The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Clenching his jaw, Faegan shook his head again. He had already begun partitioning his mind in an attempt to keep Wulfgar from gleaning the location of the scroll. It had been hidden well, and only he and the lead wizard knew where. If he could keep Wulfgar out of his mind, he was relatively sure that the scroll would not be found. The fate of the world would soon boil down to a contest of endowed wills.

  And blood.

  “Very well,” Wulfgar answered softly. “You leave me no other choice.”

  Then Wulfgar did something unexpected. Reaching through the warp he had created, he lifted the hem of Faegan’s robe, exposing the crippled wizard’s destroyed legs.

  Twin bolts of shock and horror went through Faegan.

  Sitting back in his chair, Wulfgar carefully examined Faegan’s mutilated legs. “My, my,” he murmured as he looked closer. “The late Coven of sorceresses did quite a skillful job on you, didn’t they?”

  Faegan’s legs were a gruesome sight. The skin was almost completely gone, and much of the muscle mass looked as if it had been shredded away by some terrible beast attacking the legs with teeth and claws. The remaining bright red muscles throbbed visibly, and what looked to be exposed nerves and blood vessels ran up and down their lengths. For over three hundred years they had been this way, and even given his immense knowledge of the craft, Faegan had never been able to heal them. Only his wizardly self-discipline had kept him from going irretrievably mad from the pain.

  The sight of his legs brought memories flooding back—the same three-hundred-year-old nightmares that he had tried so hard to forget. The Coven had tortured him for information and left him to die, only to be found later by the gnomes of Shadowood and nurtured back to health. And now the same, unspeakable torment was to begin anew. But this time there would be no one to help him, and he probably wouldn’t survive.

  Hoping against hope, he looked over at Celeste, but she was still unmoving. Gathering up his courage, he looked Wulfgar in the eyes. “Why not simply enter my mind?” he asked.

  “I could,” Wulfgar answered. “But when Krassus told me of the nature of your infirmity, I realized that this approach would prove infinitely more entertaining. And with your friends all dead, and my demonslavers in control of the palace, we have all the time in the world to amuse each other. Besides, should this prove unsuccessful, I can always walk through your thoughts later.” The wicked smile came again.

  Looking across the table, Wulfgar spied Faegan’s violin and bow. Calling the craft, he caused them to rise. The bow stroked the strings, and the melody they produced was sorrowful and forlorn.

  “Some music to help drown out the noise?” Wulfgar asked. “Personally speaking, I don’t like screaming. It’s so . . . common.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Wulfgar caused the violin to play louder. He leaned forward eagerly in his chair.

  “Now then,” he said softly. “Shall we begin?”

  CHAPTER

  Seventy

  As Tristan soared along in the litter, he still couldn’t let go of his dread. The enemy fleet had been defeated, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that Wulfgar and Krassus had not been with it, as there had been no atmospheric disturbances that would have accompanied their deaths.

  It was entirely possible that Wulfgar and Krassus had been aboard one of the ships that had been farther out to sea when they sank, but in his heart the prince didn’t think so. And he didn’t think the lead wizard believed it, either.

  Looking across the litter, the prince saw Wigg staring out of the window, lost in thought. Shailiha and Abbey gave Tristan comforting, supportive smiles, but he knew what they were all thinking.

  This wasn’t over.

  Suddenly Traax appeared, flying beside Tristan’s window. The warrior had a very concerned look on his face.

  “Permission to enter?” Traax shouted out. The prince nodded.

  With a single, sure motion, Traax grabbed the roof of the litter, snapped his wings closed, and hoisted himself in. Landing abruptly on the seat next to Shailiha, he looked over at Tristan. Wigg took his thoughtful gaze from the Sea of Whispers and turned his attention to the Minion second in command.

  “There is news,” Traax said simply. “Our scouts have sighted vessels near the mouth of the delta. They say they are demonslaver warships.”

  Tristan froze.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Fourteen, my lord. But there are a dozen or so other ships fighting them. They carry the image of the Paragon on their sails and fly your battle standards atop their masts. That means they belong to the woman privateer, does it not?”

