The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Faegan only gave them that coy, knowing smile of his again. He enjoyed nothing so much as a mystery of the craft—especially when he was the only one who held its answer.

  “Just one more question, I promise,” he told the table. “Shailiha, do you remember anything out of the ordinary just before the gazing flame burst? Did you experience any unusual or uncomfortable sensations, for example?”

  “Now that you mention it, my heart began beating so fast and so hard that I thought I might pass out,” she answered. “But I didn’t say anything about it before, because I thought it was just caused by anxiety. Was it significant?”

  “Oh, yes, my child!” The wizard smacked his palm down on one arm of his chair in triumph. “Indeed it was!” He looked like the cat that had just swallowed the proverbial canary.

  “And so?” Wigg asked, crossing his arms with frustration.

  “Abbey is quite correct,” Faegan began. “This is further evidenced by the princess’ extremely rapid heartbeat. Her blood coursed faster through her body in response to rejecting and further empowering a partial adept’s spell. And the energy was returned to Abbey’s flame by a factor of one thousand times, so says the Tome. How fascinating!” He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.

  “Unfortunately, this dangerous practice was exactly what we were trying to accomplish yesterday, in our benign ignorance out there in the courtyard,” he continued. “And we succeeded admirably in making fools of ourselves, didn’t we? The fact that Tristan’s blood is now azure may have only intensified the effect.” He looked around the table. “As we have already said, several of us here are indeed lucky to be alive.”

  He looked over at the herbmistress. “I strongly suggest that you do not attempt to employ any of your gifts on either of the Chosen Ones again, especially before Wigg and I have had a chance to explore these new revelations further,” he added.

  Abbey rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry!” she said, holding her palms upward in a gesture of surrender. “I have no such intentions; I promise!”

  “Tell me,” Faegan said. “Do you know of any way to circumvent these Furies, as you call them, so that we might still try to locate the prince?”

  “There were always rumors among those in the partial community that such a process existed,” Abbey answered. “Legend says that it can be done, provided one possesses the proper calculations for it. But I do not know what the formulas are, or where they might be found. They supposedly involved sending the energy back yet again to the original subject, in its newly constituted strength.” She thought to herself for a moment. “The possibility of circumventing the Furies also raises another very interesting question,” she added thoughtfully.

  “And that is?” Wigg asked.

  “Whether such a spell, should it in fact actually exist, would fall within the purview of the wizards, rather than the partials,” she answered slowly, as if thinking aloud. “Such uses of the craft would seem to reside well outside the realm of the Organic. It sounds far more like one of the Paragon’s facets of the Kinetic, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Faegan furrowed his brow. It was soon clear to the others that he found this last comment to be even more interesting than what had been discussed previously.

  “You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?” Wigg finally asked from the other side of the table. “Or should I say someone?”

  “And just who might that be?” Faegan asked.

  “Wulfgar,” Wigg answered solemnly. Again the room became silent.

  Faegan nodded. “Quite right, Lead Wizard,” he agreed. “And well done. The quote I just read from the Tome mentioned not only the Two, but also their progeny, and others from the same womb. That would, of course, include both Wulfgar and Morganna.” He looked over at Abbey. “For the time being you are to strictly avoid using your gifts not only on Tristan and Shailiha, but on Wulfgar and Morganna, as well,” he ordered her. The herbmistress nodded her agreement.

  “But still we have failed, have we not?” Celeste asked. “In addition to not finding Tristan, we have no idea where this Scroll of the Vigors may be. It could be anywhere in the world. And unless we find it soon, Krassus will be able to complete at least one portion of the mission originally begun by Nicholas—a mission that we still know virtually nothing about.”

  Shailiha angrily shook her head. She had been bitterly disappointed again. Her greatest goal continued to be finding her brother, and now it seemed that they were even farther away from it than ever. “I’m tired of sitting here and doing nothing while Tristan is in danger!” she cried out. “Can’t you all see that?” Morganna cried a little with her mother’s sudden outburst, and Shailiha kissed her cheek to soothe her. “Isn’t there anything that can be done?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calmer.

