No, the distance between the Sojourner and the enemy frigates had to be maintained. The only way to do that was to sacrifice the other two slavers sailing with him, to buy him time. True, one of them could be carrying Wulfgar. But they were transporting countless slaves in many sea crossings; the odds of Wulfgar currently being aboard either of his two sister ships was not great. He would just have to risk it. Besides, for all he knew Wulfgar might well be in custody already. And he could allow nothing to stand in the way of getting the scroll to the Citadel. He turned to the waiting demonslaver.
“Hear me well, for our lives depend on the next few moments,” he ordered. “Call for my first mate. And tell him to bring my lantern. He’ll know the one. Have every Talis slave, except those currently manning the galley and one equal-sized number to relieve them, brought topside. They are to be immediately killed and thrown overboard to lighten our load. The R’talis captives are not to be touched. And order the slaves to stop rowing—they’ll only slow us down. Go now! And be quick about it!”
Immediately, the slaver was gone. Soon the first mate appeared holding a lantern.
“You are familiar with the situation?” Krassus asked abruptly. The slaver nodded.
“Good,” Krassus said. Taking the lamp, he closed his eyes. The lamp began to glow with the blue of the craft. He handed it back to his first mate.
“Take this to the stern gunwale and signal our situation to the Wayfarer and the Stalwart. They are to come about and intercept the three frigates while we sail on. They are to stop the enemy at all costs, and kill everyone aboard. Do you understand?”
The first mate nodded.
“Very well,” Krassus said. “Go now.”
Looking astern, Krassus saw the Wayfarer and the Stalwart following in their wake, saw the alternating beams of azure light shooting toward them from the lantern, giving them their orders. He turned to Grizelda.
“Now we shall see what we shall see,” he said quietly.
The herbmistress’ face showed concern. “Surely my lord has not forgotten that the Chosen One is still aboard the Wayfarer,” she said questioningly. “He could be killed.”
Before answering, Krassus turned to see the additional sails being raised, and the first of the Talis slaves coming topside, blinking their eyes in the sunlight. A gang of slavers stood waiting, swords drawn. As the slaves appeared up the stairway one by one, the slavers stepped up behind them quietly, cut their throats, then tossed the bodies over the gunwales and into the sea.
Sharks swarmed, snaking through the increasingly bloody water. Krassus turned his dark eyes back to the three enemy frigates, ignoring the screams of the dying slaves as if they weren’t there.
“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” he said quietly. “If he dies, he dies. In the end it doesn’t really matter. As I have already told you, for what I have planned, his blood signature is of no use to me. But if he should be rescued, I have arranged a little surprise for him and his wizards—one that could be very much to our advantage. So you see, there is no need to worry about him.”
He watched intently as the Wayfarer and the Stalwart began to alter course, heeling hard to port, to take on the three advancing frigates. Hundreds of demonslavers could be seen on their decks, swords waving in the air.
As the Sojourner’s extra sails snapped open she began to pick up speed, distancing herself from the impending calamity.
Tristan pulled hard on his oar while trying both to keep one eye on the commotion coming from the deck above, and to ignore the searing pain in his back. They had been rowing at battle speed for the last quarter of an hour, ever since the Wayfarer had made a sharp, unexplained course change. Looking out his oar slit, he was sure they were now headed north. As the pacemaster continued to pound out the impossible beat, slaves began groaning and collapsing at their stations, and the lone guard—all the other slavers had been ordered topside—was using his nine-tails with abandon, trying to force them back to work.
For the first time, Tristan noticed a hint of concern in the faces of the two remaining slavers. Then the Wayfarer lurched to port, leaning over hard. As she did, one of the oarsmen on the other side of the ship suddenly dropped his oar, pointed out the slit in the hull, and began babbling wildly.
“Ships!” he screamed, his eyes alight with hope. “Three Eutracian ships! And they fly the war banner of the monarchy!”
