And Wulfgar’s patience was wearing thin.
The Enseterat turned to look at the still-inert body of Celeste, lying facedown like a broken doll beneath the pile of records drawers. He gave a short laugh. He had not bothered to determine whether she was still alive, but he really didn’t care. Who was she, he thought, to think that she might challenge his powers?
He turned back to regard the azure, serrated knife that hovered in the air near the wizard’s right calf. He had chosen to conjure this particular instrument not only because it could yield its results slowly and with great precision, but also because the simplicity of the concept amused him.
Leaning forward, Wulfgar smiled. “Sometimes less is more, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked Faegan. Eyes glazed over, the crippled wizard tried to lift his head, but couldn’t.
“I will . . . never tell . . . you,” he said thickly. “No matter what you do . . . to me.”
“As you wish,” Wulfgar answered casually. The Enseterat narrowed his eyes, and the serrated edge of the knife moved closer to Faegan’s calf.
Then it began to slowly scrape its way down along the raw, exposed flesh and nerves of Faegan’s leg.
Faegan screamed. His eyes bulged and the cords in his neck knotted, standing out in sharp relief. Then the blade stopped about halfway down, and Wulfgar pursed his lips. Crying and babbling incoherently, Faegan’s head slumped forward onto his chest.
Wulfgar sighed. “I may have to enter your mind after all,” he said casually. “Even though that was not my first choice. I now ask you for the last time: Where is the scroll?”
Slowly opening his eyes, all Faegan saw was a blur sitting across from him. Blinking hard, he desperately tried to get his mind working again. He had been holding out for as long as he could. But he feared that if he rebelled much longer, Wulfgar would walk through his mind, trying to discover the location of the scroll. And if that happened now, weak as Faegan had become with the torture, all of their planning would be for naught. For then the bastard brother of the Chosen Ones would possess a secret far more precious than even the Scroll of the Vigors. The secret that he, Wigg, and Abbey had discovered and wished to keep hidden no matter the cost.
He would do his best to endure one more use of the azure knife, he thought drunkenly. And then he would give Wulfgar the scroll. That was what Wigg and Abbey would want—to sacrifice the scroll in order to keep the secret.
Raising his head, Faegan did his best to look into Wulfgar’s eyes.
“No,” he said bluntly. “Do your worst.” Gathering up all of the saliva he could muster, he spat it directly into Wulfgar’s face.
Calmly wiping away the spittle, Wulfgar gave Faegan a menacing smile.
“As you wish,” the Enseterat said softly.
Narrowing his eyes, Wulfgar caused the knife blade to press up against Faegan’s right leg, and the crippled wizard cried out insanely. As the blade made its slow, torturous way down, waves of hot, searing pain shot through his nervous system. The wizard knew that if the torture continued, he would be only a few heartbeats away from death. That was when he finally allowed himself to beg.
“Please,” he sobbed. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I’ll tell you . . . just don’t do that any more . . . I beg of you . . .”
The knife stopped and moved over to one side. Wulfgar smiled. “That’s more like it,” he said quietly. Leaning forward, he folded his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting,” he whispered.
“The far wall,” Faegan answered. “At the end of the bookcase . . . The three variegated swirls in the marble . . . Touch them all at once . . .”
Wulfgar stood and walked to the wall. He reached up with his right hand and placed his first three fingers on the smooth, cool spots Faegan had described. As he did, the azure glow of the craft surrounded the area.
With a soft click, a section of the marble wall revolved on a pivot to reveal a deep, square vault. The Scroll of the Vigors lay inside, one end pointing toward him. Carefully, almost reverently, Wulfgar pulled it from its resting place.
He cradled the scroll triumphantly. He did not need the Scroll of the Vigors for his personal use. His only need was for the Scroll of the Vagaries, and the secrets it contained. But by keeping this scroll away from the mentors of the Jin’Sai and the Jin’Saiou, he could keep Tristan and Shailiha perpetually untrained.
And in doing so, he would ensure that he would rule supreme forever.
He turned to look back at Faegan, another smile crossed his face.