  “The herbs and oils we brought back were to have been our solution to that,” Wigg said sadly. “However, with this sudden, unexpected appearance of the Furies, I’m afraid we are now forced to discover another way to find him. But hear me when I tell you that Tristan is a very brave and resourceful man, and if there is anyone in this world who can overcome whatever he is up against, it is he. I know that isn’t much for you to hold onto right now, but it seems to be all that any of us have.” Wigg looked over at Celeste to see a somewhat different, but equally concerned look cross her face.

  A growing sense of defeat crept silently over the room.

  CHAPTER

  Fifty-one

  K’jarr soared high and fast through the fading indigo of the early-morning sky. He wore his dreggan strapped across his back and his returning wheel securely fastened to one side of his belt; a battle bugle was tied to the other side, waiting to be used. Behind him, the sun rose, bringing a welcoming warmth to his ceaselessly beating wings.

  His dark eyes scoured the Sea of Whispers below, and he smiled, blessing his highly tuned senses. He would need them all today, he knew.

  He banked to the left slightly, changing course, and the one hundred specially selected Minion warriors accompanying him followed suit. Officers all, they had been handpicked not only for their overall intelligence and superior flying speed, but also for their expert fighting ability. They were the Minion forces’ best of the best, and their mission was clear: Find the mysterious fog bank and investigate it. Board and carefully examine the ships they found there. They were to leave no stone unturned in their search for the prince.

  They could not have been far from the fog bank when K’jarr saw a line of ships heading west, running before the wind. They were still some distance away, and moving fast. Surprised by their great numbers, he counted them to find that there were just a bit more than one hundred in all. Then his eyes caught sight of a lone frigate desperately plowing her way north, while the line of ships closed in on her from the west. She was clearly trying to make a run for the gap in the northernmost points of the ships’ lines. But the prevailing winds were easterly, and tacking back and forth as she was, she would never make it in time.

  As he watched from afar, the battle lines were closing together, surrounding the single ship in a deadly, seaborne ring of wood and sailcloth. Sensing a looming tragedy, he flew faster, his wings straining. And there, at last, was the mysterious patch of fog he had been searching for, lying peacefully and unmoving in the blue water, blocking the single frigate’s escape to the south.

  K’jarr’s jaw hardened with hate. Why would anyone commit so many vessels to the capture of a single ship? he wondered. It just didn’t make any sense. And then it hit him.

  The Chosen One might be aboard.

  He watched in horror as the ring closed more tightly around the trapped vessel.

  Turning, he called orders to the three officers who were to return to the Minion fleet with the exact location of the fog bank. Immediately they peeled away from the main body and soared through the air, flying hard in the direction from which they had just come.

  He returned his attention to the action in the distance, hoping aga
inst hope that his sworn lord was not trapped on that lone, desperate ship. It would be many long moments before he and his warriors could reach them—moments that the ones aboard the frigate clearly could not afford. Turning to the officer nearest him, K’jarr began barking out orders.

  Just then the lead vessel in the oncoming fleet rammed the lone frigate directly amidships. As he watched, K’jarr’s razor-sharp eyes caught something that quickened his heart: At the top of the ship’s mainmast flew the blue-and-gold battle flag of the House of Galland.

  K’jarr drew his dreggan. Despite the rushing of the wind, he could hear the reassuring ring of his warriors’ blades cutting through the air all around him.

  He smiled grimly. This was what they had been bred for, had spent their entire lives training for. There was no greater honor for a true Minion warrior than to perish in the service of his lord. Many of them would no doubt meet their final reward here today, somewhere over the Sea of Whispers.

