Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  The cat was large—at least four or five times the size of an average house cat—with spotted tan fur and elongated, yellowish eyes with dark irises. The whiskers and eyelashes were dark and exceptionally long, as were the claws.

  Reznik’s thoughts soon turned from his pet to Satine. She was due to visit soon. By now she would surely need more of that which only he could offer, and he needed to have it ready. She was his highest-paying customer. He would sorely miss those gold kisa of hers should he ever lose her business.

  Shaking her head and rattling the iron chain, the impatient cat snarled at him again. She was telling her master that she could smell the blood. Reznik smiled.

  “Very soon now, my pretty,” he cooed to her.

  Turning, he walked back over to the butcher’s table that sat beneath the shade of another tree. He wiped his meaty palms down the front of his bloodstained apron, then took up his favorite boning knife. In his other hand he grasped a long, cone-shaped whetstone. He carefully stroked one against the other. When he was satisfied, he bent over and set about his work. Slowly, meticulously, Reznik began boning a human corpse.

  He would not need much of what lay before him. But what he did require had to be taken soon and with the greatest of care, lest it lose its potency. Placing the boning knife against the corpse’s right quadriceps, he was reminded that corpses never bled when they were cut into, at least not the way a live person did.

  As he removed part of the quadriceps and placed it on the table, his crooked smile came again.

  And they don’t complain, either, he thought.

  Soon the exposed thighbone glistened wetly before him. At first glance the bone appeared to have never been broken. That was good.

  Placing his knife down, he picked up a short butcher’s axe. With two sure, quick strokes he severed the femur from the hip socket and then from the knee joint. He lifted the long bone from the table and placed it to one side.

  Putting down the butcher’s axe, he put on a pair of magnifying spectacles. Then he took up the bone again and examined it closely.

  As he had expected, it was strong, and it had never seen any significant trauma. Over the course of his grisly career, he had cheated some of his other customers by using inferior ingredients. To this day, he had always gotten away with it.

  He knew better than to try this with Satine. There was no more accomplished killer in all of Eutracia. Should any one of his potions not prove as promised, she wouldn’t hesitate to come back and kill him. Even he would never know she was there. It would be a simple matter of being alive one moment, and dead the next. That wasn’t a chance he was willing to take.

  Hearing his cat growl with hunger, he grasped the bloody muscle he had just liberated from the corpse and tossed it into the dusty circle.

  The cat pounced. Turning back to the table, Reznik resumed his labors.

  With the small saw, he cut the thighbone in two, exposing its marrow: soft, pulpy, and yellow—exactly what he needed. As every cutter-healer knew, it was the red bone marrow of a child that was initially responsible for the manufacture of the body’s blood. The marrow inevitably turned yellow with maturity. Above all, it was blood that determined so much of one’s destiny here in Eutracia—and in Reznik’s capable hands, sometimes the nature of one’s death, as well.

  He carefully removed the marrow from each of the two sections of bone and placed it in a small pan. Then he opened up the skull. When the grayish white frontal lobes presented themselves, he began to whistle happily. Nothing soothed his nerves so much as the preparation of another of his potions—especially when it was for Satine. He employed only very fresh corpses in his work for her, and only those that had perished by suicide.

  Eutracian custom dictated that suicide victims should be laid to rest in separate sections of the nation’s cemeteries. Though abandoned in many places, this custom of segregation was still practiced in others. When the craft had been in its infancy, many had believed that the soul of a suicide victim might not be released to the Afterlife. Few had wished to risk the chance of being placed to rest beside those who had killed themselves. Separate arrangements had therefore been made.

  Ridiculous, he thought, as he continued to work. Still, he was thankful for this superstition, which proved infinitely helpful to him in his arts.

