The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  There was a distinct sadness in the old man's tone. Shailiha looked to her brother and placed an index finger across her lips. Tristan nodded back.

  One by one the prisoners were hauled away from the table by their necks and locked into one of the two pillories. Two demonslavers pulled the rods from the black kettles; the ends of the rods came out glowing bright red. Branding irons.

  Before each of the slavers pressed his hot iron to skin, he looked up to Krassus, waiting for a sign. And each time, before giving his blessing, the wizard in the two-colored robe would look down for an indication from the men at the tables. Then he would indicate with either his right hand or his left.

  As the demonslavers pressed the heated irons into the left shoulders of the prisoners, screams resounded through the night. Many if not most of them fainted away in the stocks, and were dragged by their necks to separate areas on the pier. When one prisoner was finished, another immediately took his or her place. As the excruciating process continued, Tristan saw that one group of slaves was becoming noticeably larger than the other.

  Faegan lowered his head. Shailiha closed her eyes, brushing tears from her face. Only Tristan's eyes remained locked on the gruesome scene, his hands balled up into fists and his jaw clenched with the frustration of not being able to take action. Finally he, too, could take no more, and he slowly closed his eyes against the spectacle.

  Those prisoners were his people, the prince realized in shame and horror, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help them. Was that what Krassus' taunts had meant? What in the name of the Afterlife was it all about?

  At last, blessedly, the branding stopped, all of the prisoners having been marked with a rod from one kettle or the other. The moaning and crying of the victims was softer now.

  Those who had fainted were revived by having cold seawater splashed in their faces. Then the two groups were marched down the piers to the waiting frigates and forced up the gangways. Full of despair, Tristan lowered his head.

  Suddenly a long, silent, moonlit shadow flowed darkly across the roof between him and his sister. Then came another, and yet another. Tristan tugged silently on the sleeve of the wizard's robe, slid the dreggan from its scabbard, and smoothly rolled over onto his back. He was on his feet in a flash, his dreggan in a strong, two-handed grip.

  Three demonslavers stood near the ladder at the other side of the roof, the rose-colored moonlight glinting off their alabaster skin. Each of them held a short sword. Two of them smiled.

  Just then Shailiha turned to see why Tristan had risen, and the air left her lungs in a rush. Turning over, Faegan also looked. But before anything could be done, all three slavers charged at once.

  Tristan ran across the roof, his dreggan slashing as he went. The first of the slavers he met died quickly, its head cleanly severed from its body.

  But the next two would not be so easy. They hacked savagely at Tristan, who fended them off as best he could, his sword almost a blur. But inexorably they came on, forcing him to keep backing up toward the wizard and the princess, as the three blades clanged coldly, harshly against one another.

  Shailiha looked aghast at Faegan, silently beseeching him to intervene with the craft, no matter the consequences.

  The demonslavers were closing on Tristan, and it was plain to see that the prince was tiring. Faegan relaxed his mind and stopped cloaking their endowed blood.

  Just then Tristan lost his footing on the slick roof and fell hard on his back. Sensing victory, the two monsters rushed in, swords held high. Faegan raised both his arms.

  Twin azure bolts tore across the roof directly over Tristan. He could feel the searing heat, see the blinding azure light, and sense the rush of the wind as the force of them ripped at his hair and clothing and almost tore the dreggan from his hands. Turning his head and gritting his teeth, he held on to the sword with all his might.

  Shailiha glanced down at Krassus and saw him suddenly stiffen. With a smile, he motioned to a group of about twenty demonslavers, then pointed to the roof of the inn.

  Faegan's bolts struck each of the slavers squarely in the chest. Tristan, his eyes still closed, heard their bodies being ripped apart; he felt and smelled the sickening offal, blood, and sinew splattering down on him. In a matter of seconds, it was over.

  He opened his eyes and saw one of the monsters' short, shiny swords lying quietly beside him in the moonlight.

  But where was the other?

