But it didn’t. It just kept on going and going, seemingly without end.
Then suddenly it was too much for even the endowed blood and the inherent goodness of the lead wizard to bear.
With the watchwoman standing over him, Wigg’s face hit the unforgiving stone floor, and the light went out of his eyes.
CHAPTER
Thirty-nine
As Krassus walked into the weapons forge, he could feel the intense heat from the hearths blast him in the face. He could hear the constant hissing of the steam as the slaves lowered the red-hot, partially constructed weapons into the vats of brackish water to temper them. The sound of their hammers banging down on the hot metal rang out endlessly. Smoke and soot hung darkly in the air, infusing the entire place with a hot, charred odor.
As he breathed it in, he was overcome by the urge to cough. Quickly pulling the bloodied rag from his blue-and-gray robe, he placed it over his mouth and involuntarily let go several deep, convulsive hacks. Taking the rag away, he looked down to see his familiar blood signature twisting its way across the fabric.
His disease was advancing; he had been coughing even more of late. It was becoming increasingly evident that he must hurry in his work if he was to successfully complete Nicholas’ mission before he died. And to be certain of his victory, he needed to acquire the Scroll of the Vigors, the only piece of the puzzle still missing.
Angrily stuffing the rag back into his robe, he walked purposefully up to the demonslaver in charge. The monster bowed.
“Status report,” the wizard ordered simply.
“All goes well,” the grotesque servant replied. “The store of new weapons grows daily, and ever more slavers come to take them up. There have been no further suicide attempts by any of the workers.”
Satisfied, Krassus cast his dark eyes around the room, trying to find the slave that Janus had told him about. Finally Krassus found him standing on the far side of the room, his hands tied behind his back.
“Bring him to me,” he said simply. The head slaver immediately obliged, walking over to where Twenty-Nine stood supervising another slave. Grabbing him by the throat, the slaver manhandled him over to where Krassus stood waiting.
Krassus walked completely around the loin-clad slave as if he were examining some beast of burden he might purchase. Then he grasped the slave’s dirty chin and turned his face this way and that in the orange-red glow of the hearths.
Confused as to why he had been singled out, Twenty-Nine wondered who this frightening man with the long white hair and the piercing eyes was. He just as quickly found himself hoping that he would never have to face him again.
“So you’re the one who gave us so much trouble by trying to take your own life,” Krassus said softly. “Did you really think it would be so easy, my friend? I’m glad to see that you have been properly restrained and are giving us no further concern. But as you will soon learn, nothing here in this chamber, including you and the weapon smiths you supervise, will matter very much longer.” He turned back to the head demonslaver.
“I was on my way to the Scriptorium on more urgent business, but I decided to stop here to tell you something,” he said. “I have ordered that no more slaves be taken from Eutracia, for our requirements have been filled. Therefore, after you have fully armed all of the forthcoming demonslavers, you may shut this place down.”
Turning on his heel, Krassus crossed the room and walked out, the door closing behind him with finality.
As he strode down the open halls lining the manicured courtyard, he took in the crisp afternoon air coming in off the sea and listened for the strangely comforting screams. It was not long before he heard them.
The farther he walked, the louder the screaming became, finally reaching its crescendo behind two huge marble doors that he briskly passed by. As he walked on, the insane wailing faded, then disappeared altogether.
There was no need for him to stop and inspect what was occurring behind those doors, because as long as the screaming could be heard, everything in that chamber was going according to plan. Besides, he had other, far more pressing matters to attend to just now, in a different area of the Citadel.
The room he finally entered was in stark contrast to the one he had just left. This was the Scriptorium, the chamber in which so much of his mission had already been accomplished by the consuls in the dark blue robes—those of the craft who had been freed of their death enchantments, turned to the Vagaries by the son of the Chosen One, and left for Krassus to command. This was also the chamber in which so much of his mission was still to take place, and in which long-held, dusty secrets would be revealed.
The Scriptorium was very large, taking up the entire second floor of this section of the Citadel, and its light, airy appearance belied the gruesome nature of the important work that went forward here. Sunlight streamed in through the many wide, open windows lining three of the four long walls, overlooking the restless Sea of Whispers below. The air in the room was odorless, the environment bordering on a cold sterility.
The Scriptorium’s size was deceiving. It was in fact a collection of rooms separated by short, curving walls with openings but no doors. In this way, Krassus’ consuls could not only move easily from one chamber to the next as they went about their labors, but they could also maintain a high degree of privacy, so that their concentration would not be broken.
The only room that could be sealed off from the others was Krassus’ personal study. Large in size but plain in appearance, it held only an ornate desk and bookcases full of texts and scrolls. It was lit by a single window.
Approaching the door to his private chamber, Krassus narrowed his eyes, calling on the craft. The lock turned over once, then twice more, and the door slowly revolved on its hinges. After opening the window behind the desk, Krassus sat down. Almost immediately the consul in charge of the Scriptorium appeared before him, awaiting his master’s orders.