  Tristan’s breath caught in his lungs. “Take us there immediately!” he barked. “I want the warriors to fly as they have never flown before! Those who arrive first are to join the battle immediately! When the litter arrives, search out the Reprisal and take us down! Then I will issue further orders!”

  With a nod of his dark head, Traax dived headfirst from the speeding litter.

  Tristan stared over at Wigg, his eyes searching the ancient wizard’s face for some reassurance that they might get there in time. Wigg looked down at the floor of the litter for a moment, then back up at the Jin’Sai and sadly shook his head.

  Had Scars not been watching his captain’s back, Tyranny would have died immediately. As a screaming demonslaver raised his trident, Scars came up behind him and hoisted the white-skinned monster into his massive arms. With one arm wrapped around the slaver’s throat and the other pushing sideways against its hairless skull, Scars viciously forced the monster’s head over to one side until he heard the neck bones grate, then give way and crack apart altogether. As the light went out of its eyes, Scars hoisted the dead slaver over the nearby gunwale and tossed it into the sea.

  But instead of the body sinking beneath the waves, another fate awaited it.

  Wulfgar’s dark red sea slitherers combed the waters around the struggling vessels, their long, smooth, scaly bodies slipping over and under each other as they sought out their next mouthfuls of warm flesh. Scars didn’t know what these creatures were, or how they had come to be here. Nor did he care. All that concerned him was the survival of his captain and her crew. But the battle was not going their way, and unless the tide turned soon, he knew that they would all perish.

  He grabbed another screaming slaver, viciously broke its back against the gunwale, and dropped it into the sea.

  The screams and the muffled, snarling grunts of the gorging sea slitherers seemed to go on forever.

  As the moments passed torturously by, Tristan’s knuckles turned white around the hilt of his dreggan. It had been more than half an hour since the Minion forces and the litter had turned toward the delta, and still there was nothing to see other than waves. But a report had come back through the Minion lines that some of the fastest warriors had finally reached the fighting and were starting down. For that much, at least, Tristan was thankful. He knew Tyranny needed them.

  As the cold wind lashed his face, he searched the waves for a sign that Tyranny and her little fleet of privateers might still be in one piece.

  And then, finally, there they were.

  Her twelve ships were lying adrift amidst the slaver ships, their decks bloodied. The Reprisal’s spars, sails, and rigging had been damaged in the fight, but she seemed to be in no danger of sinking.

  As the litter went down, Tristan could see that the fighting seemed to be over. Hundreds of Tyranny’s crew, Wulfgar’s demonslavers, and Minion warriors all lay dead. He could not tell what the outcome had been. Body parts from both sides could be seen everywhere. A strange sense of quiet prevailed, despite the horrific nature of the scene. As the litter finally hit the deck, Tristan jumped out, his dreggan held high.

  “You’re late!” he heard Tyranny’s voice call out from somewhere behind him. Then he heard her laugh. “I told you I’d still be in your hair for a while!”

  Tristan spun around to see her standing there, the hilt of her sheathed sword stil
l dripping blood. In one hand she held a bottle of red wine, and in the other was one of her small cigars. After swallowing a healthy swig of wine, she took a draught of smoke, inhaling it deeply. With a satisfied sigh she raised her lovely jaw and blew the smoke toward the sky. Then her expression softened a bit, and she smiled at him.

  “You didn’t think for one moment that I was about to let you have all the fun, did you?” she asked coyly.

  Tristan immediately went over and embraced her. Her face was smudged and bloodied, and her short hair was even more tousled than usual. Looking over her shoulder, he saw that Scars was still alive, helping to direct the tossing of slaver corpses into the sea. Those that had survived the battle were on their knees, waiting to have their throats cut. There seemed to be no shortage of crewmen volunteering for the task.

  By this time Wigg, Abbey, Traax, and Shailiha were all standing beside them, and the bulk of the Minion forces were landing on the decks of the other vessels, dreggans drawn. A few surviving slavers tried to fight them off, but were quickly dealt with.