  Wildly turning his head to the sky, he saw the shiny, silver point of the second sword. Launched skyward by the explosions of the wizard's bolts, it was free-falling straight down at him.

  He started to roll to one side, realizing even as he moved that he was too late.

  Suddenly an azure hand grasped the sword only inches from his throat. Wasting no time, Tristan rolled away, coming to his hands and knees in the slick, bloody mess. As the glow of the craft disappeared, he watched the sword fall harmlessly to the roof with a clang. He picked it up with his free hand and ran to Shailiha and Faegan.

  The wizard was already seated in his chair, but the look on his face was far from reassuring. Tristan shoved the demonslaver's sword into Shailiha's hands. "Do you remember your fencing lessons?" he shouted urgently.

  Smiling, she nodded.

  "There is no time for talk!" Faegan growled, pointing toward the opposite side of the roof. "By now Krassus will surely know we are here! Make for the horses!"

  Tristan, sword still in hand, looked briefly into his sister's eyes. Then they both sprinted across the slippery, blood-soaked roof. Faegan levitated his chair and soared ahead of them.

  The wizard reached the edge first and looked down. Other than the tied horses and the abandoned cart, he saw nothing, but he knew that the relative peace of the alleyway wouldn't last much longer. He swung the chair back near the prince and his sister.

  "Both of you-onto my chair, now!" he ordered.

  Somewhat bewildered, the two of them did as they were told. Shailiha sat on the wizard's lap; Tristan clung to one of the chair arms. Then Faegan steered his chair over the side of the roof.

  On the way down Tristan saw about twenty demonslavers working their way through the crowd and up the side street, viciously using their whips, swords, and tridents to clear a path.

  Faegan hurried his chair downward as fast as he could safely manage. About one meter above the backs of the horses, he stopped and looked frantically at the prince and his sister.

  "Jump!"

  Tristan immediately let go, falling the remaining distance to the ground. As he ran to untie their horses, out of the corner of his eye he saw Shailiha drop directly into her saddle, the demonslaver's sword still in one hand. She masterfully whirled her horse around.

  Faegan levitated himself from his chair and, with a wave of one hand, let it go. The centuries-old chair fell to the ground, smashing into pieces. Ignoring it, he lowered himself into the saddle atop the third horse. Tristan leapt into his saddle and wheeled his mount around, his back to the wall of the inn, to look down their escape route toward the end of the alley.

  The rear door of the inn opened a crack. A gleam of soft, yellow light cut through the darkness of the alleyway, spilling out onto the ground.

  It was the greasy innkeeper. Raising a demonslaver sword high in both hands, the point forward, he charged at the prince's back.

  Shailiha noticed the sudden light and raised her sword. Spurring her horse forward, she used the momentum to shove her blade directly into the man's throat; it went through his neck and came out the back. She pulled her weapon out hard and swung it.

  Tristan wheeled his horse around just in time to see his sister swing her stolen blade in a perfect arc, taking the innkeeper's head cleanly off at the neck. The headless body remained standing for a moment, as if it were still somehow in control of itself. Then what was left of the innkeeper fell forward, into the alleyway in front of Shailiha's horse. Blood poured from the ravaged neck into the thirsty dirt.

>   Without pause the three of them turned their horses and charged side by side for the end of the alleyway. Tristan held his breath, wondering if they could make it to the street before the passageway filled with demonslavers. But even before their horses could break into a full gallop, the prince had his answer.

  The monsters flowed down the street like a river, blocking the way to freedom. There had to be at least one hundred of them. Waving swords and tridents, they shouted and hissed as they formed what seemed to be an impenetrable wall at the entrance to the street.

  Tristan turned frantically around in his saddle. He looked behind him, only to be reminded that the way back was a dead end. Charging through the slavers was the only way to freedom, but he knew in his heart that it couldn't be done.

  Holding up his hand, Faegan brought his mount to a skidding stop; Tristan and Shailiha followed suit. The alleyway became strangely quiet, as the slavers stopped shouting and began walking purposefully, menacingly toward them. Tristan turned frantically to the wizard.

