The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  As they entered the room, he carefully watched her face.

  They were standing in the room that held the R’talis slaves—the same stark prison in which Janus had once forced Serena to take her meals, in plain view of the poor unfortunates starving before her. The chamber was illuminated by many bright wall torches, their shadows crisscrossing the beige marble walls. Even the magnificent table and chair she had been forced to sit at was still here, complete with its tablecloth, elaborate setting for one, and matching gold candlesticks.

  Serena slowly walked toward the cages. Many of the captives started shouting insults at her and waving their arms with rage. By now, most of them were little more than skin and bones.

  But something was different now, Serena realized. Both Talis and R’talis slaves were here, and the cages were no longer filled to overflowing.

  Wulfgar watched Serena as she left the slaves and walked the short distance over to the table. She ran her fingers over the fine gold plates and utensils as if she loved them, revered them. Then she looked back at the slaves.

  This time, instead of weeping for the slaves’ plight as she had done in previous days, she only smiled. As Wulfgar came closer to her, he realized that the Vagaries swirling in her blood had truly become a part of her soul. He and Krassus had succeeded, he realized. He took her hand.

  “And now that you see the world for what it truly is, what say you, my love?” he asked.

  Serena nodded slowly. “These puny, untrained beings, many of whom do not even have endowed blood, mean nothing to me,” she told him. “I see now that they are no more than human resources for us to mine. Indeed, if my lord would allow it, I would like to once again take some of my meals here, if for no other reason than to see the looks on their faces. It should prove most entertaining. Do you think you could let me do that, my love?”

  Wulfgar smiled. “Of course,” he answered. “But it may not be possible. The sand in the hourglass of their lives is running short.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Taking her by the hand, Wulfgar led her to a door on the other side of the room. As they walked through it, Serena felt an intense, searing heat blast over her, and charred, dense air came suddenly to her nostrils.

  The demonslaver forges were still in use, but would not remain so much longer. The slaves, dressed only in their soiled, torn loincloths, worked tirelessly, forging the instruments of sudden death that Wulfgar’s demonslavers would soon use in the service of their master. The incessant clanging of the slaves’ hammers and the stale, telltale smell of human sweat filled the smoky air. The orange-red coals in the hearths glowed brightly, casting an ocherous aura over everything in the room.

  As they walked purposefully through the chamber, the demonslaver guards there bowed obediently. Then Serena noticed one slave whose hands were tied behind his back. She stopped to look at him. He seemed to be supervising the others as they fashioned the various weapons. Curious, she turned to Wulfgar.

  “And what of this one?” she asked. “Should he not also toil in the service of his lord?”

  “A troublemaker, nothing more,” Wulfgar answered. “They tell me his number is twenty-nine. He will soon be dealt with, as shall all of the others here in this chamber.”

  When Twenty-Nine finally saw Wulfgar, he immediately recognized him as the same man he had stood next to on the docks the day they first disembarked. Seeing the slavers bow to the man, Twenty-Nine realized that he and the woman he was with had somehow become of great importance here.

  Knowing he was risking his life, he brazenly hurried over to Wulfgar. The slavers reacted immediately, grabbing him and roughly pushing him to the dirt at Wulfgar’s feet. With a shiny trident pressing into his back, he could raise his face only enough to look up into his new master’s eyes. Wulfgar was intrigued by the slave’s wanton display of insolence.

  “You know me!” Twenty-Nine pleaded hoarsely. “In the name of the Afterlife, tell these monsters that you know me! We were together at the docks! You looked into my eyes! Don’t you remember? Why don’t you help us?” His words trailed away as the three sharp tips of the trident lightly punctured the skin of his naked back.

  After emotionlessly examining Twenty-Nine’s face, Wulfgar looked back up at the slavers. “I have seen him before,” he answered coldly. “But I don’t care for his welfare. When this group has finally finished their labors and you are ready to dispense with them, bring this one to me. I want him to be one of the forty.” The slaver holding the trident to Twenty-Nine’s back smiled wickedly and nodded.

