The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Still taking in the grandeur of her surroundings, Adrian was startled when the lead wizard called out her name.

  “Adrian of the House of Brandywyne, please approach.”

  Standing, Adrian took a deep breath and ran her palms down her robe, smoothing it out. Then she walked to the table and looked down at the lead wizard. Not knowing what else to do, she gave him a slight curtsy. The lead wizard smiled.

  “Please sit down,” he said. “And do not be afraid, my child. No harm will come to you here, I promise.”

  Adrian took a seat in the high-backed, upholstered chair across the table from the lead wizard.

  Rifling through the pile of parchments, Wigg finally pulled one out and placed it before him. After examining it, he looked back up at Adrian and smiled.

  “Welcome, my dear. I knew your father. He was one of the best of the consuls.”

  Was, she thought. The single, harsh word went straight through her heart. “Begging your pardon, Lead Wizard, but do you mean to say that—”

  “Forgive me, Adrian,” Wigg interjected quickly. “I do not mean to imply that your father has died. In truth, we do not know. But more of that later. Now then, how many years have passed since you graduated from Fledgling House?”

  Somewhat relieved, Adrian let go the deep breath she had been unconsciously holding. “Nine,” she answered.

  “That would make you one of the first class to do so, would it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you married?”

  “No, Lead Wizard.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  “Please show us your tattoo, if you would.”

  With a nod, Adrian slipped her left arm from the sleeve of her robe and lifted it to show Wigg the Paragon on her shoulder, just as the other acolytes before her had done. After the lead wizard nodded, she placed her arm back into the robe.

  “And now, please demonstrate some small use of the craft,” Wigg asked her. “If the azure glow appears, that is permissible. But as a test of your talents, please try not to produce it.”

  Adrian looked around the room. Seeing the cold fireplace along one wall, she raised her arm and spread her fingers. The logs immediately jumped ablaze. No azure glow was evident. She closed her fist, and the fire went dead. She turned back to the lead wizard just in time to see one of his eyebrows arch up thoughtfully.

  “Well done,” he said. Beside him, Faegan smiled and stroked his blue cat.

  “Please extend one wrist,” Wigg said, placing a blank piece of parchment on the table.

  Adrian did so. Wigg caused a small, painless incision to form in her skin, and a single drop of her blood fell onto the parchment. Almost immediately the droplet began to writhe its way into her familiar blood signature. For some time the two mystics compared it to the document Wigg had pulled from the pile. Finally, the lead wizard nodded his approval.

  Reaching out, he pulled the odd-looking device toward him. It seemed to be a tripod, with a glass lens mounted at its top. Placing it directly over Adrian’s blood signature, he looked down through the lens. After a few moments he nodded again, and passed the entire affair over to Faegan, who went through the same process. When the crippled wizard nodded, Wigg looked up at her and smiled.

  “Welcome, Adrian,” he said to her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Were your father here, he would be very proud. As one of the first class to graduate Fledgling House, your senior status will be very much appreciated. Please take a seat with the others of your sisterhood.”

  With a nod, Adrian walked to the side of the table and joined those upon whom the two wizards had already passed judgment.

  It took close to two hours for Wigg and Faegan to interview the remaining women. In the end, all were accepted.

  Then Wigg stood and spoke to them as a group. He told them a brief history of the return of the Coven of sorceresses, the destruction of the Gates of Dawn, and how and why he had summoned them here. Prince Tristan had wished to greet them personally, Wigg said, but was on urgent business elsewhere. He also told them not to fear the menacing-looking Minions of Day and Night, whom they would soon see in and about the palace.

  When he had finished, Wigg placed each hand into the opposite sleeve of his robe. His aquamarine eyes seemed to see right into the hearts of the assembled women.

  “From this day forward, you are no longer to be known as the acolytes of Fledgling House,” he said solemnly. “You are now the acolytes of the Redoubt, and your place is here, with us. You are hereby accorded all the rights and responsibilities associated with your new positions. As more of your sisterhood arrive, they will be examined as you have been. If they are found to be true acolytes, their blood also unpolluted by the Vagaries, they too will be blended into the fold.” Then the lead wizard smiled.

