The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Her stance softened, and she looked to Scars for guidance. The colossus slowly nodded his head.

  With that, Tyranny reluctantly agreed to Tristan’s plan. They had labored hard all through the night, and the decks of The People’s Revenge were now literally covered with souls from the other two ships. But her spars and sails looked to be in good repair again, and the morning wind was stiffening. Tyranny quietly came to stand next to Tristan at the gunwale. She looked as exhausted as he did.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “For what?”

  “For convincing me of what needed to be done,” she answered, tousling her hair with one hand. “Sometimes I can be a handful, I know. They don’t call me Tyranny for nothing.”

  Tristan pursed his lips knowingly. “So I’ve seen,” he said wryly. Smiling, he brushed an errant lock of her outrageous hair away from one of her wide, blue eyes.

  “You still haven’t told me why your blood is azure, or why it glows,” she then said, surprising him. “How can that be? Who are you, really?”

  Scowling, Tristan looked back out over the ocean. “Even my wizards cannot answer such things,” he said softly, sadly. “All I know is that lately I have come to curse my azure blood, and a large part of me wishes that I no longer had it. I long to have normally endowed blood, like Wigg and Faegan. But right now that day seems far away, indeed.”

  Then he heard footsteps, and turned to see Scars approaching.

  “All is finally ready for departure, Captain,” the giant said shortly. “May I have your orders?”

  Tyranny looked sadly out to where the two stripped, deserted ships lay. They had once sailed proudly beside her, swift and sure in their service. But now they looked for all the world like lost, tattered orphans, fearfully awaiting some unknown fate. Tyranny closed her eyes.

  “Scuttle them,” she said softly.

  With a sad, resigned look, Scars raised one arm and gave the signal to the two crewmen still waiting aboard the other vessels. After signaling back they quickly disappeared belowdecks, only to come up a few moments later. Then they scrambled down into the small longboats that lay tied alongside, and hurried back to the flagship. Once they were aboard and the boats secured, Tyranny turned to Scars.

  “Take us out,” she ordered simply. The tone of her voice told Tristan that her normally commanding demeanor had returned. “Be quick about it. And be sure to give us a wide berth around the others,” she added sternly. “I have no desire to be taken by the undertow as those two frigates go down.” Glad to be finally leaving Sanctuary, Scars began barking out orders to make way.

  Looking across the fog-covered ocean, she and Tristan watched as the other two vessels began to swallow seawater, their bows slowly nosing down into the waves. Soon the briny, encroaching ocean was crossing them amidships, and the frigates were standing at a sharp angle on their bows. Finally the waves closed in over their aft decks and they plunged toward oblivion. The swirling, dark blue water closed over them, leaving no trace.

  Tristan turned to Tyranny. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied quietly. They said nothing for a time as they watched the spinning whirlpools slow and finally vanish altogether.

  Then he heard the flagship’s sails snap open, and The People’s Revenge started to move. Soon they would be out of the fog and on their way home. So anxious was he to see Eutracia again that he almost thought he could smell the rich, dark soil and the green, waving grasses of the Cavalon Delta. Looking up, he saw his blue-and-gold battle standard snapping back and forth in the wind, and it gladdened his heart.

  It was then that he and Tyranny heard the arrogant, hateful voice come snarling across the deck.

  “So tell me, lass,” the pirate shouted out. “Is it that he’s better’n me where it counts, or is it just the money you’re after? Know’n ya as I do, it’s probably both, isn’t it, my little she-cat?”

  Turning, Tristan and Tyranny looked over to where Rolf stood lashed to the mainmast, weaponless, hands bound securely behind him. His blond hair was matted, and an angry red welt swelled his chin where Tristan had hit him with the brain hook. His narrowed eyes gazed at Tyranny with an odd combination of hate and lust that Tristan found unsettling.