  “The ‘forty’?” Serena asked quizzically.

  Wulfgar smiled. “You will understand soon enough,” he answered, and he guided her to the doorway at the far end of the room. Without looking back, Serena followed him through.

  The next room lay some distance below where they were standing, and it was very large, its brightness in direct contrast to the room they had just left. Like the Scriptorium, this chamber was also littered with white marble tables. The walls and floor of the room were constructed of a very pale green marble, and the many ornate stained-glass windows in its walls lay open to the night. The breeze coming off the ocean filled the air with a cool, welcoming scent.

  Consuls were busy at work here. A great pile of what seemed to be demonslaver clothing lay unexplained in one corner of the room, with several slavers standing next to it. Taking her by the hand, Wulfgar led Serena down to the shiny green floor via a long, curved series of steps.

  Then a door opened in the wall to their left, and a large, menacing squad of slavers began roughly herding a group of terrified slaves into the room. Nine-tails cracked out in the air, and shiny tridents and swords poked and prodded the unfortunate captives as they moved haltingly along.

  Serena recognized some of them as those who had shouted insults at her in the room of cages. As she looked at them, she smiled. They didn’t seem so arrogant just now. She wondered what Wulfgar had meant about the sand in the hourglass of their lives growing short.

  Wulfgar snapped his fingers, and slavers immediately brought over two luxuriously upholstered red velvet chairs. Motioning to Serena, Wulfgar bade her sit in one, and he took the other. Then two more slavers appeared, bearing goblets of red wine that they offered to their lord and lady. Wulfgar tipped his glass in Serena’s honor and took a sip. After joining him in the excellent wine, his queen turned her attention back to the helpless slaves being paraded before her.

  The group contained both men and women, and the brands on their shoulders told her that they were a mixed group of endowed and unendowed blood. As the slavers began pushing them toward the marble tables, the confused slaves cried out frantically in terror. Blatantly ignoring their wailing, the slavers began hoisting them up onto the tables and tying them down. The consuls, silent and foreboding in their dark blue robes, carefully watched the proceedings unfold.

  When all of the slaves were secured, one of the consuls walked forward to stand obediently before Wulfgar. Lowering the hood of his robe, he looked up into the commanding, hazel eyes of his new master.

  Smiling back at the consul, Wulfgar nodded. The consul turned to face the rows of tables. Then Wulfgar’s servant bowed his head and raised his arms.

  The torches in the room began to dim, their light slowly replaced by the azure glow of the craft. As the glow encompassed the entire room, Serena heard soft tearing sounds that gradually became louder and louder. As the unusual noise increased, so did the screaming of the slaves, the two disparate sounds combining to create a bizarre chorus of anguish. Smiling, the consul standing before them lowered his hands and calmly placed them into the opposite sleeves of his robe.

  Then Serena realized what was happening. The twisted loincloths of the men and the simple, one-piece frocks worn by the women were being torn apart by the craft. They fell to the floor, leaving the terrified people on the marble tables naked, humiliatingly exposed.

  The consul standing before Wulfgar and Ser
ena turned back to look at Wulfgar. After taking another sip of wine, Wulfgar nodded. Returning to his work, the consul again raised his arms.

  The azure glow in the room increased to a brightness that almost made it difficult to keep one’s eyes open. The slaves began to writhe painfully in their bonds and scream even louder. And then their transformations began.

  First the color of their skin changed into the stark, blanched white so characteristic of demonslavers. Serena watched, her mouth agape, as the slaves’ hair began to fall out, sliding from their skulls and bodies to drift down onto the various tabletops and the green marble floor.

  Then, surprisingly, their genitalia began to disappear. The women’s breasts flattened, coming to resemble those of the males. Gasping with disbelief, Serena realized that what she had long assumed about the demonslavers being male had not been true. They were asexual beings, made that way by the craft.