  “Welcome, ladies,” he said with obvious feeling. “This moment has been too long in coming. It is truly a historic day.”

  CHAPTER

  Sixty-eight

  As Tristan paced back and forth across the deck of his flagship, his mind was overcome with concerns both new and old. The scout ships had gone farther east into the Sea of Whispers days earlier, but still their patrolling warriors had little to tell. There was nothing to see but water, they kept on reporting as they tiredly returned to their vessels.

  Have I ordered us all out here for nothing? he found himself wondering. Had the herbmistress Grizelda lied to them, simply to throw them off track? And if she had, then where was Wulfgar? Were Wigg and Faegan even correct in their assumption that his bastard brother was out to destroy the Orb of the Vigors?

  The prince had gone to join the fleet as soon as he had learned that two of his warriors had gone missing. Although their disappearances proved nothing, he could sense that Wulfgar was out there somewhere. Soon, very soon now, things would come to a head.

  It felt good to be at sea again. His newly acquired love of sailing was truly a part of him now—a part he hoped he would never have to give up completely. As the brisk westerlies moved through his hair, he casually grasped a line of rigging and leaned against the gunwale, his mind lost in thought.

  Wigg, Shailiha, Traax, Abbey, and the warrior K’jarr were all here aboard the Savage Scar with him. Two days had passed since Wigg had accepted the acolytes into the Redoubt. Geldon had been left in charge, to greet any others of the sisterhood who might also make their way to the palace. Shawna the Short and a Minion warrior continued to watch over Marcus, Rebecca, and Morganna, while Ox and the remainder of the Minion forces had also been left behind as a palace guard. Faegan and Celeste, too, remained at the palace, in case their gifts were needed to protect the Scroll of the Vigors. These measures gave Tristan a modicum of comfort. But as he continued to look out over the deep blue sea, the prince was both anxious and worried.

  Traax came to stand next to Tristan. The Minion second in command laced his fingers and leaned his muscular forearms on the gunwale. As the Savage Scar cut through the waves, for several long moments neither of them spoke.

  “Where in the name of the Afterlife are they?” Tristan finally breathed, his gaze still locked on the waves. “Are Wulfgar and his fleet of slavers really on the way, or is this all just some kind of elaborate ruse designed to draw the bulk of our forces away from the palace? Could they have already gotten by us?”

  Looking for answers, he finally turned and searched the warrior’s face. He valued Traax’s opinion greatly, and he needed to know his thoughts.

  “I do not know, my lord,” Traax answered solemnly. “All I can say is that if the roles had been reversed, I would be doing exactly what you are now. Only time will tell. As Wigg said, we have no choice but to believe what the dead herbmistress told us, because it is far too dangerous not to.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” the prince replied. “But I just can’t escape the feeling that—”

  He stopped short as he realized that his breath was streaming out of his mouth in the form of a
short, white, vapor trail. The temperature had dropped so quickly that neither he nor Traax had noticed at first, but now it was so bitterly cold that both of them had begun to shiver. Then the Savage Scar lost all of her forward momentum.

  Fearing the worst, Tristan looked up to the sails. They had all gone completely limp, their lower hems nearly touching the decks. Turning, he desperately looked out over the sea and was horrified to find that its surface had become as smooth as glass. His flagship and every other vessel in the Minion fleet were dead in the water.

  By now Shailiha, Abbey, and Wigg had come running, and the decks were awash with sword-wielding warriors, all shouting to one another and wanting desperately to help, but not knowing what to do.

  From out of nowhere, Tristan was suddenly reminded of something Tyranny had said to him during their first meeting together, that day in her private quarters aboard The People’s Revenge. As he replayed it in his mind, his blood ran cold.

  Speed is the one thing that keeps us alive out here.