“When the Orb of the Vigors is destroyed, the life enchantments sustaining you and the lead wizard will vanish, so I must now bid you a final good-bye. I shall leave my warp in place, so that you don’t run off anywhere.”
On his way out of the room, Wulfgar turned back. “Before I go, please let me ask you one final question,” he said courteously. “Tell me, traitor, how does it feel to have betrayed everything you once held so dear?”
Without waiting for a reply, Wulfgar smiled again, and the azure glow of the craft surrounded him. Then the glow disappeared, and both he and the scroll were gone. After a few moments the door to the Hall of Blood Records opened, then closed again.
Sobbing, Faegan looked over at Celeste. Then he looked at the empty vault in the wall, its door still open and yawning at him. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he lowered his face in shame.
CHAPTER
Seventy-two
By the time Tristan’s litter and its accompanying Minion forces reached Tammerland, night was falling. Little had been said during the trip, and it had seemed to the prince that for some reason Wigg and Abbey had remained especially distracted. But he had to admit that he, Shailiha, and Tyranny had all been quiet as well, their hearts heavy with concern about what might have become of Faegan and Celeste.
Tristan was about to give the order to take them down when Wigg leaned out of the litter and looked around. After a time, it seemed he had found what he was searching for. “Have the Minions land us on that rise coming up!” he said firmly. “There is something we must do before going any farther!”
Scowling, Tristan glared at the wizard. “Are you mad?” he shouted. “Celeste and Faegan might be fighting for their lives for all you know! We have to get to the palace!”
“No!” Wigg shouted back. He reached out and took Tristan by the shoulders. “You must trust me! There are things that Faegan, Abbey, and I have not told the rest of you!” For a moment Tristan actually thought that the wizard might go so far as to use his powers, if need be, to enforce whatever he had in mind.
“Now do as I say!” Wigg shouted. “And have them land the litter on that rise below us! And don’t send your troops into the fight until I have done what I came here for!”
His jaw clenched in anger, Tristan looked out of the litter and shouted some orders out to Traax. Almost immediately the litter and the Minion host started toward the rise. As they reached the top, the palace grounds came into view below. Tristan looked down and took a short breath. The blood and bodies of both Minion and demonslaver alike littered the palace grounds. The survivors were still battling. The Minions, greatly outnumbered now, were clearly losing this fight. Most of them had been forced into the courtyard, their backs up against one of the inner walls as the demonslavers rushed them time and time again.
Some of the demonslavers were also dying, but it seemed that for every one of them that went down, two or more Minions died just as quickly. There were so many demonslavers upon them that the Minion warriors could not even take to the air.
His heart full of rage, Tristan spun around and glared at Wigg with angry, beseeching eyes as they landed.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tristan shouted as he thrust one hand out, pointing at the ongoing massacre. “Can’t you see that if I don’t release my warriors, the ones down there will be cut to pieces?”
Wigg grabbed him by the shoulders again. “What I am about to do must be done!” he said harshly. “There is no time to expl
ain! You simply must trust me! What do you want to save the most, eh? Some of the Minions who have sworn to defend you, or the very craft itself?”
Letting go of the prince’s shoulders, Wigg turned to Abbey. Tristan watched as the lead wizard took a piece of parchment from his robes and handed it to her. It was covered with what looked to be Old Eutracian. Then he touched the locket she always wore around her neck and kissed her cheek. Fear on her face, she stood and exited the litter. Wigg waved his arms at the Minions. “Well don’t just stand there!” he shouted. “We must go now!”
As the litter and the Minions climbed back into the sky, Abbey lifted her head and watched her lover depart. One tear of concern fell down her cheek.
By the time the litter reached the palace, Tristan, Shailiha, Tyranny, and the Minions were spoiling for a fight. But by now Wigg had convinced them of why they must not participate, and also of their need to stay close to him.
Looking down into the courtyard from the roof on which they had landed, Tristan saw his Minions finally go flying down and begin tearing into the surprised demonslavers. Before landing he had given Traax orders to leave none of the white-skinned monstrosities alive. Grinning broadly, the Minion second-in-command had nodded in agreement.