  "Can you kill them?" he asked.

  "Some," Faegan answered quickly, his eyes trained upon the monsters as they came. "But there are too many, and no doubt even more are following behind them." Then a knowing look crossed his face, and he turned to the prince and princess. "Killing them is not the answer."

  "Then what is?" Shailiha asked urgently.

  "Avoiding them. Follow me single file, and don't look back," he ordered. "Whatever happens, don't be surprised at what you see, and just keep on going. When we finally reach the street, whip your horses for all they're worth, and stay with me. Do you understand?" His last sentence wasn't a question. It was an order.

  They both nodded.

  Whipping his horse with the reins, Faegan charged down the alley, Shailiha behind him, Tristan bringing up the rear.

  At first the prince thought he must be seeing things. Glowing a brilliant azure, something took solid form.

  It was a bridge.

  Barely wide enough to allow a single rider at a time, it arched from the dirt of the alleyway, and climbed over the heads of the slavers, touching down again on the other side. Caught off guard, the demonslavers stood in confused wonder.

  At the sight of the glowing bridge, all three horses skidded to a stop and reared in fright. Several precious seconds passed as Faegan fought to bring his mare under control. Only when he got her moving again did Tristan's and Shailiha's mounts settle down and obey their commands to approach the bridge.

  Faegan's horse reached it first, his mare's hooves banging down loudly upon the embodiment of the craft as she carried him to its apex and then started down the other side. Next came Shailiha. Following close behind, Tristan's horse approached the glowing ramp.

  But upon placing her first, poorly shod hoof onto the glowing bridge, Tristan's mare stumbled, and went down hard on both front knees.

  Tristan was launched forward. Her front legs broken, the mare fell over onto her back, screaming wildly. Somehow Tristan managed to keep hold of his dreggan, but the slavers charged him immediately. He staggered drunkenly to one knee, then finally to his feet. Forced to use both hands, he raised his sword weakly, but could only get it as high as his waist.

  From where he stood, he could see nothing but slavers coming toward him, their awful faces and the whiteness of their skin strangely highlighted by the glow from the azure bridge.

  On the other side, Faegan and Shailiha wheeled their horses around to look. Shailiha screamed and would have spurred her gelding back over the bridge, but Faegan grabbed her reins, forcing her horse around. Some of the slavers near the bridge were already coming their way, and there was no time to lose.

  "No!" he shouted. "We have to go! There is nothing we can do for him now! We will return for him, I promise!"

  Shailiha cried out as she lost sight of her brother. The glowing bridge dissolved, leaving only the mob of angry slavers as they crowded in around the prince.

  Shailiha turned her terrified eyes back to the wizard. Finally she lowered her head and nodded. It was without question the hardest single decision she had ever been forced to make.

  Following Faegan's horse, Shailiha thundered down the cobblestoned street just as another wave of the sword-wielding demonslavers rushed in.

  Stunned and bewildered, his hands and body covered with blood from the battles on the roof, Tristan tried his best to swing his dreggan at the first of them. But the heavy blade was too much for him, and its momentum took him to his knees.

  Then a blinding white light seared through his consciousness, and he collapsed to the dirt.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  A bbey walked down through the gently sloping field of flowers. The light of day was gone, and the stars had come out. Moonlit shadows created by the yellow-and-turquoise-leaved chirithium trees slowly lengthened out over the waving grasses, blossoms, and herbs she walked through on her way home. Carried by the wind, light, fluffy clouds danced to and fro in the night sky, as if struggling to escape their banishment into the darkness. The blooming fragrances of the Season of New Life swirled everywhere about her.

  She stopped for a moment to tie up her gray-streaked dark hair, and smiled, taking in the smells, the colors, and the breeze. Then, gripping her straw basket a bit tighter, she continued up the hill.

