Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  Slowly regaining his composure, Bratach’s consul pointed down at the two corpses. “Why did you do that, you fool?” he asked. “We need no undue attention drawn to this place!”

  Satine’s eyes hardened. “I kill whom I choose, when I choose,” she answered. Then she shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry. They don’t exactly look like two of Eutracia’s finest. Besides, there is an easy way to dispose of this refuse, right in plain sight.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Ivan nervously ran one finger around the inside of his sweaty shirt collar. “How?”

  “You’re a consul, are you not?” she asked. “Simply use the craft to scorch their clothing and bodies. Then, under the cover of night, toss them out into the street. Believe me, no one will notice two more out there.” Satine crossed her arms over her breasts and looked hard at Ivan.

  “Now then,” she demanded. “Why am I here?”

  “Bratach didn’t tell you?” he asked skeptically.

  “Not really,” she answered. “All he said was that this shop serves as some form of refuge. It’s apparent he didn’t tell you that I would be a woman, either. He seems to like his little games, doesn’t he?”

  “Follow me,” Ivan said.

  He turned and walked toward the back of the shop, where he disappeared around one end of a hanging curtain. With one palm resting lightly upon a dagger hilt, Satine warily followed.

  The area behind the curtain was dark and musty. The consul narrowed his eyes as he called on the craft to light an oil lamp sconce on the wall. He lifted the globe free and carried it to a door. Creaking on its hinges, the door opened slowly to reveal a wooden stairway leading downward.

  The chamber below was simple and utilitarian. Ancient, multicolored bricks lined the walls. Brightly burning oil sconces illuminated the room. There was another door in the opposite wall. Several beds were stacked on the dirt floor in a far corner. Shelves were piled with dried foodstuffs and containers of water, while another area held a rudimentary wine cellar. A table sat in the center of the room, holding a half-full bottle of red wine, stained glasses, and a scattering of playing cards. The air in the room was fetid and musty.

  Putting down the lamp, Ivan beckoned her to sit. Then he poured two glasses of wine. He handed her one.

  He raised his glass. “To the successful completion of your sanctions,” he toasted. Holding his glass high, he waited for her to drink.

  “After you,” she said sternly. “I insist.”

  Ivan smiled. “Bring you all the way here, just to poison you?” he asked. “My, but you are skeptical.”

  “I’m also still alive.”

  Smiling again, Ivan took a deep gulp. Finally, Satine followed his lead. To her surprise, the wine was quite good.

  “And now to address your questions,” Ivan said. Taking a deep breath, he sat back in his chair and rolled his glass back and forth between his hands.

  “This room is indeed a sanctuary of sorts,” he began. “It is a place where we of the brotherhood loyal to Wulfgar might hide and transfer messages of importance to one another. There is a great deal going on in Eutracia that the wizards of the Redoubt know nothing of.” He took another sip of wine.

  “There are dozens of these underground sanctuaries scattered across the land,” he went on. “Some are in cities, and some are not. They were built more than three centuries ago, during the Sorceresses’ War, by slave labor controlled by the Coven of Sorceresses. It is even said that Failee—Wigg’s late wife and First Mistress of the Coven—once held a strategic meeting here in this very room, when her forces were close to taking Tammerland.

  “We mean to give the wizards yet another war. This time it shall be one that they cannot hide from behind the walls of the palace. The wizards of the Redoubt believe that all of their once-loyal consuls have fled to the Citadel. They couldn’t be more wrong.”

  Satine put down her wine glass and leaned over the table. “Thanks so much for the history lesson,” she said. “But I don’t give a tinker’s damn about your politics. Or who controls the craft, either. All I want is to complete my sanctions and collect my money.”

  “Understandable,” Ivan answered, “given the fact that you possess no endowed blood. If you did, and if you had then been trained in the glory of the Vagaries, such things would mean far more to you.”

  “So what is this sanctuary to me?”

  “Your assignments will most probably take you far afield. In addition, you may eventually be sought by the prince’s forces. During that time, you may be forced to go to ground.” He removed a folded piece of parchment from his trousers and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “It’s a list of both the rural and urban locations of all the other sanctuaries,” Ivan said. He took another sip. “Carry it with you at all times. The list is too long to commit to memory. If you are about to be killed or captured, you must do your best to destroy it.”

  Satine shoved the list into her right boot without looking at it.

  “We have also devised a method by which you will know whether a message awaits you, without your having to go inside. Do you remember the ‘open’ and ‘closed’ sign that you turned around just a little while ago?”

  “Of course,” she answered, her curiosity rising.

  “Each establishment has two such signs. One printed in red, and one in black. If the sign in red is hanging in the window, then a message awaits you inside. If the sign is in black, then there is no message. Do you understand?”

  Satine nodded. “But what about the rural sanctuaries?” she asked. “Surely they aren’t shops as well, sitting out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Of course not,” Ivan answered. “In most cases they are simple peasants’ cottages. If there is a wreath of wildflowers pinned to the front door, there is a message for you inside. A bare door means no message.”

  “Very well,” Satine said. “But I made it very clear to Wulfgar and Serena that I work alone. So what kinds of messages might I need to receive?”

  “Information regarding the movements of your various targets,” Ivan said. He smiled conspiratorially. “We have someone inside, one who is in a position to know such information and relay it to us.”

  Looking thoughtfully into her glass, Satine took another sip of wine. She looked back over at Ivan. Before she could speak, he handed her another parchment.

  “Your first such message,” he said quietly. “I suggest you read it now.”

  After reading it, she looked back into his eyes. His wicked smile had returned.

  “As you can see, we suggest you start out small, so to speak,” he said.