  Tristan turned to Traax. The expression on the warrior’s face had become as hard as granite.

  “What is it?” the prince breathed. “What is happening?”

  “It is the Necrophagians, my lord,” Traax answered sternly. “The Eaters of the Dead. They have somehow found us. And nothing I know of can stop them.”

  Then another cold realization shot through the prince—the Necrophagians had never been known to venture this far west! Wasting no time, he reached out and grabbed Traax by both shoulders. As he did, he could see that a strange, dark gray fog had already begun to form. It was snaking its way up from the sea to surround his fleet. Soon the enemy would be here, he realized. And they would be more than just the Eaters of the Dead.

  “Order all of the sails furled!” he shouted. “And signal all of the other ships in the fleet to do the same!”

  “But my lord!” Traax exclaimed in a rare display of protest. “That will do no good! It would be a waste of precious time! With no wind, it does not matter!”

  “Don’t argue with me!” Tristan shouted angrily. “Just do it! And have K’jarr found and brought to me immediately!”

  Traax snapped to attention. After going to bark out the orders, he returned to stand resolutely at his master’s side, his dreggan drawn.

  “What is it?” Wigg called urgently. “What’s going on?”

  But before Tristan could answer, the fog began to coalesce into hundreds of pairs of huge, gnarled hands that came rising up out of the sea. As he watched in horror, they began to cut their way silently through the smooth, still ocean, positioning themselves in pairs near each of the Minion vessels. Then the hands reached out and grasped the bows and sterns of the ships, holding them helplessly in place. Sections of gunwale and railing began to crack apart under the immense pressure.

  Tristan felt his heart sink. He looked up urgently to the masts and spars to see the Minion crewmen trying to furl the sails as fast as they could. Some were done already.

  Suddenly, the sea all around them seemed to come alive. As it began to burble and roil, he looked over the side and saw the horrible faces of the Eaters of the Dead surfacing. Then he saw the first of the maelstroms.

  From beyond the Eaters of the Dead, dozens of glowing waterspouts rose from the sea, turning with a speed so fast he found it dizzying. Their great heights soon dwarfed his ships. The maelstroms flattened out at their tops, then dissolved into thousands of individual, flying creatures. There could be no mistaking them.

  Screechlings.

  And then Tristan gasped as he saw the first of Wulfgar’s demonslavers. The white-skinned monsters had seemingly materialized out of thin air to land crouching on the decks of his ships, their swords and tridents at the ready. Screaming wildly, they began hacking into the surprised Minion warriors with suicidal fury.

  Tristan tried to shout orders out to Wigg and Traax, but each of them was already locked in individual combat. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, Tristan raised it just in time to ward off a blow from a demonslaver that appeared from nowhere. Then he slipped to the right and slashed his dreggan low, tearing the flesh of the monster’s left thigh with the point of his double-edged blade. As the slaver bent over in agony, Tristan raised his blade again and took the thing’s head off with a single blow.

  Using a few precious seconds, Tristan turned desperately to look for Shailiha. When his eyes finally fell on her, he saw that she had drawn her sword and was fighting off a slaver. But the monster was gaining ground on her, pushing her backward across the already bloody deck. Reaching behind his shoulder, Tristan grasped the first of his throwing knives and sent it spinning end over end. The dirk buried itself into the slaver’s neck and the monster fell over.

  Across the deck, Wigg was throwing azure bolt after azure bolt against the demonslavers, killing as many of them as possible the moment they materialized. Then there seemed to be a short lull in the fighting, and for a wonderful, fleeting moment Tristan almost believed they might somehow survive the carnage. But he had forgotten the screechlings.

  The thousands of large, three-winged, brightly colored flying fish descended on the Minion fleet all at once. Deftly avoiding the demonslavers, they soared over the decks, and tore into sails, spars, and Minions alike with their razor-sharp teeth. Many of the warriors took to the air and tried to hack the deadly things from the sky. But it soon became clear that they were outnumbered.

