Tristan sat back in his chair, trying hard not to appear as disgusted as he felt. “Is there a name you have given to this place?” he asked.
“Of course,” Traax answered. “We call it the Proscenium of Indictment. Other places also serve as venues for the Kachinaar, of course, but the Proscenium is quickly becoming the favorite.”
And just what in the name of the Afterlife do I do about this now? Tristan wondered. Allowing this form of barbarism to exist here, under his aegis, was unthinkable. But he needed these warriors—every single one of them. Eliminating something so popular and that they were obviously so proud of, and doing so on his very first visit, might well cause too much ill will.
Still struggling with the decision, Tristan tried to think of what Wigg would tell him if he were here. Many had been the time, during their search for Shailiha and the Paragon, that the lead wizard had ordered him to forget the things he saw, no matter how vile, and to concentrate instead on the larger goal. Using the Minions to crush Scrounge’s hatchlings and somehow prevent Nicholas from empowering the Gates of Dawn had to take priority. He therefore decided to speak no more of the Proscenium or the Kachinaar for the time being. He would not condemn these traditions. But he would not give them his verbal approval, either. He decided to change the subject.
“And now for the true reason I have come,” he said, looking into Traax’s eyes. “I am ordering as many of the legions as you can possibly spare to Eutracia. Immediately. We have a host of new enemies, and it shall be the Minions’ task to destroy these monsters.” He folded his arms across his chest and sat back. Holding his breath, he waited for Traax’s response.
“It has been too long since we have seen action, my lord,” Traax said. Gripping the hilt of his dreggan, he held the shiny blade to the light of the chandeliers. “And it will be good for our swords to again taste blood, especially since we can no longer train to the death. Your enemies are ours.” He refocused his green eyes back on the Chosen One. “Tell me more,” he said eagerly.
At that moment the food came. Tristan became quiet, waiting for the women to depart. The Parthalonian grouse was excellent, perhaps the best bird he had ever tasted. He quickly washed down several helpings of both the seasoned grouse and the dark, rich bread of the Minions with several glasses of hearty red wine. In between bites he gave Traax his orders.
The reconstruction of the Recluse was to be put on indefinite hold, he said. Traax was to begin assembling his men—along with weapons, support staff, materiel, and foodstuffs—and placing it all near the entrance to Faegan’s portal. Also, the fleet anchored at Eyrie Point was to depart as soon as possible, carrying additional troops. Should there be any serious problems in the execution of his orders, a Minion messenger was to immediately come through the portal, informing him.
Tristan described the hatchlings and the scarabs, and Traax only smiled, his sense of anticipation growing. Tristan purposely did not mention Nicholas or the building of the Gates of Dawn. He would explain those things to Traax once the entire force had arrived in Eutracia and were at his disposal. Getting them there was the chief concern now, and he did not wish to confuse the issue for his second in command, or give him a possible reason to object.
Above all, he especially did not want Traax or any of the other Minions to become aware that the wizards were losing their powers.
“There are several other points you must adhere to strictly,” Tristan continued, remembering the things the wizards had insisted upon. “Mark my words well, for your life and the lives of your troops shall depend on it. Should you see any weakness or fading in the consistency of the vortex, it is paramount that no more warriors go through. Such an anomaly will mean either that the portal is about to close, or there is something wrong with its operation. If anyone goes through at that time they could die horribly, forever lost somewhere in between. They are to run through as fast as they know how and as many abreast as the portal allows, so as to add to our numbers on the other side as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Traax answered.
“You are also to leave a small skeleton force here, to continue hunting the shrews. I give you five days to organize all of this. Then you are to come to Eutracia, by way of the portal. You and I still have much to discuss, not the least of which is our plan of battle.”
Traax took a deep breath as he formulated his next thought. He took another sip of the wine. “The Chosen One understands, does he not, that the ocean voyage takes at least thirty days?”
“Yes,” Tristan said. “But there is little we can do about that. And in the meantime Minion troops should be pouring through the portal, especially if my wizards can find a way to enlarge it, or to hold it open longer.”
“And my lord understands the bargain of tenfold times four, the agreement made by the Coven to ensure a safe crossing?” Traax asked politely.
Tristan froze, not knowing what to say. At long last here it is, he thought frantically. He reminded himself that he must never show weakness or a lack of knowledge, especially at this stage. He needed to get the answer without revealing to the Minion that he did not know what it was. He turned to Ox. Having been part of the force that invaded Tammerland, the giant Minion must also know—yet in their great concern for their many other problems, they had not thought to ask him. Tristan saw a hint of concern creep into the corners of Ox’s large, dark eyes. This has to do with the craft, he realized. For nothing else of this world gives pause to a Minion warrior.
“I forced the Coven to reveal the secret of crossing before I killed them all,” Tristan finally said with hardness in his voice, hoping desperately that the Minion would accept the lie. “We must make allowances for the increased degree of difficulty, of course. I know you yourself have crossed, for you were upon the dais in Tammerland that day.” He paused, his jaw hardening. “The day my family and the Directorate of Wizards were all murdered.”