  His hands had grown excessively bloody, so he walked to the brook. As he knelt down before a calm spot at the water’s edge, his reflection peered back at him. He saw the face that had wrinkled and creased beyond its fifty Seasons of New Life. He also saw his shiny, bald head, the encircling fringe of gray hair drooping haphazardly to his shoulders. The soft brown eyes stared back at him with intelligence, and he could see the yellow teeth that lay just behind the full, expressive mouth. He smiled, liking what he saw.

  After washing the blood from his hands, he walked over to a steaming cauldron to add the marrow and brain. He took up a long wooden staff, dipped it into the cauldron, and slowly mixed the ingredients. Then he leaned over the top and inhaled, using his well-trained sense of smell to analyze the concoction’s progress.

  Something wasn’t quite right. Leaving the mixing staff in the cauldron, he walked back over to the table and picked up a leather-bound journal.

  He thumbed through its pages, searching for the formula he needed. Ah, there it is, he thought. He ran his fingers down his own handwritten notes. When at last he found what was lacking, he walked over to the side of the glade that sheltered one of his many herb gardens. Fully mature gingercrinkle had a violet blossom and a clean, crisp scent, but it wasn’t the blossoms he was interested in just now. He selected what he deemed to be the best example and pulled the plant from the ground.

  After carefully cutting the root away, he carried it over to the stream and washed it. Then he used his mortar and pestle to grind it up. He measured out just the right amount and put it into the cauldron. Then he banked the coals, removed the mixing staff, and placed a circular lid over the cauldron’s top so that his creation might simmer overnight.

  There was only one more thing to do before he left the glade. He lifted the corpse from the table, carried it to the edge of the cat’s circle, and unceremoniously tossed it in.

  She showed little interest in it, having just eaten the muscle he had given her. Still, the body he had just tossed to her was large, and he knew that he would not have to worry about feeding her for several more days.

  Reznik gathered up his instruments and his journal and began to make his way out of the glade. After taking only a couple of steps he had a sudden thought. He stopped short and turned around.

  Returning to the table, he picked up the gingercrinkle blossom and placed it in one of the buttonholes of his jerkin. Pretty, he thought.

  As he walked out of the glade, he began to whistle.

  CHAPTER III

  _____

  FAEGAN’S WORDS ECHOED IN TRISTAN’S EARS AS HE RAN DOWN the hallways of the Redoubt. He skidded to a stop before the first of the several secret passageways leading to the palace above. Scrabbling at the special section of marble wall, he pulled hard, rotating it on its pivot. It opened to reveal a rough-hewn stone staircase. His weapons still in his hands, he charged up two steps at a time.

  His chest was heaving when he reached the top of the steps and strapped on the baldric holding his dreggan and the quiver holding his throwing knives. Then he drew the sword, its unmistakable ring echoing in the confines of the stairway.

  He held the point of the dreggan high and placed the cool, flat side of its blade against his forehead. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his mind in anticipation of whatever might await him on the other side of the door.

  When he was ready, Tristan pushed hard on the section of wall. It swiveled open easily, and he charged through the open doorway. The room on the other side was empty.

  He had come up into the Chamber of Supplication, o
ne of the many elaborate halls his late father and the Directorate of Wizards had employed in their dealings with the citizenry. The elaborate room yawned back at the prince, as if mocking him for his foolishness. Then he heard an unfamiliar noise.

  At first he couldn’t make it out as it wafted eerily through stained glass windows. Tristan ran to one of the windows, pushed it open wide, and climbed through to the courtyard beyond.

  Complete pandemonium reigned. The courtyard overflowed with a crushing mass of burned and wounded citizens, their cries soaring toward the heavens. Men, women, and children had already forced their way onto the palace grounds, and still more were massed in the streets beyond the drawbridge. Some of Tristan’s Minion warriors were attempting to hold back the throng, but as gently as they could so as not to further harm the wounded. But the palace warriors were too few, and the crowd too large and too determined to reach sanctuary.

  Tristan watched helplessly as his people died before his very eyes. Then two dark shadows crossed the grass, and the Minions Traax and Ox landed next to him.