  Suddenly snapping his wings closed behind his back, K’jarr held his sword before him and jacknifed into a dive, pointing straight down in a perfect, vertical free fall. The warriors behind him followed suit. Faster and faster they fell, plummeting toward the stricken ship as attackers swarmed over her decks.

  The odds were overwhelming, K’jarr knew. But if his lord was indeed here, then there was no other duty, no other choice than the one lying before them.

  Narrowing his dark eyes against the wind, he led his forces down.

  In a violent cacophony of splintering wood, the lead pirate ship had rammed The People’s Revenge directly amidships. Then she had swung alongside, her raiders screaming and jumping from their vessel to swarm like ants over the decks of Tyranny’s flagship.

  One man leapt from the rigging with a knife between his teeth, and swung his saber broadly in an attempt to take the prince’s head off.

  But Tristan saw him coming. Quickly slipping to one side, he held his dreggan out with both arms and pressed the button on the hilt. The extra length of blade launched forward, catching the pirate across the belly. The pirate’s face registered a moment of shock; then the light went out of his eyes. Ignoring the gushing blood, Tristan roughly pushed the corpse off his sword with the heel of one boot. But as he turned to look around, his heart fell.

  Tyranny and Scars were lost among all the fighting. All around him, men were dying. Worse yet, the other raider vessels were approaching rapidly. The deck of The People’s Revenge was a mass of screaming, struggling pandemonium, blades clanging noisily amid the sounds of shouting and groans of pain.

  It would be over very shortly, he knew, and they would all be dead. The scrap of parchment hidden in his boot would never reach Eutracia, and Krassus would win. But before that happened, Tristan swore he would take as many of them down with him as he could.

  Seeing a pirate raise his sword against one of the slaves, he instinctively reached over his right shoulder and drew one of his knives. Almost before he knew it, the dirk was twirling end over end toward its victim.

  As it buried itself into the side of the man’s neck, blood rushed out in furious, uncontrolled spurts. Wet, slippery waves of crimson cascaded down the man’s left shoulder as he clutched frantically at the handle of the knife. But it was already too late. As blood spewed from his lungs, his eyes became strangely fixed in the distance. His sword dropped noisily to the deck, and he fell stiffly, face forward.

  Tristan turned to look up into the rigging from which his first attacker had come. As he did, his heart skipped a beat. All of Tyranny’s crewmembers who had remained behind on the Isle of Sanctuary had been captured and hung from the pirate ship’s masts and rigging.

  Tristan had known some of these people. He had laughed with them, worked with them, and learned the ways of the sea from them. And now they were dead. As he stood gaping up at the bodies that had once been so full of life, a sudden wave of guilt swept over him.

  Bending over, he tried to keep from vomiting.

  Later he would recall that it was truly a miracle he hadn’t been killed then. Finally returning to his senses, he spun around to rejoin the battle.

  Almost immediately another of them was upon him. Awash with rising anger, Tristan used all his talents to make sure the pirate died.

  As they neared the stricken ship in their headlong plunge, K’jarr’s warriors fanned out. They had been ordered to find whether the prince was aboard before joining the battle, and to do so at all cost. K’jarr unfolded his wings and buffeted the air to hover at a point near the mainmast, about ten meters off the deck. He wanted very badly to join the fray, but he had to monitor the progress of his warriors first. If his lord was struggling somewhere on this ship they would soon find him, or die trying.

  Finally, in the midst of the battle, they saw him.

  As the first of them went soaring by, Tristan thought he must be seeing things. Then one swooped down to land beside him, dreggan drawn, eyes flashing. Then came another and another, until a multitude of them had formed a protective ring around him, slashing viciously at their attackers as they came. Many of the stunned pirates died right there and then.

  Tristan’s heart leapt in his chest. He didn’t know how many of the Minions there were here, or where they had suddenly come from, but now, finally, he thought there might be a chance to prevail after all.

  K’jarr landed beside Tristan. After quickly telling him the number of warriors under his command and the location of the Minion fleet, he waited calmly for Tristan’s orders. The prince looked out across the waves to see that the rest of the pirate vessels would soon be upon them. Then an idea struck him.