Picking up his trident, the demonslaver mercilessly stabbed the man through the abdomen. Then he pulled the prongs out viciously, twisting them to maximize the damage. The man was dead before he hit the deck.
But he hadn’t died in vain.
Almost every slave in the galley let go of his oar and craned his neck to look outside. Shouting and pandemonium reigned as the slaver tried in vain to whip them back into submission. Tristan could see nothing on his side of the ship but empty sea. Nonetheless, he was stunned by the slave’s words. There was only one answer.
They had finally come for him.
Part of the Minion fleet had arrived, and Wigg and Faegan might even be aboard. His heart sang with the promise of escape. And of killing Krassus and his herbmistress, and taking as many of his horrific captors to their graves as he could. They might even be able to recover the Scroll of the Vagaries. There were debts to repay, and he meant to have his revenge.
While the slaver who had beaten him was preoccupied with trying to whip the excited oarsmen back into submission, Tristan reached into his right boot and slid out the brain hook. Cupping it in his hand, he laid the blade up along the underside of his forearm, then placed his arm down by his side. The blade felt sharp and comforting against his skin.
He knew this would have to be a very closely run thing, for his chains did not allow much freedom of movement. He would only get one chance, and it had to be right.
Hungrily he eyed the ring of keys hanging from the slaver’s belt. The large one in the center was still there. Amid the screaming and confusion, Tristan willed the slaver to come to him.
Almost as if he had heard Tristan’s silent pleading, the slaver turned, glared at the prince hatefully, and began walking to the front of the ship. Summoning up all the saliva he could muster, Tristan spat toward him and then smiled.
The slaver took another step. Then another. Finally he was directly alongside Tristan. With a smile, he raised his trident.
But suddenly the Wayfarer collided with something. A massive blow struck hard against the port side, and the hull tipped hard to starboard. Losing his balance, the slaver slipped to the right.
As the prongs of the trident came down, Tristan slid toward the bow and grabbed the handle of the trident, using the ship’s momentum to pull the surprised slaver down into his lap. In one smooth motion he grabbed the slaver by the throat and shoved the point of the brain hook into the thing’s ear.
The slaver screamed and began to struggle. With a vicious twist, Tristan yanked out the hook. The slaver was dead, blood pouring from his ear.
Tristan shoved the brain hook back into his boot. Then he snatched the key ring from the slaver’s belt and pushed the corpse off him, into the aisle.
The gigantic pacemaster was already on his feet, waving a hammer and coming toward Tristan. Finding the large key in the center of the ring, Tristan shoved it into the padlock lying on the deck and turned it.
Nothing happened.
A quick glance told him that the pacemaster was nearly upon him. Again he turned the key in the rusty lock. The lock sprung open.
As fast as he could Tristan pulled his chain free, which allowed him to move his feet. But his wrists and ankles were still shackled together, and there was no time to pick up a weapon. The pacemaster, hammer raised, was looming over him.
As the great hammer came down, Tristan slipped to the right, dodging the heavy blow. Then he slid back in, placed his hands together, and swung them around, slamming his wrist shackles into the slaver’s right cheek and eye. Blood sprayed, and the slaver crashed to the deck atop the oth
er one’s body.
Praying that the same key would unlock his shackles, Tristan shoved it into the lock binding his feet together and turned it. This time the lock sprang open immediately. The same proved true for his wrist shackles. Smiling, he turned and passed the key to the man seated behind him. There were tears in the fellow’s eyes. Tristan started to speak, but suddenly realized that words were not necessary.
Reaching beneath the body of the first slaver, Tristan recovered the thing’s short sword. He darted for the stairway, then stopped and purposely slowed his breathing.
Picking up the gold medallion that hung around his neck, he gazed at it for a precious, dangerous moment and thought of all his loved ones. Then he dropped the medallion back to his chest, raised the cool blade of the sword vertically to his forehead, and closed his eyes.