Wigg stepped from the litter and glanced up toward the sky. He was greatly relieved to see that the twin orbs of the craft were not visible; that meant that if Wulfgar was indeed here, he had not yet conjured them. But it was imperative that they find Morganna’s firstborn before he was able to enact the Forestallment that would allow him to destroy the Orb of the Vigors.
If Wulfgar was cloaking his blood from Wigg, and he had also been gifted with the powers of invisibility by Krassus, trying to find him could be a nightmare, if not a complete impossibility. Their only hope lay in the fact that Wulfgar had clearly not yet destroyed the Orb of the Vigors, for Wigg still possessed his powers. And so if they could not find Wulfgar, Wigg would force him to come to them.
There was only one way to do that.
Wigg would conjure forth the twin orbs of the craft before Wulfgar did. For wherever the orbs were, Wulfgar would also have to be in order to carry out his plan.
Wasting no time, Wigg raised his arms.
As the four of them watched, a gigantic glow coalesced in the inky night sky. The glow began to spin, quickly becoming the Orb of the Vigors, the massive, golden globe of energy that sustained the altruistic side of the craft. The pale white beams that radiated from its center lit up the night sky for what seemed to be leagues in every direction. Tristan suddenly realized he had never witnessed the orbs at night. It was an awesome sight.
Then the darker, menacing Orb of the Vagaries took shape, its blackness scratched through by bright lightning.
Tristan glanced down to see that the battle in the courtyard below was winding down at last. The surviving demonslavers were being systematically beheaded, just as he had ordered. Traax and Ox landed quietly by his side. Ox looked exhausted, and one leg was wounded. Traax gave his lord a nod, and Tristan nodded back. Satisifed, he looked up at the sky again.
Then Wigg lowered his arms, and a strange sense of quiet descended over everything. The night larks and tree frogs stopped calling out to one another, and the branches of the trees below were no longer swishing to and fro, for the wind had suddenly stopped, as well. The orbs continued to hover silently, as if waiting for something to happen.
And then they changed.
Tristan glanced over at Wigg and saw the lead wizard shake his head, telling him that it was not he who was causing this phenomenon. Wulfgar, he thought.
The orbs had moved closer to each other than he had ever seen. Shards of lightning had begun to shoot back and forth between them, and the orbs themselves were shaking. Tristan glanced at Wigg to see that the lead wizard’s face had blanched as he watched, spellbound.
A band of azure light took form between the orbs. It slowly extended itself from the side of the Orb of the Vigors, growing hauntingly until it reached the Orb of the Vagaries and attached itself.
Then this new connection between the orbs transformed itself from mere light into what looked like a tangible mass. It glowed ever brighter, until it became almost impossible to look upon. Suddenly, Tristan knew what it was.
The Isthmus: the bridge between the two sides of the craft that would somehow allow the destruction of the Orb of the Vigors.
And it had been conjured by Wulfgar.
A deep, commanding laugh shattered the silence. Tristan, Shailiha, and Tyranny drew their swords, blades ringing loudly as one through the air. As they did, the laugh came again.
“Tell me, Brother,” a voice said. “Do you really think you can kill me with a weapon as crude as that?”
They all looked around, but they saw nothing except the magnificent orbs. The laugh came yet again, mocking them.
Then an azure glow began to build on one side of the roof. Turning, his hand clamped tightly around the hilt of his sword, Tristan watched as the glow took shape. As it coalesced, he and Shailiha found themselves staring at their long-lost sibling, the half brother they hadn’t known existed until only a short time ago.
Wulfgar was wearing emerald silk trousers and a matching jacket that lay partially open, exposing his muscular chest. His sandy hair was pulled back from his forehead.
In his arms he held the Scroll of the Vigors.
If Wulfgar had the scroll, that meant he had found Faegan, Tristan realized. Was the wizard dead? And what had happened to Celeste?
Placing the precious scroll down on the roof, Wulfgar gave them all a menacing smile and took several brazen steps nearer.
