Savage Messiah dobas-1

by Robert Newcomb

  Tyranny and her group could, of course, sail home, but it would take far longer. He also knew about the Minion vessels anchored off the shore of Parthalon. That meant that Wigg, Tristan, and Celeste could do the same as Tyranny. But for them to sail home would take longer still, and the Sea of Whispers was a dangerous place.

  Making matters worse, he had no clue about what other horrors Reznik might have arranged for them.

  Seething at his own stupidity, he hardened his jaw.

  When he had interrogated Uther, he had neglected to demand the safe route through the tunnel maze. His plan had been to simply fly into Valrenkium, and then out again. His trust in the abilities of the warriors, his own gifts in the craft, and his desire to see these wrongs ended quickly had led them here, to become trapped like rats. He would not underestimate Reznik again.

  Looking into the distance, he could just make out the dark, square-cut exit in the bluffs. It was an all too tempting trap. Wherever Reznik had gone, he surely hoped that Faegan would be desperate enough to enter, followed by what was left of his ravaged Minions. Reznik's trap was perfect.

  Turning away from the tunnels, the crippled wizard covered his face with his hands.

  CHAPTER XLV

  "And I say you're wrong!" Tyranny bellowed at the chagrined Minion warrior. Her chin stuck out like the prow of her flagship. "What you're telling me is impossible! No vessel ever built could do such a thing! When a ship goes down, she goes down for good, and that's the end of her!"

  Tyranny stomped angrily across the floor of her stateroom and took a cigarillo from the box on her desk. She shoved it between her lips, struck a match, lit it, and then took a quick lungful of smoke. When she turned back to K'jarr, she gave him a look so cold that it could have frozen a bucket of seawater.

  K'jarr pursed his lips. The last thing he wanted to do was to offend Tyranny, but the truth was the truth. He turned his palms up, pleading.

  "I can only tell you what I saw," he said quietly. "The seven ships were each at least four times the size of the Reprise, perhaps larger. They went down bow first. After a time they surfaced again, some distance from where they had submerged. They looked none the worse for wear. Their speed beneath the waves was at least as great as it was afloat. They are as black as night. Had I been alone, I would have thought it all a bad dream. But each of the warriors accompanying me saw the same thing."

  Letting go a defiant snort, Tyranny looked over at Shailiha and Scars. Not knowing what to say, they remained still. The privateer ran one hand through her tousled hair and began angrily pacing back and forth, puffing on her cigarello as she went.

  "The men who supposedly captained these submersible vessels, they were black skeletons, you say? And they didn't drown when they submerged with their ships?"

  As she strode back and forth the soles of her knee boots thumped on the hardwood floor. She glared at K'jarr as though he had just been released from some Minion home for the deranged.

  "Yes, captain," K'jarr answered. "They each wore a tattered uniform that I found eerily familiar." Pausing for a moment, he gave Tyranny a thoughtful look. "Perhaps these skeletal captains didn't need to survive their sea trials after all," he mused.

  Tyranny stopped pacing. "What do you mean?"

  K'jarr took a deep breath. "Perhaps they were dead already. They certainly looked like it."

  Sighing, Tyranny closed her eyes and rubbed her brow. It wasn't bad enough that her damaged frigate wallowed like a harpooned whale through demonslaver-infested waters. Now she had to contend with this outlandish tale. Worse yet, the warriors had come home emptyhanded. But she knew that the warrior had no reason to lie. She looked back at K'jarr.

  "Do you have anything else to add?"

  K'jarr shook his head. "Only that you must believe me," he said. "I'm telling you the truth."

  Sighing, Tyranny shook her head. "You are dismissed."

  With a click of his heels, K'jarr crossed the stateroom and left. The intricately carved door closed quietly behind him.