From the way the hull of the ship had been impacted and the sounds of battle coming from the deck above, no one had to tell him that they were being boarded.
Holding his sword before him, Tristan ran up the stairway and into the light.
CHAPTER
Twenty-two
Serena felt like an outcast as she looked down at the sumptuous plate of food. She sat alone at a dining table that was very well appointed, complete with candlesticks and wine. She was dressed in yet another lovely gown picked out for her by Janus.
Starving, clothed in rags, her fellow slaves stared out at her from their bondage. It made her nervous, fearful for her safety every time she finished such a meal and the demonslavers put her back into confinement with the others. Two slavers armed with swords sat nearby, watching carefully.
Although hungry, she didn’t really want to eat, for it seemed so cruel to the others. But Wulfgar had told her she must do so when she could, and over the course of the last week she had come to trust his judgment. So she tentatively took her first bite of the delicious veal, trying as best she could to ignore the ravenous, envious glares of her fellow captives as they watched from inside the barred cages.
This bizarre, unexplained treatment of her had been Janus’ doing; she was sure of it. Janus was apparently not willing to honor Wulfgar’s request to feed her more without twisting it into something evil. Shaking her head, she thought of the insane, sadistic nature of her predicament. She felt naked and alone as she sat there with her fancy meal, and suddenly she realized that the only time she was ever at ease was when she was with Wulfgar, in his quarters.
She gazed around the great hall. It was without doubt the largest room she had ever seen, constructed of smooth, beige marble; lit by numerous, open skylights; and otherwise quite stark. All that the chamber contained were the many large cages holding the other R’talis slaves.
She had never been in a position to count the cages, but assumed their number to be in excess of one hundred. Each of the glimmering, silver coops stood alone, separated from the others by several meters. The cages contained people, cots for sleeping, and buckets used for waste. The buckets were not emptied often enough, and they filled the chamber with their stink.
None of the captives knew why they had been brought here, or what their eventual fate might be. Even Serena—the only one allowed out of here, had not been able to figure out the answers to those questions.
She had so far made four more trips to see Wulfgar, each time at his request. She enjoyed visiting him, and found herself growing to like him more and more. He had a strong, understated quality that always made her feel safe, even in this horrific place. Sometimes she wished she could simply stay there with him, but she doubted that Janus would ever grant such a request. He wouldn’t want to give up the pleasure of seeing her squirm as she ate in front of the others, and watching them suffer as she was forced to eat the delicacies provided only to her.
Just then a door opened in the far wall and Janus sauntered in, the twin iron spheres on his belt clinking together as he walked. Serena cringed as he sat down in the chair opposite her and poured himself a glass of wine. Then he placed his legs on the table, crossed one over the other, and leaned back. The painted red mask contorted as he smiled.
Looking down at her plate, he feigned an expression of disappointment. “You really must eat something, my dear,” he said unctuously. “Or, if you prefer, I could have something else brought in.” He raised his eyes to her with a menacing, almost envious stare. “After all, nothing is too good for Wulfgar’s whore.”
Laying down her fork, Serena glared back at him. “I’m not his whore,” she said softly. “We care for each other. Something I doubt you could ever understand.”
Janus placed his free hand sarcastically over his heart. “I’m touched; I really am,” he sneered. “In any event, he asks for you again. You must be very good at what you do. Perhaps if Wulfgar tires of you, I might take a turn . . .”
Serena remained silent, filled with hatred.
Standing, Janus picked up a fork and casually stabbed it into a slice of Serena’s veal. Then he walked over to the nearest cage and waved it back and forth in the air, sending its enticing aroma toward the slaves. Like starving animals, they pushed to the front of the cage, and hands and arms stretched pleadingly out from between the bars. Turning back to her, Janus smiled.
“Food,” he mused. “Simple, everyday food. Curious, isn’t it? To assume power one need not torture, or even kill. One need only withhold simple sustenance, to suddenly become a king among men. Such an interesting, simple, elegant form of punishment and reward, wouldn’t you agree? There really is no equal.”
