proudly. Turning the cylinder on the spyglass again, he brought it into focus.

  At first he thought he must be seeing things. Taking his eye from the glass for a moment, the slaver stared across the ocean and drew a quick breath. He put the device back to his eye. So it was true, after all. The blue-and-gold banner carried both the lion and the broadsword, and every man, woman, and child in Eutracia knew what it represented.

  It was the royal battle flag of the House of Galland.

  He rang the alarm bell. Almost before it had finished pealing, another slaver had climbed up the rigging to a spot just
below him. Pointing out to sea with one arm, the spotter relayed the message. The other slaver climbed back down and ran to find Krassus.

  He found him standing on the stern deck by the ship’s wheel, looking over some charts. His herbmistress was there with him. The slaver came to attention.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said urgently. “But the crow’s nest has spied three ships, frigate class, on a direct course to intercept us from the north. Their speed is great. They run the blue-and-gold battle flag of the House of Galland.”

  Krassus froze. Snatching up his spyglass from the table before him, he turned to look north. There he saw the three ships plowing directly toward them, running before the wind with unusually large sails. He moved the lens up to the enemy ship’s rigging and saw the blue-and-gold flag. His mind racing, he slowly lowered the spyglass. They were clearly after him, but who could they be? The wizards of the Redoubt, perhaps? But the Redoubt had no standing navy. Still, who else but the wizards would have the gall to run the royal battle flag?

  Then it hit him. These could be vessels of the Minion fleet, under the assumed command of the wizards. But those vessels were rumored anchored off the coast of Parthalon, at a port far to the north of his present position. How could Wigg and Faegan have gotten word to them, supplied the ships, and had them catch up to his present position in so short a time? The logistics simply didn’t work. And if it was indeed the Minions, then why were there only three ships?

  Still, there they were. And he knew he had to take action quickly, or all might be lost.

  Lost in thought, he stared out over the sea. He would have preferred to stand and fight, throwing bolts at the three enemy ships and blowing them out of the water. But he could do that only by letting them come much closer, and thereby losing his precious lead. And if Wigg and Faegan were aboard them, they could presumably throw twice the number of bolts at him as he could at them. Then there was the problem of whether the Minions were aboard the enemy ships. If so, they could board him at any moment simply by flying to him.