  Tyranny went back to her desk and sat down. Sensing that it was going to be a long night, she reached for the wine bottle sitting there and poured herself a glassful. She lifted the bottle toward Shailiha and Scars, who sat in twin chairs opposite her desk. When they nodded, she poured two more goblets full. Then, crossing one of her long legs over the other and placing them atop the desk, she exhaled a long billow of bluish smoke.

  For some time, the only sounds disturbing the quiet of the stateroom were the creaking of the ship and the splashing of the waves, just below the open stained-glass windows.

  "You were hard on him," Shailiha said quietly. "Despite what you might think of his story, I have never known a Minion warrior to lie."

  Tyranny sighed. "I know," she answered. "But-do you really believe the wild story he just told us?"

  Shailiha leaned forward and placed her wine glass on the desk. The wound on her forehead was purple and swollen, and she was tired.

  "You are new to the wonders and the horrors of the craft," she said. "In the right hands, magic can do amazing things. Not all of them are good."

  "So you believe him?"

  "I think it's too dangerous not to," the princess answered.

  Tyranny looked over at Scars. "And you?"

  The gigantic first mate shrugged his shoulders. "I have seen far fewer uses of the craft than the princess. Those I have witnessed have astounded me. I don't think it impossible. But I will tell you one thing for certain." He emptied his wine goblet in a single swallow and placed it back on the desk. His expression darkened. "If what K'jarr says is true and we meet those Black Ships on the open sea, there will be no hope for us. We must do everything we can to avoid them."

  Tyranny stood up from her chair. She walked to one of the open windows and angrily tossed her spent cigarillo into the sea.

  The last day and a half had passed quietly enough. While the Reprise lumbered southeast, her crewmen and the Minion warriors were doing everything they could to repair the mangled ship.

  A new bowsprit had been carved and mounted, most of the damaged rigging had been replaced, and the canvas-masters were busy mending the sails. The repairs to the hull were holding. Still, the damage to the fallen mast could only be repaired in port. Until it was replaced, the Reprise was much slower than she had been, and that continued to worry her captain. But for the most part the warship was again seaworthy. So far, no other vessels had been sighted.

  Tyranny knew she had three choices. First, she could continue their mission to capture a demonslaver. But given their reduced speed, that would prove problematic. Second, they could return to Faegan's portal, wait for its daily opening, and use it to go home. Doing so would probably cause further damage to the ship, but they would presumably be delivered so close to the shore of Eutracia that it wouldn't matter. Third, they could sail home without the aid of the portal. The voyage would take quite a bit of time, and sailing home would be fraught with dangers, not the least of which were the strange Black Ships K'jarr had mentioned-if they truly existed.

  As she thought over her options, Tyranny gazed out the window. Darkness was falling, the sea calm. She finally nodded. When she turned back to Shailiha and Scars she was smiling slightly.

  "Is Faegan's other spell still working?" she asked the princess.

  Before departing Eutracia, the crafty wizard had not only enchanted her against seasickness, but also enveloped her in a spell that would cloak her endowed blood from practitioners of the craft. As long as the spell was working, she would feel a slight but not unpleasant tingle in her left hand. She held her hand up and rubbed her fingers against her palm.

  "Yes," she answered. "I think we should continue our mission. Tristan wants a demonslaver." A sly smile crossed her face. "Let's go get him one."

  "I agree," Scars interjected. "We didn't come all this way just to turn tail and go home. Besides, it's been too long since I've broken the bones of some of those white-skinned bastards. I'm eager
for some exercise." Tyranny nodded. "Very well, then. But we cannot take the Reprise much closer to the Citadel for fear of being seen. We'll have the Minions fly us in and back out again." She looked closely at Shailiha. "Are they strong enough to carry us?"

  "When the Gates of Dawn collapsed, Ox carried Tristan all the way home to Tammerland," the princess said. "But Ox is extremely strong. K'jarr would know the answer better than I. He has already made the trip to the Citadel and back. He could also select the best fliers."