  “You’ll never make it home, you know,” Rolf added nastily. “Sure’n it was a fine notion to make your ship whole again by robbing from the other two. And even I have to admit that she used to be uncommonly fast. But if I know my boys, they have already surrounded the island. Your new man here may have fooled them back at the tavern, but you’ll never beat them out on the open sea, y’have my word on it. Ya should’ve stayed in the fog, lass, but y’couldn’t keep that up forever, now could ya? Worse yet, you’re now too heavy to slip by their two hundred ships, and y’know it.” Then he cast his eyes lasciviously up and down her body.

  “It seems you and I will get to enjoy our little reunion after all,” he added wickedly.

  He turned to look at Tristan. “And as for you, you clever bastard, I look forward to giving you a taste of my sword,” he snarled. “We have unsettled business, you and I. I’m eager to know whether y’really are any good with that ridiculous-looking blade you carry. But time will soon tell, laddie, yes, it will. And time is the one thing ya don’t have.” Then he smiled. “That and another two hundred ships, of course.”

  Tristan wanted to untie him and take him on right then and there, but he reluctantly pulled himself back. Taking a deep breath, he looked Rolf in the eyes. “I welcome it,” he said quietly.

  Just then The People’s Revenge broke out of the fog. As the stiff, easterly wind filled her sails, Tyranny ordered that the heavily loaded frigate turn west, toward the delta. But before her orders could be carried out, the crewman in the crow’s nest started ringing the alarm bell for all he was worth. Looking up, she saw him pointing frantically out over the bow.

  Tristan looked quickly to Tyranny, to find that she already had her spyglass to one eye. As she trained it across the western horizon, the blood drained from her face. Saying nothing, she looked over at him and handed him the glass. Tristan put it to his eye and took a quick breath.

  What looked to be a line of at least one hundred pirate vessels were tacking back and forth in the wind, quickly converging on their position.

  Fearing the worst, Tristan quickly turned astern and raised the glass again. A seemingly equal number of vessels were running before the wind, plowing their way toward them in a battle line from the east.

  The pirates’ strategy was immediately apparent. The two battle lines planned to meet, trapping The People’s Revenge in a manmade vise of wood and sailcloth from which there would be no escape.

  Tristan knew that all they had now was the superior speed of Tyranny’s ship, for the two groups of raiders clearly had the angle on them. But how much speed could she muster, loaded down like this? The best The People’s Revenge could do was to try to slip through the gap at the northern ends of their lines before it closed. If they could, the open sea lay beyond.

  But as Tristan gauged the distances involved and checked the direction of the wind, his heart fell. He was sure Tyranny would give it her best, but he knew they would never make it.

  Tyranny gave the expected order, and the frigate immediately heeled over to the north, to begin tacking into the wind. Tristan finally lowered the glass to see that Tyranny’s face wore the same sense of defeat that his must.

  There would be no way to avoid being captured. And once they were, there would be no clever trick to save them this time, and no wizards to help them avoid their doom.

  They were all alone, and they were about to die.

  CHAPTER

  Fifty

  Walking gingerly down the hall with his daughter at his side, Wigg cursed both his weakness and the fact that he had been unable to sleep the previous night. Horrific dreams had disturbed him over and over again, causing him to cry out and awaken to find his body covered with sweat, his mind overcome
with guilt and terror.

  Celeste had stayed by his side the entire night, to calm and reassure him whenever he awakened. He was still weak this morning, but he had insisted on getting out of bed and going to visit his friends. He very much wanted to see Abbey, Faegan, and Shailiha with his own eyes, for only then would he be able to breathe easier about what had happened to them in the courtyard yesterday.

  After the unexpected blast had shaken the palace, the Minions had come to his quarters to inform him and Celeste of what had just happened. It had been a massive explosion, but the warriors had finally been able to extinguish the numerous grass fires that had sprung up. Luckily, the palace remained unharmed.

  Abbey, Faegan, and Shailiha had survived, but they had been badly shaken. After being carefully examined by the gnome wives, they had been ordered straight to bed. As expected, Faegan had argued, but Shawna the Short had finally prevailed by scowling and shaking one of her pudgy fingers at him. In the end, he had simply been too tired to fight her.