  “What happened?” Tristan asked anxiously.

  “We were returning to the delta when these slaver ships suddenly appeared out of nowhere,” Tyranny answered. “Thank the Afterlife there weren’t more of them than this! They had completely surrounded us, and we had no alternative but to stand and fight. For some reason it seemed imperative to them that they not allow us any closer to the mouth of the Sippora, and they fought like they were insane. Had your warriors not arrived when they did, we probably wouldn’t be standing here talking to each other.” She took another drink from the bottle, then smiled again.

  Something she had said to Tristan struck a nerve. But before the prince could answer her, Wigg’s voice cut him off, separating him from his thoughts.

  “Tristan!” the lead wizard called out. “Come here and look at this!”

  The prince turned to see Wigg standing beside Scars at the starboard gunwale, staring down into the surrounding sea. Tristan and the rest of them walked over to join him and looked down as well.

  Scars and a handful of Tyranny’s crewmen were tossing demonslaver corpses and body parts into the sea. For the first time Tristan saw the horrific, serpentine sea slitherers as they hissed viciously at each other, competing for the next mouthful of warm flesh.

  “What in the name of the Afterlife are those things?” Shailiha breathed, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “They are certainly a product of the Vagaries,” Wigg mused, “although in all my three-hundred-plus years I have never seen their kind before. I suspect they were meant to follow Wulfgar’s fleet as an additional form of protection. Much like the screechlings. Very clever, when you think about it. One beast to serve him in the sea, and another to serve him in the sky.”

  Tristan looked at Traax. “Before we leave here, select a contingent of warriors to stay behind and deal with these abominations,” he ordered.

  Traax came to attention and snapped his boot heels together. “It shall be done,” he replied quickly.

  Tristan had an important question for Tyranny. But before he could ask her, Scars reappeared by her side. There was a strange look on the giant’s face.

  “Begging your pardon, Captain, but during their searches of the demonslaver ships, our crew made an unexpected discovery.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Turning, Scars pointed one of his huge paws toward the bow deck. “More slaves,” he said quietly.

  Tyranny snapped her head around. Forty filthy, emaciated slaves, men and women alike, had appeared before them on the deck. Shackled together by hand and foot, many of them could no longer stand. Some were on their knees, while others simply lay on the bloody deck, slowly dying. A few stood, looking at their saviors as though they had just descended from some long-forgotten dream.

  Tyranny took a slow step toward them, then another and another, her eyes on a male slave. His hands were crippled and his face and body were covered with soot, as if he had just come from some kind of forge. Dressed in only a tattered loincloth, he had a long, filthy beard and hair that nearly reached his shoulders.

  Then the wine bottle dropped from Tyranny’s hand, and she began to walk faster, then faster still. Finally she was running for all she was worth across the bloody deck.

  “Jacob?” she breathed, not daring to believe. “Jacob . . . Jacob!”

  As if locked within some kind of dream, Twenty-Nine simply stared at her as she came running toward him. With tears in his eyes, he fell to his knees sobbing. As she reached out her arms, Tyranny’s face reflected exultant joy.

  Dropping to her knees, she placed a hand on either side of Twenty-Nine’s face and looked into his eyes. Tears cascaded freely down his cheeks, and he wrapped his shaking arms around her and held her close, as though he never wanted to let go. Pulling him to her, she closed her eyes and began gently rocking him back and forth as she ran one hand down over his long, dirty hair. After what seemed forever, he looked back into her face.

  “Mother and Father?” he asked, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

  Tyranny shook her head. “No,” she whispered back.

  Hearing boot heels, Tyranny looked up to see Tristan standing beside them. “Your brother?” he asked softly.

  Tyranny nodded. “Jacob,” she said, turning her eyes back to him. “I had almost given up hope.”

  Tristan was about to speak again when a quick, dark shadow passed over the deck. Looking up, he saw a Minion warrior half flying, half tumbling down out of the sky. His chest and arms were covered with blood, and one of his wings seemed to be injured.