  As she watched, the slaves’ fingernails and toenails began to fall away, drifting silently to the floor. In their place talons emerged. Suddenly, still screaming and struggling against their bonds, they all closed their eyes. When they opened them again, their eyes had been replaced with the white, lifeless-looking orbs of the demonslavers. Then their muscles began to bulge, becoming hard and strong. Their ears lengthened to points, and as the victims twisted their mouths with agony, Serena could see that their teeth had become pointed and black.

  The azure glow slowly faded, and the room became strangely quiet as the subjects on the tables finally stopped wailing and lay still, their metamorphosis complete.

  Turning to look at Wulfgar’s profile, Serena smiled. The creation of the demonslavers was ingenious, she thought. First the consuls of the Brotherhood had been turned, and now the Chosen One’s subjects, as well—all aligned against them and their wizards.

  “How is this possible?” she asked Wulfgar. She took another sip of wine.

  “It has to do with something called Forestallments,” he answered simply. “And they have to do with the craft. But for now, suffice it to say that the spells for the creation of the slavers were passed from Nicholas to Krassus, who will soon show you how to use your Forestallments, as I am now able to do.” He ran a hand down her cheek. “And when that happens, my love, it is a wondrous moment of realization. Your blood will sing. I very much look forward to sharing that day with you.” He leaned over and kissed her, then straightened again.

  “And now that Krassus has found the particular Forestallment he wanted so badly, and has placed it into my blood signature, he is free to convert all of the remaining slaves, both Talis and R’talis alike, into demonslavers. We have nearly completed transforming them all. He also tells me that only I, of all the endowed beings in the world, carry this special Forestallment in my signature. In my heart I know this single Forestallment, more than any other, is the one upon which our struggle with the Chosen Ones shall soon turn, but he has yet to inform me of its nature. Perhaps tonight he shall.”

  Then the consul approached Wulfgar and bowed. Wulfgar nodded.

  “Permission to continue, my lord?” the consul asked.

  “Of course. When you are finished, you all may leave.”

  After a low bow, the consul returned to the tables. With a wave of his hand, the bindings holding the newly created demonslavers vanished. As they did, the beings sat up and came to stand on the floor. They were directed to the large pile of clothing in the far corner of the room, which they used to dress themselves. Then the newly minted slavers filed quietly out, presumably to take up the weapons that were still being constructed in the forge. The consuls and senior demonslavers followed in their wake, leaving Wulfgar and Serena alone in the great room.

  Rising from his chair, Wulfgar walked over to one of the open stained-glass windows and looked out. Lost in thought, he took a deep breath and leaned against the window frame. The three rose-colored moons were up, and the sea below was calm.

  Concerned for him, Serena stood and went to join him, linking her arm in his. “Tell me, my love,” she asked, hoping to take his thoughts away from whatever was troubling him. “What is Krassus’ part in all of this to be?”

  Wulfgar took a deep breath. “For now, we still need him,” he answered, his eyes still leveled on the Sea of Whispers. “But not for much longer. I believe Nicholas only meant for Krassus to be a tool, an instrument of victory as it were, rather than to preside over the victory himself. That is to be our task. As Krassus said himself, very soon now he will be dead. And when he is, we alone will be left to carry the battle to the Chosen Ones, and prevail against their practice of the Vigors.”

  He turned away from the window and looked around the deserted room. “Very soon now, all of the remaining slaves will have been transformed, and the struggle can begin. But what concerns me the most is that we are still not in possession of the other scroll. Nicholas and Krassus have deemed it important that we have them both in order to ensure our victory. And still I do not know why.”

  She could see the worry in his eyes. “Krassus asked us to join him for dinner, did he not?” she asked. “Perhaps tonight you will finally get the answers you seek.”

  Wulfgar nodded his silent agreement and escorted her from the room.

  The walk back to Krassus’ quarters was pleasant, and the new master and his pregnant queen talked of many things as they walked along, arm in arm. The Citadel was quiet now, the only sounds coming from the lighted fountains as they danced and played in the manicured gardens of the inner ward, and the quiet, careful footfalls of the demonslavers on patrol. Finally arriving at the door to Krassus’ private quarters, Wulfgar knocked lightly once, then twice more.