At that moment, Wigg raised his arms and sent twin azure bolts at Wulfgar.
Casually, almost lazily, Wulfgar also raised his hands and caught a bolt in each. Then, placing his hands together, he joined the two bolts into one and took another step forward. As he did he looked squarely at Wigg and smiled again. Then he spread his fingers.
The azure bolt went screaming back toward Wigg and struck him squarely in the chest, throwing him high into the air, and across the roof. He landed hard on his back, unconscious. The front of his robe was scorched and smoking, and his arms were outstretched, as if in supplication.
Tristan, Shailiha, and Tyranny ran to him and knelt down. Wigg didn’t seem to be breathing. Standing slowly, Tristan glared back with hatred at the monster that had just dared call him brother.
“Is he dead?” he asked, his body shaking with anger. He wanted to attack Wulfgar then and there. But after all he had just seen, he knew it would be hopeless.
Wulfgar simply smiled.
“I asked you a question, you bastard!” the prince raged. “Is Wigg dead?”
On hearing the insulting reference to his parentage, Wulfgar’s face fell for a moment, and his gaze hardened. Then his composure resurfaced again.
Wulfgar pursed his lips. “Probably,” he answered shortly. “I don’t really know. Nor do I care, any more than I care about Faegan, or the daughter of the so-called lead wizard.” Then the smile came again. “Don’t you see?” he asked. He gave a sarcastic laugh. “I’m still rather new at all this.”
Completely beyond anger, Tristan took a determined step forward, but Shailiha grabbed his arm. Tristan stopped, but continued to stare into Wulfgar’s eyes.
“You had best listen to our sister,” Wulfgar said. “You are untrained, and I could kill you with a single thought.”
“Then why don’t you?” Tristan snarled.
“I may do that yet,” Wulfgar answered softly. “But as you have apparently guessed, I have other, more important business to finish first. A mission that your late son first entrusted to Krassus, and then Krassus entrusted to me.” A new thought seemed to cross his mind, and he smiled at Tristan.
“Tell me, Jin’Sai,” he said nastily. “What does it feel like to know that you have not only murdered your own father, but have also lost your only child, as well?”
Tristan to
ok a slow, measured step forward. “The same way it will feel when I kill my only brother,” he growled quietly. “Sad, but necessary.”
Wulfgar shook his head. “Krassus told me you would be inordinately stubborn in your beliefs,” he said. He looked down into the courtyard to see that the prince’s Minions were finishing off his demonslavers. Strangely, he seemed quite unconcerned.
“Don’t you care about what is happening to them?” Tristan asked.
“Why should I?” Wulfgar answered. “You have apparently done away with my fleet, or you wouldn’t be standing here. I don’t know how you did it, and I don’t care. None of that matters any longer, for neither of your wizards can help you. The demonslavers, the screechlings, and the sea slitherers were only a means to an end. Besides, the slavers were all originally your subjects, not mine.
“And by the way,” he continued, “order those Minion warriors behind you to go back down into the courtyard and tell the others not to come up. If any of them approach, our lovely sister—your famous twin—will die.”
Turning, Tristan looked at the warriors and gave them a nod. Reluctantly they jumped from the edge of the roof and soared toward the courtyard.
Trying hard not to look up at the hill above them, Tristan turned back to Wulfgar. He could only hope that after hearing what Wigg had told them in the litter, Shailiha and Tyranny would have the good sense to do the same.
He thought desperately, as if by willing it hard enough he could somehow make them hear him. If Wulfgar turned his gaze there, they would all be finished.
“Now then,” Wulfgar said, almost politely. “Shall we begin?”
Raising one arm, he encased everyone before him on the roof in a wizard’s warp. Tristan couldn’t move any of his limbs, but he found that he still controlled his powers of speech. Apparently satisfied, Wulfgar stared calmly at the people trapped in his warp.
“You’re going to destroy the Orb of the Vigors, aren’t you?” Shailiha asked. “That’s what this has been about all along!”
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 62