The moment he had arrived at the Citadel with the Scroll of the Vagaries, Krassus had turned it over to the consuls so that they might begin the necessary research. Despite the fact that Nicholas had made Krassus fully aware of the purpose of the Scrolls of the Ancients before his death, there was still a great deal of investigation that would need to be done before the Scroll of the Vagaries would give up the particular secret they were searching for. To this end, Krassus had driven the consuls mercilessly. The research had gone on unabated, both day and night.
So far the going had been difficult. Although Nicholas had known what he needed gleaned from the scroll, even the son of the Chosen One had been unaware of where it had been placed among the seemingly countless other calculations and inscriptions so elegantly written on the very long, uniform piece of vellum. Each calculation the scroll relinquished had to be tested on a person of untrained, endowed blood—an R’talis slave—to determine whether it was the one they were looking for. The one magnificent calculation that—in its unparalleled, awesome power—would finally and irrevocably smash everything the wizards of the Redoubt stood for had so far eluded them.
Krassus looked up at the consul standing obediently before him. “Your report?” he demanded.
“For purposes of security,” the consul answered, “it seems the writers of the scroll chose to bury this most powerful of calculations somewhere deep within the body of the text and leave it untitled. Although hundreds of useful Forestallments have now been mapped and recorded, the one we search for, the one shown to you by Nicholas, still eludes us. To narrow our examination, we are now putting into use only the untitled calculations.” He paused. “It seems that the Heretics of the Guild did not make our task a simple one.”
Growing ever more impatient, the wizard scowled. Saying nothing, he rose from his desk and left the room, followed by the obedient consul. Striding across the length of the Scriptorium, he stopped before a particular entryway, through which doorway the azure glow of the craft seeped out. Anxious to view the process, he walked in.
The
room was large. Along one wall lay a long, rectangular table covered with reams of parchment. More than a dozen consuls were seated there, recording their observations with ink-laden quills.
Hovering before them in the stillness of the room was the glowing, partially unrolled Scroll of the Vagaries.
The engraved golden band that had once been secured around its center had been removed, and the scroll was unrolled to reveal the beautiful, elegant script spread across its ancient surface. One by one the consuls selected portions of the script. The passages began to glow as they were chosen, lifting themselves from the parchment and hovering in the air before the consuls.
The consuls read the Old Eutracian script floating before them, first deciphering and then recording what they read onto sheets of individual parchment. When each was satisfied that his translation was correct, he ordered the glowing words back to the scroll. Then the name and use of the spell, if given, was recorded on the parchment and passed to a waiting demonslaver, who took it from the room. The consul would then begin anew, selecting the next available passage from the scroll.
And so it went, the faithful scribes deciphering and recording the contents of the scroll while their watchful master looked on. Krassus finally walked to the next room.
Constructed of pure white marble, this chamber was much larger than the one he had just left, and the work here had a more intense, deadly feel to it. Demonslaver guards wandered warily about, their white eyes missing nothing. Bookcases covered every inch of the walls, their shelves lined with ledgers that were arranged in perfect sequential order. From time to time the consuls would come to the shelves either to take fresh volumes, or to replace those they had just finished with.
These volumes contained the information gleaned from the endowed slaves as they had departed the ships at the underground pier. The blood signatures and assay ratings had been dutifully recorded, along with the names, ages, dates and locations of capture, and sex.
Krassus turned his attention to the center of the bright, sterile-looking room. One hundred white marble tables, each a very precise two meters long by one meter wide, stood arranged in neat rows. Upon each lay a live human body—a conscious, endowed slave, bound to its surface at arms, legs, and throat, and covered by a curved dome of transparent azure. Over each of the tables stood a lone consul, carefully going about his meticulous work. Krassus chose one to observe.
After finding the page in the ledger that held the information about the slave lying before him, the consul caused a perfect duplicate of the slave’s previously recorded blood signature to rise from its pages. It came to rest next to the deciphered script on the parchment brought to him from the room housing the scroll.
The consul then reached one hand through the azure dome and placed his palm on the slave’s forehead. Terrified almost beyond insanity, the helpless slave struggled, but to no avail.
Closing his eyes, the consul recalled the calculations of the still-unidentified Forestallment just gleaned from the scroll. Then he carefully began infusing it directly into the endowed blood of the slave.
The slave on the table began to convulse. Foam ran from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes rolled back up into his head as his body jerked violently: a marionette dancing on someone else’s strings. Although he screamed wildly, no sound could be heard through the azure dome.
Such an interesting phenomenon, Krassus reflected emotionlessly. To see one convulse and scream so violently, yet hear no sounds of torment.
And then, finally, it was over. The slave collapsed, eyes closing.
As the consul removed his hand from the slave’s head, the azure dome faded away.
“Is he dead?” Krassus asked casually.
“No,” the consul answered. “Some of them live, though most die. Interestingly, it seems that those with a blood assay value of four or better often survive, and can be subjected to the process again. Such information may prove useful one day.”
Narrowing his eyes, the loyal consul again called on the craft. He caused a small incision to form in the slave’s right arm and ordered a single drop of the slave’s blood to land on the parchment next to the blood signature.