  He was flying from the direction of the palace.

  Traax and two others immediately took off, reaching their wounded comrade just as he was about to give up and come crashing to the deck. Holding him in their arms, they landed gently and laid him down. Everyone crowded around.

  The warrior’s wounds were grave. Wigg immediately knelt down and placed one palm on the Minion’s forehead. The wizard closed his eyes. Upon opening them again he stood up and, looking sadly over at Tristan, shook his head.

  Kneeling down, Tristan looked into the warrior’s face. His eyelids were heavy, and his breathing was labored. Blood ran from his wounds to mingle with that already on the deck. Tristan lifted the warrior’s head up.

  “Can you hear me?” the prince asked gently.

  The warrior nodded weakly. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Did you come from the palace?”

  Another nod.

  “What happened?”

  Reaching out to grasp Tristan’s forearm, the Minion tried to bring his face closer. Tristan leaned farther down—so close that he could hear the death rattle starting to build in the warrior’s lungs. The Minion’s body was shaking; a trickle of blood ran from one corner of his mouth.

  “Demonslavers,” he whispered. “Too many of them . . . so many of us dead . . .” His face constricted with pain, he looked up into Tristan’s eyes. “You must hurry, my lord . . . Celeste and the wizard Faegan . . . They’re . . .” With a final, wheezing rattle, the last breath escaped from the warrior’s lungs, and his eyes closed.

  Gravely, Tristan laid the warrior’s head down on the deck of the Reprisal. Standing, he stared for a moment into Traax’s eyes.

  Then he ran toward the litter. Shailiha, Abbey, and Wigg followed him. He helped the others safely inside, then was about to get in himself when Tyranny brushed by him and began to climb in.

  Grabbing her by the arm, Tristan gave her a hard look. “What about Jacob?” he asked.

  Stopping, she turned and looked at him. “I’m coming with you,” she said flatly, as the wind moved through her hair. “I owe you this. If you hadn’t seen to it that I had been given these ships, my brother would still be out there, somewhere. And as for Jacob, he couldn’t be in safer hands. Scars will care for him as he would care for me.”

  “Besides,” she added, “I have a feeling that you’re going
to need all the swords you can muster.”

  As she started to climb in again, Tristan pulled her back. “There’s something I have to know,” he asked her urgently. “Did you see any humans during your fight with the demonslavers? Anyone of the craft?” When Tyranny shook her head, Tristan’s heart sank.

  Quickly the two joined the others in the litter. As the litter rose from the decks of the Reprisal, the sky around it became dark with Minion warriors. Like a strange cloud, it turned to the southwest and sped across the sky. Soon the rich, green grasses of the Cavalon Delta appeared below them.

  As Tristan looked out of the litter, a single, burning thought kept crowding out all his other fears.

  Celeste.

  CHAPTER

  Seventy-one

  With a wave of one hand, Wulfgar caused the hovering violin and bow to change the tune they were playing. Listening to the new haunting melody, he closed his eyes and leaned back luxuriously in his chair. When he finally opened his hazel eyes again, he began to speak in an even, measured tone; just as a father might speak to a son whom he had decided needed to be punished.

  “You’re making this far more difficult on yourself than need be,” he said quietly, almost compassionately. “Simply tell me where the Scroll of the Vigors is, and I will grant you a quick, painless death. And the woman, as well, should she still be alive. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? Just think of it—no more agony in your legs, and no more misplaced loyalty to a group of so-called friends who seem to have foolishly left you here in my care. Just a perfect, forgiving, and peaceful sleep that will last forever.”

  Faegan slumped over in his chair, his head lolling to one side. Drool dripped from one corner of his mouth, and his robe was folded up over his lap, exposing his crippled legs. He was soaked with sweat, and his entire body shook uncontrollably from time to time like a marionette dancing at the ends of some unseen master’s strings.

  The torture had been going on for more than two hours now, and twice Wulfgar had been forced to use the craft to bring his subject back to consciousness after the wizard had fainted.