  Using precious seconds, he gauged the speed and distance between them and the nearest of the oncoming ships. He leaned toward K’jarr again.

  “Take half of your force and fly toward those ships!” he shouted urgently above the din. “Leave the other half of your warriors here to help us secure this vessel! When you reach the enemy vessels, this is what I want you to do!”

  Leaning in further, he shouted some final directives to K’jarr. Understanding, the officer smiled. He then took to the air again, half of his warriors following him as ordered, and flew directly toward the oncoming pirate ships. Tristan and the remaining warriors began grimly hacking their way through the raiders on board The People’s Revenge.

  The battle continued to rage, but the prince thought there were now more of Tyranny’s crewmen standing than there were pirates. Still, the scene before him was something out of a nightmare. Dead men lay tangled in the rigging of both ships. Body parts were everywhere. The wounded of both sides were screaming pitifully for help, and the decks were slippery with blood.

  He desperately needed to find Tyranny and Scars and tell them what was happening. Fighting his way down the length of the decks with his warriors by his side, he finally saw them. Amazingly, they were both still alive.

  As K’jarr and his Minions approached the encroaching pirate vessels, they obeyed their lord’s orders and climbed higher. Then their leader gathered them into a hovering, eager group and started barking out commands. Only two warriors to a ship, he told them quickly. When they were done with their work, they were to advance to another vessel and then another, always doing the same thing until the task was complete. By then their fleet should have arrived, and the killing could begin in earnest.

  Smiling to himself, K’jarr watched them go, as two by two they bravely dove down on the pirate armada. As they did, the pirates began to notice, looking up and staring at the winged ones with wide, unbelieving eyes.

  K’jarr smiled. Trying to board these two hundred vessels and kill all of the pirates would have been blatant suicide. Still, had Tristan ordered them to do so, they would have obeyed him without question. But the Chosen One had not commanded his winged warriors to attack the pirates.

  He had ordered them to attack their ships.

  Out of one corner of her eye, Tyranny saw Tristan coming. Then, for the first time in her life, she saw
the Minions. So stunned was she that she literally stopped what she was doing and simply stared at them, her sword hanging limply from one bloody hand. Only at the last moment did one of the warriors step in, expertly slicing away the head of a sash-wearing pirate who had tried to take advantage of her lapse in judgment.

  Running up to her side, Tristan shouted out to her, telling her that the winged ones were his, and that she shouldn’t be afraid of them. With the fighting on The People’s Revenge finally starting to abate, he did his best to explain what he had just ordered the Minions to do, and how their fleet was on the way. There were still two hundred pirate vessels bearing down on them, but at least now they had a slim chance. As he told her, he saw a glimmer of hope appear in her eyes. Then he looked over to see Scars.

  The ever-weaponless giant was holding a frantically squirming, screaming pirate in his arms. Tristan knew from prior experience that there would be no escape for the man. Seemingly oblivious to everything going on around him, Scars calmly walked the terrified raider over to the gunwale, the pirate’s red, telltale sash dragging on the pitching deck as they went.

  Without fanfare, Scars lifted the man into the air, then brought his head down sharply against the smooth, polished edge. With a sickening snapping sound, it cracked open like an eggshell. Gray brain matter slipped from within its shattered depths to fall sloppily onto the deck. Saying nothing, Scars tossed the body overboard into the sea. Then he looked up at Tristan and smiled broadly.

  As K’jarr’s warriors finally reached the oncoming pirates’ ships, they drew their swords. Swooping and darting among the vessels, staying aloft rather than taking to the decks, they hacked savagely at the sails and rigging of the ships, bringing them tumbling to the decks in tattered, useless heaps of tangled rope and sailcloth. All the angry pirates could do was to watch helplessly, shaking their fists and cursing the days the winged ones were born.