  Remembering the other gift of the craft that Faegan had so wisely conjured for them, Tyranny smiled. Lashed to the deck above and covered with a massive oilskin, it had remained safe through the storm.

  "If we have enough warriors who can carry us, and Faegan's device works properly, then each of the warriors will only have to fly half the journey at a time," she mused. "We are closer to the Citadel than we were when Traax and his party left. Our odds are better now, and it's a chance worth taking.

  "Do you have a feel for the weather?" she asked Scars.

  The first mate pursed his lips. "K'jarr says that there is a fog bank building to the east," he answered. "My sea bones agree. It should help hide us. But if it doesn't clear on our way home, finding the Reprise could become very difficult."

  "It's a chance we'll have to take," Tyranny answered. "Go topside and tell K'jarr of our plan. Have him select seven additional warriors for the trip. They will have to be the best, because they literally will have our lives in their hands. We will sail one more day southeast, then fly to the Citadel tomorrow night. This will not only give K'jarr and Shailiha another day of rest, but it will also bring us closer to the fog bank."

  Scars nodded to his captain and departed to carry out his orders. Taking another sip of wine, Shailiha regarded Tyranny thoughtfully. Tyranny raised her eyebrows. "You have something on your mind. Do you have concerns about the mission? If you do, now's the time to say so."

  Looking down, Shailiha rolled the wine glass between her palms. Something had been bothering her for some time. At last she looked Tyranny in the eyes. "It's not the mission I'm thinking of."

  "What, then?"

  "You love him, don't you?"

  Sighing, Tyranny looked down at the deck. When she raised her face, it showed a rare vulnerability. "Am I really that transparent?"

  "Perhaps only to me," Shailiha answered. "No one else has mentioned it. I speak of it for two reasons. The first is that I want you to know that I understand. I care for him in a different way than you do, of course, but I know how easy it is to become attached to him. Trust me, I've seen it before."

  Smiling wryly, Tyranny shook her head. "I have never known a man quite like him," she said. "I wish you could have seen him that day I rescued him from the slaver ship. He was filthy and wounded, but the moment I saw him, he stood out from all the rest. As I came to know him, he captured my heart as no other ever has."

  After an awkward silence, Tyranny spoke again. "You mentioned that there were two reasons for discussing this. What is the other?"

  "I want your promise that you will do nothing to interfere with the relationship between my brother and Celeste," Shailiha said bluntly. "They have only recently found each other, and they love each other deeply. Ever since the return of the Coven, his life has been very difficult. And her life has been a nightmare from the day she was born. I don't want you to harm whatever joy they have been able to pluck from the ashes."

  Tyranny walked back over to the window. "You needn't concern yourself with that," she said.

  Despite the courage in the privateer's voice, Shailiha could tell that it was difficult for her to get the words out. When Tyranny turned around, the princess saw the shine of unshed tears, but they were quickly blinked away.

  "Some time ago, I decided not to try to get in the way," she said softly. "Because of your brother, I am a member of the Conclave and the captain of Eutracia's fleet. They are positions I do not take lightly. I owe Tristan more than I could ever repay. And regardless of my personal feelings for him, I am also very fond of Celeste. You have my word."

  "Thank you," Shailiha said. Standing, she turned toward the door.

  "Just the same, there is something else you should know," Tyranny added. Raising her eyebrows, Shailiha looked back at her.

  "If for any reason Tristan and Celeste are no longer together, my promise is rescinded." A crafty smile crept across her face. "I'm no thief, but I remain a privateer."

  Shailiha couldn't help but smile back. "Agreed," she said. She strode to the door and left the room.

  CHAPTER XLVI

  The sun would soon rise, Satinerealized. in another four hours or so, she would be discovered. She didn't need that much time to complete her next sanction, but she appreciated the margin of safety. The nighttime sky was cloudy, and for that she was also thankful. Moonlight would have proven a deadly adversary.