  Frantically, Tristan grabbed Traax by the shoulders. “Shailiha, Celeste, and Abbey!” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the crowd. “Where are they? Are they safe?”

  Nodding, Traax pointed to a far corner of the courtyard.

  Tristan could just make out the three of them. Protected by a wide ring of Minion warriors, they were tearing bedsheets into strips and bandaging the victims as best they could.

  “The warriors have strict orders to fly them to safety, should it come to that,” Traax shouted to Tristan. “I tried to convince them of the danger, but none of them would leave.”

  Tristan looked over at Ox. He had rarely seen so much emotion upon a Minion warrior’s face.

  “It happen so fast!” the huge warrior said. “Wizard Faegan see first boy come through. He be burned bad. Faegan see him as he crawl across yard, and he lift chair and take him into palace. But he not see others come. Me now think neither wizard know how bad this be.”

  “Yes, we do,” Tristan heard the familiar voice say.

  Turning, the prince found Wigg standing beside him and Faegan sitting close by. Both wizards had tears in their eyes.

  “The boy you tended to in the Redoubt?” Tristan asked.

  All Wigg could do was shake his head.

  Faegan raised his hands toward the burgeoning crowd. Tristan wondered what the crippled wizard was about to do.

  Azure bolts shot from Faegan’s hands toward the drawbridge, where they spread to create a glowing wall that sealed the castle entrance. When he lowered his hands, the bolts ceased. The crowd inside the palace grounds quieted. Many looked up in wonder, having beheld the majesty of the craft for the first time. Tristan turned back to Wigg.

  “What has happened?” he asked.

  His face dark with concern, Wigg looked at Tristan directly. “Faegan and I fear it is our greatest nightmare,” he said softly. “If we’re right, no power on earth may be able to stop it.”

  The wizard laid one hand gently upon Tristan’s shoulder. “You and I must leave here immediately,” he said.

  Stunned, Tristan searched Wigg’s face. “Are you mad?” he shot back. “Look at these people—can’t you see they need our help? How can we possibly leave them?”

  Faegan wheeled his chair a bit closer. His expression was as determined as Wigg’s.

  “Wigg is right,” he said. “You and the First Wizard must depart now. There is no time to lose.”

  “But why?” Tristan asked.

  “We have to know what we’re dealing with,” Wigg answered. “We must ascertain how much damage it has already done and where it is headed next. Faegan will stay behind to direct the aid efforts with the acolytes and Minion healers. But right now, you must call for a Minion litter, and a group of warriors to fly guard alongside!” The wizard’s aquamarine eyes flashed.

  “While we waste time arguing, I fear thousands more may be dying!” he added sternly. “Your nation needs you now as never before, and you must help her!”

  Tristan looked across the courtyard toward Shailiha, Abbey, and Celeste. Blessedly, their situation seemed less dangerous now. The warriors were allowing more victims inside the circle, but only as the three women could accommodate them. Tristan reluctantly turned to Traax and nodded.

  The Minion second in command was gone in a flash. In mere moments he returned with a litter borne by six warriors, as well as an additional fifty warriors to fly guard. Wigg quickly climbed aboard, anxiously gesturing to Tristan to join him.

  With one last look at the horrible scene, Tristan stepped in and took the seat next to the First Wizard. He closed his eyes.

  Traax barked out the order, and the litter rose into the sky.

  CHAPTER IV

  _____

  WIGG KNEW HOW TO FIND WHATEVER WAS ATTACKING THEIR people. All they would have to do was follow the trail of dead bodies.

  As they soared over the courtyard, Wigg shouted as much to Traax, who immediately passed the wizard’s orders on to the litter bearers and guards.

  Below them, the streets of Tammerland overflowed with the wounded, the dying, and the dead. Some looked up at the flying warriors and shook their fists at them. Tristan had little doubt that if they had been flying lower, he would have been able to hear their curses, as well.