Traax took a long, deep breath, leveling a clearly remorseless gaze at Tristan. “I follow my orders to the letter,” he said sternly, quietly. “No matter who my lord may be at the time. Do you think my great numbers could not have crushed you and your wizard that day in the courtyard when you killed Kluge? But usurping one’s lord in unfair battle is not the Minion way. It is something you shall be quite glad of when we finally arrive again upon your shores.”
Tristan stiffened at the tone in Traax’s voice, but at the same time he knew the warrior was only telling the truth. Tristan was coming to have more than a modicum of respect for the intelligent, clean-shaven Minion sitting before him.
“Tell me your version of the crossing,” Tristan said, finally using his ploy. “I wish to see whether the Coven lied to me.”
Traax nodded, Tristan’s bluff having apparently worked for the moment. “At fifteen days into the voyage, the ships enter a ‘dead zone.’ By this I mean that there is suddenly no wind for the sails, and the sea becomes smooth as glass. The air is so cold that one can see his breath. Then a thick fog coalesces into the shape of two hands, gripping both the bow and stern of the ship, holding it in place. Voices come from faces in the water, demanding the forty dead bodies. We throw them over, and they are consumed. Only then do the Necrophagians, the Eaters of the Dead, allow us to pass.” He paused for a moment, thinking.
“We will, of course, require forty dead bodies. And, as you know, they must be fresh,” Traax added. “If my lord would allow it, I am sure we could easily arrange for a session of training to the death on board, just before entering the dead zone. This could easily result in the required number of fresh corpses.” He paused again, a look of concern growing on his face. “All of this assumes, of course, that the Necrophagians will honor the bargain despite the fact that the sorceresses are not aboard, much less still living.”
Tristan sat back, trying not to appear horrified by Traax’s story. Necrophagians . . . the Eaters of the Dead. He had to find a way to corroborate the bizarre tale—and the one person in
this land he was so far willing to trust was Ox. He turned to the huge Minion by his side. “Is this the way you remember it?” he asked.
“Yes, Chosen One,” Ox said.
Tristan nodded. “Then either my wizards shall deal with the Necrophagians, or we shall not cross by sea. One way or another, we shall find a solution.”
Traax gave the prince a strange look.
“Is there something else?” Tristan asked him. “Something you don’t understand?”
“Forgive me, my lord, but this is something I must ask,” Traax replied. “Are you ill?”
Tristan stiffened. “Why do you ask?” he answered as casually as possible.
“The veins in your arm,” Traax said. “They look inflamed. Have you been injured?”
“A battle wound, nothing more,” Tristan lied. “My wizards have already begun the healing process. I shall be by your side when the time comes.”
He stood from the table, indicating that Ox and Traax should follow suit. Each of them replaced their dreggans into their scabbards. Tristan turned to Traax. “Do you understand your orders?”
Traax clicked the heels of his boots together. “Yes, my lord,” he answered quickly. Together the three of them walked outside, reentering the coliseum.
“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” Traax asked. “Will you be staying the night?”
“No,” Tristan answered. “We must go back.” With a sense of finality, he looked at the stars. “I ordered my wizard to briefly open the portal each hour until my return. We shall walk to the place at which we first arrived. Our wait will not be long.”
“In that case I shall go to the Recluse, and begin informing the legions of the upcoming campaign,” Traax said. He smiled again. “They will be most happy to hear of it. I shall see you in Eutracia, in five days’ time.”
“Five days,” Tristan repeated. In a final gesture of good faith, he held out his right hand. Traax extended his, as well. With a strong slap, each man firmly grasped the inner side of the other’s forearm. The pact had been made. With that Traax again clicked his heels, then walked away.
Tristan and Ox left the hauntingly beautiful, moon-shadowed Proscenium. The fresh Parthalonian snow crunching beneath their feet, they returned to the spot in which they had arrived. In the near distance the partially rebuilt Recluse shone brightly from the many torches surrounding it, just as it had during the days of the Coven. Suddenly, from the area of the castle came the sound of great cheering and yelling.
His breath leaving his lungs in frosty clouds, Tristan looked to the stars, and to the three rose-colored moons that bathed the twinkling, snowy ground with their crimson hue. He gathered his coat around him and remained that way for some time, thinking of his many loved ones who had died at Minion hands. Ox stood silently by his side, as if the huge warrior had been doing so all of his life.
May the Afterlife grant me the peace to know that what I have done is right.
CHAPTER
Forty-one
Wigg sat quietly at the rather large table. He had his doubts concerning what Faegan was about to do, but he had finally agreed to it. Faegan sat nearby in his chair on wheels. In his hands he held an oddly shaped glass beaker, its liquid contents glowing brightly with the power of the craft.
Tristan and Ox had not yet returned from Parthalon, but each of the wizards knew it was still too early to be concerned. Shailiha was sleeping safely in her bedroom. The rest of those who lived here in the Redoubt were quietly going about their duties.
The two wizards sat alone in the antechamber that protected the Well of the Redoubt. Several days before, they had removed the stone from around Faegan’s neck and placed it beneath the continually running waters of the Well, hoping that might help protect the stone. That act should also have caused everyone of the craft to lose their gifts, but to their amazement, that didn’t happen. Not only did they all keep their gifts, but the decay of the stone went on unabated.