  She had been out foraging today, just as she had done for the last three days, trying to replace at least some of what the mysterious robbers had taken from her. It had been a good day, and her large, hinge-topped basket was full. When she returned home, she would meticulously dry, store, and catalogue what she had reaped. But first she'd enjoy a cup of sallow blossom tea, she decided.

  Abbey had no idea who the intruders had been, or how they had found her, but she was concerned that she had not recognized the cruel woman who had so obviously been an herbmistress. So few of their kind remained, and they had always tried to stay in contact with one another. Even more astonishing was the fact that the unknown woman had been traveling with a wizard. After all, the wizards had banished those of her kind-both males and females alike-from their presence long ago.

  As she crested the hill, her cottage came into view. She took a quick breath.

  Smoke was curling up from the chimney, and light shone from the cottage windows.

  She stood in the field for some time, trying to figure out what to do. She could run, but there was no safe place nearby that she could easily reach. Finally she decided to approach the cottage from the rear, where there were no windows, then creep around to one side and try to peek in without being seen. Walking over to the edge of the field, she entered the dense cover of the drooping chirithium trees and started down.

  The glade surrounding the cottage seemed deserted; she saw no horses tied nearby. She carefully set down her basket by a tree, then made her way as silently as possible to the rear wall. Keeping low, she crept around the corner and squatted beneath the first of the leaded windows. Slowly she raised her head up as far as she dared and looked in.

  A young, beautiful woman with brilliant red hair was lying on Abbey's bed. Her eyes were closed; her face was very pale. The staggered rising and falling of the thin blanket that covered the woman told the experienced herbmistress that the stranger was having great difficulty breathing. A man's hand, with long, elegant fingers, rested flat on the woman's forehead. Abbey could not see the rest of him.

  Slipping quietly around the back of the cottage, she retrieved her precious basket and then made her way to the front. She gathered her courage, took a deep breath, and walked in, allowing the rusty door hinges to announce her entrance. The man sitting by the bed turned to face her.

  Abbey dropped her basket, and its contents spilled to the floor. Her hands flew to cover her open mouth.

  "Hello, Abbey," the man said gently. "It's been a long time. Please pardon my intrusion, but I very much need your help."

  Abbey, her eyes locked on his face, staggered toward a chair and sat down clumsily. It was diff
icult for her to speak, to think, or even to breathe as a flood of conflicting emotions coursed through her.

  Wigg waited, maintaining an outward calm. But inside, he, too, was bubbling with unexpected emotions. But as he watched, her expression changed from one of astonishment to anger.

  Finally Abbey pointed to the woman in the bed. "Who is she?" she asked. She was chagrined to hear her voice crack. "After all these years, why are you here?"

  At first Wigg did not answer. He pointed to the basket and the plants lying on the stone floor. The scattered clippings rose into the air and floated over to the basket, where they fell into a neat, contained pile. The refilled basket floated up to the table beside the stunned herbmistress and came to rest. Wigg took another long breath, letting it go slowly before placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe.

  "Her name is Celeste," he answered softly. "She is of endowed blood, and has been adversely affected by the craft. In all my years I have seen this phenomenon occur only one other time-quite recently, in fact-to another woman who means just as much to me. The other woman, however, managed its effects much more handily. I cannot be sure, but I think it was because of the greater strength of her blood. In any event, this woman needs our help. I have been unable to awaken her by myself, and I fear that if she does not return to consciousness soon, I may lose her for all time. Will you help me?" The wizard's eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

  Abbey stood and walked to the bed. First she looked into each of Celeste's eyes; then she cautiously examined her strangely scorched fingertips.

  "Her mind has gone deep. For the moment she is stable," the herbmistress told Wigg cautiously, "but she is in a bad way. Although I am not sure how much help I can be, I will do what I can. But hear this first, Lead Wizard." Her gray eyes bored directly into Wigg's. "What I do, I do for her, and her alone. Not for you."

  "Thank you," Wigg said gratefully. "And I cannot blame you for the way you feel." Silence reigned for a moment.