  Spars and rigging came crashing down, and whatever sails had not already been furled were systematically shredded. Minion warriors by the dozens were being viciously torn apart by the screechlings and then hoisted ruthlessly over the side, to be consumed by the wailing, ravenous Eaters of the Dead. Despite all of the screaming, clanging sword blades, and mayhem, the sickening tearing of Minion flesh could be heard rising from waters that were quickly turning red with the crimson stains of death.

  Traax and K’jarr reached Tristan’s side, and the three of them slashed violently with their dreggans. Tristan was about to shout to Traax, when he saw the warrior’s face suddenly fall—a rare sight indeed, even in combat. Whirling around, Tristan looked to see what had so stunned his second-in-command. As he did, his mouth fell open.

  All around them, the warships of Wulfgar’s fleet were materializing. There must have been hundreds of them, Tristan realized, and they had clearly been the launching points of the demonslaver attacks. As endless swarms of demonslavers continued to use swinging lines and gangplanks to land on his decks, Tristan saw that his troops were not only hopelessly outnumbered, but completely surrounded, as well.

  The prince’s heart fell at the thought of how easily they had been led into the trap. Wulfgar must also be here, he thought as he struggled with a screaming slaver, pausing only to raise his dreggan to slash a screechling out of the air. But if Wulfgar was there, then why hadn’t Wigg detected his blood?

  There was only one thing to do now. It had only a small chance of success, and if it was ever to happen it would have to be soon, for the odds against their survival were climbing by the second. The prince shouted out his orders to Traax and K’jarr.

  “Traax, I want you to find Wigg, Abbey, and Shailiha and get them safely into one of the litters! Leave the other litter empty! Tell them it is time, and they will understand! I will join you soon!”

  With a nod, Traax was gone. Reaching down into the top of his right knee boot, Tristan withdrew a small oilskin pouch and carefully handed it to K’jarr.

  “Do you remember your orders?” he shouted to the Minion.

  “Yes, Jin’Sai,” K’jarr shouted back. “It shall be done!”

  Despite the madness and turmoil going on all around them, Tristan took a few precious seconds to look deeply into K’jarr’s dark eyes. “All of our lives and the life of your nation depend on what it is you now do,” he said. “You must not fail us in this!”

  K’jarr unflinchingly returned Tristan’s gaze. “I live to serve!” he shouted.

  With a fina
l nod from his lord, the warrior hid the small package beneath his leather body armor, took to the air, and slipped over the side of the ship. Tristan ran toward the bow, desperately fighting his way through demonslavers and screechlings as he went.

  By now the situation had become so critical and the number of demonslavers so great that a thick horde of Minions had to surround him simply to ensure he would reach his goal. Many of them died. Blessedly, by the time he made it there the others were waiting for him inside one of the litters.

  With Tristan finally aboard, the Minion bearers lifted the litters into the sky and soared upward, just as they were overrun. Some of the screechlings tried to follow, but were cut down by Minion escorts. Then the remainder of the warriors soared from their stricken vessels and followed suit, climbing into the sky after them. As they did, the demonslavers left on the bloody decks cheered and waved their swords in celebration of their great victory.

  Wondering whether his plan would work, Tristan looked silently over at his sister. She was dirty and disheveled and her left arm was bleeding, but Wigg had apparently been able to close the wound for now. Tristan gave her a small smile, and she smiled back.

  Looking down at the fleet he had just ordered abandoned, Tristan desperately wondered whether he had done the right thing. It was out of his control now, he knew. As he waited and watched, he closed his hands tightly around the hilt of his dreggan.

  K’jarr soared low over the waves, desperately staving off the screechlings that tried to force him down into the dark, waiting maws of the Eaters of the Dead. Four times they nearly took him, and four times he fought them off. But the battle on the decks had tired him, and he wasn’t sure how long he could continue searching for the right opportunity.

  Finally, after several long moments of circling the waterline of the Savage Scar, he found a place clear of screechlings and Necrophagians.