Wigg and Faegan had just come from checking on the stone. The Paragon losing its color—and at a strangely accelerating rate. To an untrained eye, the loss of color in the Paragon would have appeared fairly constant. But not to someone as highly trained as Faegan. This had set the curious master wizard to thinking. As a result he had come to view the entire problem of the fading jewel in a potentially new light.
A murky light, he thought as he sat there in his chair, holding the odd beaker he had brought with him. But not one without possibilities in the darkness of our troubles.
Given his tenuous but hopeful new hypothesis, he had immediately gone to the Archives to do research. It had taken some time, but he eventually found the rather esoteric calculations he was looking for. Then had come several hours in one of the Redoubt laboratories, laboring to get the mixture just right.
Due to his reduced powers, it had taken him far longer to accomplish this than normal. The hard-won result was the glowing fluid he now held.
“Are you really sure that this is going to work?” Wigg asked, ever the skeptic.
“What’s wrong, Wigg?” Faegan retorted impishly. “Do you no longer trust my abilities?” His experience of being back in one of the laboratories again, even though difficult, had energized him. Just as it always did. Research, followed by the successful physical application of its results, were his favorite aspects of the craft.
“Let’s see,” he continued, feigning an air of ignorance. “First it was the Forestallments I had to convince you of. You fought back hard on that one. And then came the bond between Shailiha and the hatchling. You were highly skeptical about that one, too. But I was correct on both counts, I believe. Will you never be able to admit that I sometimes get things right?” His gray-green eyes twinkled, and he dangled the beaker tauntingly at Wigg, even though he knew his friend could not see him doing so. “Would you like to try for two out of three?”
Unwilling to join into the game, Wigg simply sighed. “Has Shawna the Short done her part in this foolishness?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Faegan said happily. “She informed me this very morning that she was quite finished. And she took great relish in it, I can assure you. It took her the past two evenings to finally accomplish her mission without raising suspicion. She has, of course, absolutely no idea why I would request something so bizarre. She has also been sworn to secrecy regarding her actions.” Faegan smiled. “She certainly loves a good mystery. Almost childish about it, in fact.”
She’s not the only one, Wigg thought. “Let’s get on with it,” he growled.
Closing his eyes, Faegan levitated Wigg in his chair. Then he levitated himself, chair and all, in the same fashion, and carefully removed the stopper from the beaker. He slowly poured the azure fluid out into a small, glowing puddle on the floor of the room.
His expression became more serious, and he closed his eyes in concentration. Almost immediately the fluid began to spread across the floor, finally progressing from wall to wall and corner to corner. Not one scintilla was left uncovered. And then, after several moments had passed, the fluid completely disappeared.
Faegan opened his eyes, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Time to go, Wigg,” he said softly. “Our work here is done.”
With that, the single door at the opposite side of the room swung open by itself and the two wizards floated from the room, coming to rest on the floor of the hallway outside.
The great mahogany door closed firmly upon its strange secret as the two ancient friends made their way back down the hallways of the Redoubt.
CHAPTER
Forty-two
Tristan sat with Faegan, Wigg, and Shailiha behind closed doors in the Archives of the Redoubt. As usual, Morganna slept in the sling across Shailiha’s chest. It had taken the prince some time to relate his experiences in Parthalon.
The wizards’ expressions had become far graver when they heard the macabre tale of the Necrophagians.
“We simply cannot allow the armada to cross,” Faegan said. “The
Necrophagians’ bargain was with the Coven, and the sorceresses are all dead. We have no way to know whether the bargain would still be honored, and we can’t risk losing all those warriors for nothing.” He thought for a moment. “We must send Ox back to Parthalon immediately, with written orders from Tristan to belay the sailing.” He stroked his blue cat as it contentedly purred in his lap. “It seems I shall just have to speed up my efforts to find a way of both widening the portal, and holding it open longer.” He sighed deeply. “But it shall not be easy.”
Tristan looked to Shailiha. She seemed more pale somehow, and weaker. “Are you all right?” he asked earnestly. “Did something happen to you while I was away?”
Knowing how much she cared for her brother and how difficult it was for her to lie to him, the two wizards held their breath, hoping against hope she would say the right thing. Shailiha stifled the urge to bite her lower lip, a dead giveaway whenever she was unsure of herself.
“I’m fine, little brother,” she said reassuringly. She reached out, gently touching the gold medallion that hung around his neck. “No need to worry. I think I’m just tired from all of the excitement.” She saw the wizards uncoil a little. Deftly changing the subject, she took up Tristan’s right hand. “Was it bad?” she asked, referring to his second convulsion.
“Yes, Shai,” he said quietly. “I have never experienced such pain in my life. My right arm is now somewhat weaker, and very sore. Had Ox not been with me, I might have swallowed my tongue and suffocated. I still can’t get used to the fact that a Minion has become one of my friends.” He turned to the wizards. “I don’t suppose there is any point in my asking whether you two are any closer to finding a cure?”
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