  Apparently many of his subjects still considered the Minions their enemy. Tristan could hardly blame them. All they knew of the winged warriors was that they had destroyed much of Tammerland, butchering, torturing, and raping the citizens in the streets and in their homes. They didn’t know that the Minions were under Tristan’s firm control now, no longer a threat to Tammerland and, indeed, pledged to defend all of Tristan’s people.

  Most of the citizenry also had no idea that the Directorate of Wizards was no more. They deserved to know that, and also to know that Tristan loved them and wanted to be—needed to be—a strong leader for them.

  How can I possibly accomplish all this? he wondered. How does one inform an entire country of so many bizarre twists and turns behind the devastation that has beset it in its recent history? Even he scarcely believed all that had happened, and he had seen it firsthand.

  Disheartened, he looked down at the medallion around his neck. Taking it in one hand, he slowly closed his fist around it. The gold medallion had been given to him by his parents, just before they had died at the hands of the Coven of Sorceresses. The medal showed the lion and broadsword, the twin symbols of the House of Galland. Shailiha wore an identical one.

  “It’s not your fault,” Wigg said quietly. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. “It never has been. You must sense that. All you have ever done is protect both the citizens and the nation you care for so much. But they don’t know that, Tristan. And that is because they are still without what they need the most.”

  Tristan did not look up. “And what is that?” he asked.

  “What only you can provide,” Wigg answered. “Their rightful king.”

  Tristan took a deep breath. For several long moments silence filled the space between him and the wizard.

  “But to be king, I must wear the Paragon,” he said at last. “And to do that, my blood must first revert to its natural state.”

  “Yes,” Wigg answered heavily. “Despite whatever is causing all of this destruction, we must never lose sight of the fact that finding a way to alter your blood is paramount. If we do not figure out how to do that, then everything else we do—no matter how well-meaning—will be for naught. The Jin’Sai must eventually be trained, and then read the entire Tome of the Paragon. The future of our world depends upon it.”

  Tristan thought for a moment. “You still haven’t told me what is causing all of this,” he replied defensively.

  Wigg took a deep breath. “If I am right, w
hen we reach it, one look will tell us all. And if I am wrong, which is also entirely possible, then we will be seeing whatever it is for the first time. For now I would prefer to leave it at that.”

  As the litter continued west past Tammerland, the dark, slow-moving columns of people seemed to stretch on forever. But then he saw a break in the crowd, and for a moment his heart leapt—until the litter drew closer and he realized what he was seeing.

  Directly below their flight path, a deep crevasse split the ground. It looked to be at least ten to fifteen meters deep and about one hundred meters across, a V-shaped, jagged scar that snaked its way west as far as the eye could see. Tristan guessed it was recently made: It still smoldered, gray plumes of soot and ash corkscrewing up into the air from its charred black bottom. It was a gruesome, unnatural thing, and it sent a chill down the prince’s spine.

  Aghast, Tristan looked at Wigg. The wizard’s face was dark with worry.

  Wigg stuck his head out of the litter and shouted to Traax that he wanted the warriors to change course and follow the smoldering crack wherever it might lead. Then he looked sadly down at his hands and said no more.

  A great sense of foreboding rose in Tristan’s chest. His gaze followed the strange, snaking catastrophe as the litter flew on toward the setting sun.

  “THE OXEN ARE THIRSTY, FATHER,” AARON SAID. “CAN’T WE ALL rest for a bit?”

  The young man gave each of the two straining beasts a reassuring stroke on the head. The sun was going down. The day had been unusually hot, even for the Season of the Sun. They had been toiling since dawn, yet Aaron’s father showed no sign of stopping. Finally Darius pulled hard on the reins that lay over his shoulders and slowed the oxen and plow to a halt.

  Glad to rest, Aaron of the House of Rivenrider jumped down. Looking back, he saw the hard-won rows of rich soil that they had scratched into the earth. Before long those rows would be filled with the waving stalks of wheat and barley that he and his family would sell at the farmers’ market in Tammerland.