  Once he had felt well enough to rise, Wigg had asked that the three others also be awakened, so that he might immediately speak to them. He had not wished to disturb their rest, but he was concerned that what had just transpired could seriously impact their search for both the prince and the Scrolls of the Ancients. Time was precious, and the sooner they met, the better.

  After hearing about what had happened in the courtyard, he now suspected that what he had just gone through in the Chambers of Penitence may have been some form of immensely elaborate ruse—one designed to supply him and Faegan with exactly the wrong kinds of herbs—those meant to kill them the moment they were employed. Was the watchwoman of the floating gardens somehow in league with Krassus? he asked himself as he shuffled along the polished marble hallways. And if she was, how could they have possibly known that he and Faegan would visit her? There were surely easier, far more certain ways to kill them than that.

  None of it made any sense, but he was determined to get his answers. Finally finding himself before the proper door, Wigg knocked once, then let himself and Celeste into the vast library known as the Archives of the Redoubt.

  Faegan, Abbey, and Shailiha were already at the mahogany meeting table around a large pot of tea and a silver plate of pastries. The master wizard and the herbmistress were talking in urgent, worried tones. Shailiha was listening to them intently, Morganna held close in her arms. Upon seeing Wigg and Celeste, the baby made a soft gurgling sound.

  After Wigg and Celeste took their seats, the lead wizard cleared his throat. Abbey and Faegan finally stopped talking. Looking from them to Shailiha, Wigg realized that they were indeed lucky to be alive. Their faces and hands were decidedly reddened, and parts of their hair and eyebrows had been singed. Abbey looked the worst of the three. Reaching out, Wigg took her hand. She smiled and grasped it gingerly. Her skin felt good in his palm, and he smiled back at her.

  “Is everyone all right?” Wigg asked softly.

  Abbey looked over at Faegan, then back at the lead wizard. “I think so,” she answered. “But it was very close. We have some burns, but Faegan has already enacted a spell of accelerated healing over them. He has also aided our hearing, which was temporarily impaired by the blast. In another day or so, we should be far better. But what about you?”

  Placing his gnarled hands flat upon the tabletop, Wigg took a deep breath. “Let’s just say that what I went through in the Chambers of Penitence is not something I would ever care to repeat,” he said, employing his usual sense of wry understatement. “I should soon be better, as well. But tell me, how did this happen? Was it because of the goods we brought back?” As he looked at Faegan, his face darkened. “Did the watchwoman try to kill us by intentionally supplying us with the wrong items? Was everything I went through for naught?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Faegan answered almost perfunctorily. “It will, of course, be impossible to know for sure until we again try to use the oils and herbs. But I believe what happened was a result of something we did ourselves, rather than our having been betrayed by the watchwoman.”

  “How so?” Celeste asked.

  “We were actively seeking Tristan,” Faegan answered. “And it was the blood of his twin sister that we were employing to do so. Something physical of the subject to be viewed is always required—or at least something as close to the subject as the practitioner can find.” Sitting back in his chair, he thought to himself for a moment.

  “As I understand it from Abbey, under normal conditions this would never result in the catastrophic results we experienced in the courtyard,” he went on. “Since we had nothing personal of the prince’s body, we thought a drop of Shailiha’s blood might do the trick. But remember, Tristan’s blood is now azure—changed in ways that we have yet to fathom. It could simply be that his blood is not compatible with Abbey’s gifts, and the process of trying to find him resulted in the flame’s destruction. We may never know for sure. In any event, I certainly don’t recommend that we use the exact same method to view him again.”

  Abbey narrowed her eyes with thought. “Actually, there is some mention of such a phenomenon in the ancient teachings of the partials,” she said. “I had forgotten about it until hearing what you just said. It makes no mention of Tristan, exactly. But what happened is starting to sound more and more like what my teacher once warned me to be on the lookout for, so many years ago.” She paused, and it was clear to everyone that she was trying hard to retrieve the details from her dusty, three-hundred-year-old memories.