  An armed demonslaver let them in. Krassus was sitting alone at an elaborately decorated table, his back to them as he gazed thoughtfully out to sea. Enticing aromas drifted up from the sumptuously laid table.

  Turning to look at Wulfgar and Serena, Krassus smiled. There was genuine admiration in his eyes for these two magnificent beings of the craft he had been so privileged to help create. Lifting one hand, he beckoned them nearer.

  “Come in, my children,” he said softly. “Sit with me this night, and we shall talk of the wondrous things to come.”

  As Wulfgar and Serena took their places at the table, the demonslaver bowed once more. Walking out the door, he closed it behind him and took up guard in the hall outside.

  CHAPTER

  Fifty-three

  I still can’t believe you’re actually here!” Shailiha squealed happily to her brother for what seemed to him to be at least the hundredth time. She gave him yet another affectionate hug, nearly squeezing the life out of him and causing him to spill his wine. On the prince’s other side sat an equally ecstatic Celeste, who had embraced him closely when he descended from the litter.

  The hour was late, bordering on dawn, Tristan guessed, and he was tired beyond all measure. Still bloodied and exhausted from the recent fighting, he had already eaten several healthy portions of the gnome wives’ wonderful cooking, washed down with a serious amount of red wine.

  Not ones to stand on ceremony, Tyranny and Scars had done the same, Scars eating so much so quickly that the diminutive cooks had been forced to make five separate trips back and forth to the kitchens just for him. Of course the territorial little women had fussed worriedly over everything, but Tristan knew that deep down they were secretly delighted.

  Looking around the massive oak meeting table in the Hall of Supplication, the prince realized what a disparate group of people had been gathered here. It included himself, Shailiha—with Morganna playing on the floor close by—Celeste, Abbey, Geldon, Wigg, Faegan, Tyranny, and Scars. Or, put another way, he thought wryly, the group consisted of a prince, a princess, an herbmistress, a hunchbacked dwarf from Parthalon, two irascible wizards, a three-hundred-year-old beauty, a female pirate captain, her giant first mate, a baby, and Faegan’s blue cat, of course.

  Tristan shook his head. Telling everyone his story would probably l
ast well past sunrise. And he needed to hear of all that had transpired while he was gone, as well.

  The Chamber of Supplication was the great hall in which Tristan’s father and the late Directorate of Wizards had from time to time heard special, urgent requests from the populace. Sometimes, if the petition was worthy and within the wizards’ ethical and magical purview to provide, it would be granted. The chamber was made of dark blue Ephyran marble. Patterned rugs adorned the floor, and light flooded the room from wall torches and the great oil-lamp chandelier that hung over the table.

  When Wigg and Faegan had suggested this room in which to talk, Tristan had quickly agreed. He knew that the wizards would not want strangers poking about in the Redoubt below. And despite the fact that he trusted the pirate captain and her first mate implicitly, Tristan went along with the wizards’ request.

  Tristan’s arrival by Minion litter had been joyous, to say the least. Upon reaching the coast, he had ordered K’jarr to fly ahead and tell everyone they were coming. As a result, every person in the palace had come running out to greet them at once, including as many Minions, male and female alike, as could wedge their way into the courtyard.

  Being the first one out of the litter, Tristan had been immediately pounced upon by Shailiha and Celeste. Then Ox had taken him up in his great arms like a vise, hugging him tightly and lifting him high off his feet. As he did, the other warriors cheered. Tristan could scarcely breathe.

  “Ox so glad to see Chosen One!” the huge warrior bellowed. “Ox worried!”

  Geldon exited next, followed by Tyranny and Scars. When the sea captain and her first mate appeared, things became a bit awkward, to say the least.

  First there had been the issue of Scars. Tristan had known for some time that he had earned the giant’s grudging respect, and with that had come a certain attitude of protectiveness. When Scars saw Ox go for Tristan, his first instinct had been to free him. Caught in Ox’s arms, Tristan had barely managed to wave Scars off.