Reaching into his robes, the consul produced a vial. Opening it, he released a single drop of red water taken from the Caves of the Paragon. Almost immediately the two drops began to move across the page toward one another, quickly becoming one.
As the slave’s blood signature formed, the consul removed another piece of parchment from his robe. It held an exact copy of the Forestallment branch they all searched for—the one given to Krassus by Nicholas just before his death. After closely comparing the two, he shook his head. They were not of the same length, nor did the various branches match as they trailed away from the blood signatures.
“Negative again, Master,” he said. He summoned one of the many demonslavers in this area to come to the table. “Take this one away,” he ordered.
Suddenly they heard a shout of unmitigated joy come from the other side of the room. Navigating his way between the busy tables, Krassus hurried over to the consul who had cried out.
“What is it?” he asked, not daring to hope.
“I have found it, Master,” the consul breathed, his excitement barely allowing him to get the words out. Krassus looked down at the tabletop to see that the female slave the consul had been using was dead.
“Show me,” he ordered. His hands were trembling with excitement.
With a slight bow, the overjoyed consul handed over both his copy of the long, angular Forestallment branch they searched for, and the copy of the blood signature just taken from the dead slave. Krassus examined them carefully. As he did, his heart leapt.
There could be no mistake. This was the Forestallment branch that Nicholas had ordered him to search for. Now the next stage of this amazing journey in the craft could finally begin. He turned to one of the demonslavers, his dark eyes flashing.
“Bring me Wulfgar,” he said quietly.
CHAPTER
Forty
As the skiff approached the shoreline of the Isle of Sanctuary, the sheer beauty of the island astounded Tristan. The other skiffs had already been beached, and the last of the crew could be seen eagerly headed down a path into the woods.
Steep, sharply pointed hills rose almost straight up from the shoreline, their tops obscured by gray mist. Below the level of the mist, they were carpeted with a dense, emerald growth. He found himself smiling. At first glance, it looked like paradise.
Gnarled, multicolored trees grew wide and tall, and were dotted with colors that could only be fruits and berries. Thick, strong vines stretched between the trees to create an odd sort of twisted, tangled harmony. The air had a pleasant, sweet-sour aroma, the scents from the flowers and plants combining with the saltiness of the sea as it washed up over the sandy shore. The birdsong he could hear was unfamiliar and melodic.
As he clambered up out of the skiff to stand with Tyranny and Scars on the wooden dock, Tristan tried to remember what the captain had said about Sanctuary being both alluring and dangerous. The first part of the captain’s warning he now found easy to understand. But as he took in the serene beauty, he frankly found it difficult to convince himself that it could be dangerous, as well.
As if reading his thoughts, Tyranny turned to him, the same look of concern still blanketing her face.
“Where are all the ships you said were stationed here?” Tristan asked as the three of them walked off the dock and onto the shore.
“The ships are usually moored in various coves around the island,” Tyranny answered. “That way if Sanctuary is attacked, all of them cannot be destroyed at once, and at least some of them can escape.”
As she spoke, she began leading them down a narrow but well-trod path through the dense foliage between two of the hills.
“That is why you anchored on this side of the island, isn’t it?” Tristan asked. “So your ships wouldn’t be found.”
“Yes,�
� she answered, pausing to push a low-hanging vine out of her way. “I want to enter Sanctuary quietly on foot, as I do not know what kind of reception I might receive from Rolf, if he is in port and not out to sea. If he were to commandeer my ships, we could end up here for a long time.”
Looking down at his right knee boot, Tristan thought of the small piece of the Scroll of the Vagaries that had been hidden there by his still-unknown benefactor. All too aware that he must get it back to the wizards and their herbmistress as soon as he could, his jaw hardened. He had had quite enough of being controlled by others. He longed to be home again, and he would do anything—including kill, if need be—to get there.
“And where do we get the sailcloth and spars from?” he asked.
“There are merchants and smiths here,” Scars told him. “Most of them were part of the pirate group at one time, but decided to go into the business of turning the stolen raw materials into finished goods. Good money, and much less risk. Especially since most of the raiders would rather be out on the sea than sitting here sewing sailcloth and shaving spars. An unusual arrangement, but it works. So unless Rolf objects and orders otherwise, they will do business with us. But I fear their price may be very high, indeed. Too high, perhaps, for our stores of kisa are not what they once were.”
Then Scars pulled Tristan closer, indicating that he wanted the two of them to lag a bit behind Tyranny. Curious, Tristan slowed down.
“The truth is that I have my doubts about our overall success, especially where Rolf is concerned,” Scars whispered in a rare example of emotion. “I can only imagine how he reacted after the captain finally left him one night without warning, sailing away as she did by the light of the full moons. By then he had begun to beat her, and she wouldn’t stand for it. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t kill him. But love has a way of tempering one’s resolve, does it not? And as you have no doubt noticed, she is very adept at hiding the scars on her heart. Had I known what was happening, I would have killed the bastard myself.” Scars paused to look sternly at Tristan. “Keep your sword and your knives at the ready. Rolf is used to seeing me around the captain, but he won’t take kindly to a newcomer who is friendly with her, and he is very good with his sword.”
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 36