Tears welled up in Serena’s eyes. Although she knew that none of this was her fault, she couldn’t help feeling as if she were to blame.
“Stop it!” she begged. “Isn’t it bad enough that you force me to eat this way before them? Must you add to that torture? How can you be so cruel?”
“Cruel?” Janus asked. He seemed genuinely perplexed. “You find this cruel? This is not cruel, my dear. This is merely . . . theater. But what is happening to the other slaves—those branded Talis—now that could truly be defined as cruel. Those poor bastards have simply become a means to an end.”
Serena was about to ask him what he meant by that, but she stopped herself. Not only did she doubt that he would tell her, but she also wasn’t sure she could bear hearing the answer. She lowered her face and placed her hands on her lap.
Janus smiled again, and waved the piece of meat higher. “You!” he shouted out to a tall man in front. “Show me how far you can reach! Perhaps you will be rewarded!”
The slave eagerly stretched one arm out, his fingers waggling desperately. Janus walked up to him and carefully placed the veal on the floor, several inches past the end of the man’s reach—just close enough to tempt, and just far enough away to make touching it impossible. Then, apparently satisfied, he walked back to the table. Serena buried her face in her hands.
“Now, then, shall we go?” Janus asked her politely. “We mustn’t keep your whore-master waiting.”
Serena rose on shaky legs and followed him toward the door. Despite how badly she felt for those in the cages, she desperately wanted to put this place behind her.
Pausing before two demonslaver guards, Janus pointed at the first of them. “You,” he ordered. “Come with me.” Then he bent down, placing his mouth next to the other slaver’s ear. “You stay here,” he whispered softly, just loud enough for Serena to hear. “If one of them actually reaches that meat, take him out and kill him.”
The slaver turned his white eyes to the cage, and the desperate, crushing mob within. He smiled. “With pleasure.” With that, Janus, the other slaver, and Serena walked out the door and into the hallway.
Night was falling in the Citadel, and the hallways were brightly lit by wall torches. The walk was long, but by now Serena could have negotiated her way to Wulfgar’s quarters alone. As they went down one of the hallways, she heard the insane screaming that seemed ever-present in this area of the Citadel, and she suddenly realized that this might be what Janus had been refe
rring to when he mentioned the plight of the Talis slaves. She shivered.
Finally Janus stopped at Wulfgar’s door. At a nod from him, the two slaver guards on duty there slid back the bolt.
“This is where I leave you, my dear,” Janus said simply. “I am needed elsewhere. Do enjoy yourself.”
The two guards escorted her inside, then walked back into the hall. She heard them swing the door shut again and slide the bolt across, locking her in.
It was quiet and cool in the rooms, a direct contrast to the horror of what she had just left. Hearing her enter, Wulfgar came in from the balcony and came to her. As his strong arms closed around her, she began to cry.
He started to speak, but decided not to. Instead he just held her, placed his face against her long, dark ringlets, and let her weep.
When the tears finally stopped, she wiped her eyes and looked up into his rugged, comforting face. Then she led him over to the bed and pulled him down to sit beside her. Taking both his hands in hers, she began to speak.
She told him of how the painted monster had teased the other slaves, then ordered the slaver to kill whoever might manage to get hold of the prize laid before them on the floor. As he listened, Wulfgar’s face darkened, and the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. When she had finally finished, her tears came again.
Wulfgar held her close. She looked pleadingly into his hazel eyes. “I cannot go on like this,” she whispered sadly. “I know Janus will keep humiliating me this way. He enjoys it far too much to let it stop.” Ashamed, she lowered her face again. “What can I do?”
Wishing he knew what to say, Wulfgar stroked her cheek, wiping away some of the tears. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I feel sorry for the others, but my heart also wants you to survive as best you can. Is that selfish of me? Perhaps.” He paused for a moment, thinking.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 24