  Intensely interested, Faegan leaned nearer and placed his long, bony forearms on the table. “And that is?” he asked quickly.

  “What we experienced is supposedly called the Furies,” Abbey said, as the legend slowly returned to her. “The woman who taught me spoke very fearfully of it, telling me to pass the warning down to any of those partials I might eventually teach. It tells of ‘the Two’—those who shall eventually come among us, possessing powers so great that we partials must never try to use our gifts upon them. If we do, we risk invoking the Furies and our spells being returned to us, thereby killing us in return. Much like what happened to us in the courtyard.” She paused for a moment as the sudden realization spread across her face.

  “The ‘Two’ the legend speaks of must be Tristan and Shailiha,” she said softly. Then the room went quiet, as each of them tried to absorb the gravity of her news.

  Faegan, however, wasted no time. Pointing over at the table that held the Tome of the Paragon, he straightened one finger. The white, leatherbound volume rose into the air and came to rest before him. He turned his gray-green eyes to Abbey.

  “The ‘Furies,’ you say?” he asked her. The herbmistress nodded.

  Closing his eyes, the wizard called upon his powers of Consummate Recollection. As he concentrated on the single word, a vision began to form in his mind. This time it was only a page number, rather than an entire quotation. Opening his eyes, he looked back down at the great book.

  Faegan caused the Tome to open itself, and its gilt-edged leafs started flurrying by. When he found the page he wanted, he caused them to stop turning. After reading it a curious look crossed his face, and he sat back in his chair.

  “What is it?” Wigg asked. Without answering, Faegan looked back to the great book and began to translate the Old Eutracian on its pages.

  “And there shall come among you the Two, and they shall possess a blood quality so high that those known as the ‘partials’—those sole practitioners of certain of the Organics—shall come to dread them. For should those of partial blood signatures attempt to employ their limited gifts upon the Two, the Two’s progeny, or others of the same womb from which the Two came, their power shall be reversed upon them a thousandfold, and destroy them. For the blood signatures known as ‘partials’ shall not be as strong as those of the fully endowed. The Two and their seed may therefore be the partials’ mortal enemies, even though the Two may not choose for such a reaction to be so . . .”<
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  Trailing off, Faegan again sat back in his chair, lost in thought.

  “What does it mean?” Abbey asked. At first Faegan said nothing. He was ensconced within the caverns of his amazing mind, and his eyes almost seemed glazed over.

  “Such a wondrous, dangerous maze is the craft,” he finally muttered softly, half to himself. “After three hundred years of trying, we have barely scratched the surface of the knowledge collected by the Ones Who Came Before.”

  “Faegan,” Wigg said forcefully, trying to bring the old wizard’s attention back to the rest of them. “What does it all mean?”

  Taking a breath, Faegan finally refocused on the people at the table. “It confirms something that I have long suspected regarding the craft,” he answered cryptically. “But more about that in a moment.” Then he looked intently at Abbey.

  “Tell me,” he asked her. “Exactly how did you know that something terrible was about to happen in the courtyard?”

  “My gazing flame began behaving far out of the ordinary,” she answered. “After the viewing window started to form, the top of the flame began to swell. I have never seen one do that before. It was almost as if it was somehow collecting energy instead of expelling it, as is the norm. When I saw it, something told me it was about to burst, so I threw myself at you and the princess. Apparently when the flame ruptured, it did so at the top, releasing its energy skyward. Had the rent appeared in its side instead, I have no doubt that the three of us would be quite dead. In all my years I have never experienced a release of such boundless energy.”

  Faegan smiled at her. “Thank you,” he said softly. “And we shall never forget what you did.”

  “So what does it all mean?” Wigg demanded impatiently. “Aren’t you ever going to tell us what’s rattling around in that centuries-old, overactive brainpan of yours?”