  From her place in the bushes, Satine watched carefully as a pair of stern Minion guards strode in opposite directions along the base of the castle wall. The light from their nearby campsites sent the patrolling warriors' shadows crawling across the dark gray stones, adding to her tension. Despite the bravado she had displayed for Bratach, this would be the most dangerous sanction of her career.

  Lying upon the dewy ground, the Gray Fox watched as the two warriors reached the limits of their patrols, smartly turned, and approached one another again. She had been watching them for some time now, so as to make sure that there would be no sudden change in their routine. She had chosen this section of the palace wall because it was the most remote, and therefore less guarded.

  As they neared, the warriors took no heed of one another. When no more than a foot separated them, they stopped, spun briskly around, and then walked away once more. They would do the same thing over and over again until they were relieved.

  The next time the warriors met and turned, Satine began counting to herself. She continued to count until the warriors reached the lengths of their patrols; at forty, they did an about-face and walked back.

  Looking at the top of the wall, she knew that what she had planned would be difficult. When the guards met and turned again she began to count again, this time looking at the area between her hiding place and the base of the wall. Still counting, she visualized her run, and her ascent to the top. When she envisioned herself on top of the wall, she had reached forty-one. But by then the unsuspecting warriors had already met and turned yet again.

  Satine sighed. There would be barely enough time, and even then it would have to go perfectly. If she made any noise or didn't move swiftly enough, the Minions would notice her, and both her mission and her life would come to an abrupt end. Her run would have to be silent, her throw perfect, and her climb swift. Bringing the rope up after her quickly enough was yet another concern.

  Unlike the night she killed Geldon, Satine was dressed in peasant garb. She wore a short tunic, brown breeches, and a pair of very worn knee boots-all purchased that morning at a secondhand shop. A battered leather belt was cinched around her middle. She wore no hat; her dark braid was tucked inside the neck of her tunic. Except for a single hip dagger, she carried no weapons. She felt naked without them, but for her plan to work, she had to appear as one of the innocent citizenry in all respects.

  She had wound white bandages spotted with blood around both her left forearm and her right thigh. The stray dog she had killed earlier that day had gone quietly, and it was his blood, rather than her own, that adorned her bandages.

  She reached around to the leather bag slung across her back and felt for the small grappling hook. It came out easily, along with the black knotted line tied to it. After slowly coiling the line, she laid the neat circle of rope by her side. Using both hands, she quietly snapped open the three-pronged hook and laid it alongside the rope. Then she looked back to the wall.

  As expected, the two warriors were still marching their mind-numbing drill. She would give them two more passes, she decided, and then she
would make for the wall. She waited patiently, her heart hammering in her chest and her muscles coiled and ready.

  The warriors approached again, and then turned away. Reaching out for the handle of the grappling hook, she waited. She coiled the free end of the rope around her left hand.

  Again the warriors came. Once she left the security of the bushes, there was no going back. As the warriors approached one another for the final time, she started counting.

  One.

  The moment the warriors turned and started back, she left the bushes. She ran lightly but quickly, her boots hardly making a sound as she raced for the wall. At the same time she began to swing the hook, letting the line out bit by bit as she went. When she was just over halfway there she sent the hook flying, and she prayed.

  Ten.

  Her throw was perfect. The hook caught securely to the top of the wall with barely a sound. To make sure of its purchase she gave it a sharp yank, and it held. Bracing her feet against the wall, she began her climb upward, hand over hand against the knots in the rope. Using every ounce of skill and strength she possessed, she made her way quickly, like a spider.

  Twenty-six.

  The height of the wall seemed greater now that she was upon it, and the rope began burning her naked palms. The climb was tougher than she had envisioned, and her time was running out.

  Thirty-four.

  Scrambling as fast as she could, she finally neared the top. The last few knots dug viciously into her hands, and the sweat burned her eyes.

  Thirty-six.

  With a final heave she lifted herself atop the wall. But the knotted rope still dangled in plain sight, its end swinging gently in the wind.

  Thirty-eight.