  For the first time since Satine had come to Tammerland, she smiled, too. “I understand,” she said. “But won’t this make it more difficult to deal with the other targets later?” she asked. “The ones I am truly being paid for?”

  Ivan sat back in his chair and sighed. “Perhaps,” he said. “That concerns many of us on this side of the Sea of Whispers. Even so, this is how Wulfgar has ordered it. He wants them all dead, of course. But he wants some to suffer first as they helplessly watch their friends perish.” He paused.

  “We shall need a code name for you,” he finally said. “These will be political killings, and the prince and his wizards have a long reach. Surely you will wish to protect your identity as much as possible.”

  Thinking it over, Satine had to agree. “Very well,” she answered. “Use the code name ‘Gray Fox’.”

  A brief smile came to Ivan’s lips. Looking at the color of her cloak, he understood.

  “Then ‘Gray Fox’ it shall be,” he said. “Except for me and Bratach, the other consuls shall know you by only that name.”

  A thought suddenly revisited Satine. “What about the orb?” she asked.

  “What of it?”

  “Bratach explained to me
what is happening. Does that have anything to do with why I am here?”

  Ivan leaned toward her. “It has everything to do with it,” he answered. “But for our safety and your own you are to know little more of it than that, unless such information impacts your mission. Succeed in your task, and all will go according to plan.” He began rolling the wine glass between his hands again as he thought for a moment.

  “The wonderful byproduct of the rupture in the orb is the fact that so many wounded are rushing into Tammerland,” he continued. “One of the greatest tenets of the craft states that chaos is the overriding principle of the universe. The wizards of the Redoubt are now suffering more chaos than they can effectively deal with. And it will only worsen as time goes by.

  “At first, our master thought he had completely failed in his attempt to pollute the Orb of the Vigors,” he said. “But when we discovered that the orb had ruptured, we immediately sent word to him. Now things have changed. While it was once our mission to destroy the orb, we must now see to it that it isn’t interfered with in any way. Ironic, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Satine had suddenly had quite enough talk of wizards, magic, and orbs. She wanted to be gone from this suffocating place, and begin her sanctions. There were still two places she needed to go first, and she wouldn’t get there by sitting here talking politics with some fat consul in a bleak cellar. After taking a final sip of wine, she stood up.

  “Is there anything else?” she asked.

  Ivan pointed to the closed door on the other side of the room. “Exit by that passageway,” he answered. “It will bring you up into an alley several blocks from here. You will have to circle back around to collect your horse. Each sanctuary has a secret tunnel out.” The smile came again. “A fact you would do well to remember.”

  Satine walked to the door and pried it open. A curving, brick-lined tunnel led upward. It was lit with oil sconces. She started to leave, then stopped and turned back to Ivan.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Just do your job properly, woman,” he answered back. “That’s all the thanks we of the Vagaries require of you.”

  Turning back to face the tunnel, Satine walked in and closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER X

  _____

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN AT THE CITADEL, AND WULFGAR WAS alone. The hour was late. His pregnant queen and her handmaidens had long since retired. Looking out over the dark Sea of Whispers from the comfort of his throne room, the bastard brother of the Jin’Sai found himself restless, and concerned.

  While he sat and pondered, the blazing fires in the urns on either side of the twin thrones cast spectral shadows across the polished marble walls and ceilings. He heard only the distant crashing of the waves. He had grown to love this chamber, especially when Serena was by his side.

  He raised his damaged arm before his good eye. The nearly useless appendage somehow seemed even more hideous in the firelight. He lowered it and silently cursed the wizards of the Redoubt, and his half brother and sister. His jaw hardened as he gazed back out over the sea.

  His mind turned toward the professional killer he had hired. Satine had impressed him. Still, he understood that the assassin—no matter how deadly she might be—was only an oblique part of his overall plan. Satine was a form of guarantee that the Orb of the Vigors would continue to deteriorate.

  His spying consuls in Eutracia—especially his secret servant within the walls of the royal palace—were keeping him well informed of the movements of the ruptured orb.

  Nonetheless, obstacles remained, not the least of which was the considerable time involved in receiving crucial information from Eutracia. He had lied to Satine when he told her that he had only a few demonslavers remaining. There were in fact tens of thousands of them still here at the Isle of the Citadel. Those remaining slavers and the ships they manned were relaying the information back to him from his consuls in Eutracia. Still, he seethed at the slowness of it.

  What worried him above all else was that his Citadel consuls had not yet discovered the formula in the Scroll of the Vagaries that he needed most: the calculations for the single, all-important spell that would ensure his victory.

  The scroll’s unexpected references to this all-important Forestallment had been discovered only days earlier, by his ceaselessly researching consuls and its suggested existence had come as a shock to them all. When Wulfgar had been informed, his heart had leapt for joy. He quickly realized that if it could be deciphered and then imbued into his blood, his victory over the Jin’Sai would be all but assured. Then, as the Lord of the Vagaries, he would reign supreme in the practice of the craft.

  Soon Wulfgar meant to invade Eutracia and make the nation his. Once he had taken Eutracia, the less sophisticated nation of Parthalon would succumb easily.

  Standing from his throne, he laid the mangled side of his face against the nearby marble column. The coolness of the stone always comforted his tortured flesh, but he granted himself this show of weakness only when he was alone. He had tried repeatedly to heal his body and face by means of the craft, but even his powers had proven inadequate. Since learning that his consuls might identify and decipher the Forestallment they sought, his hope for a recovery had been renewed.

  Lifting his face from the marble, he thought of Serena and the unborn girl-child she carried. Serena was brave, and she loved him. But in his heart he could sense both the pain and the revulsion she tried so hard to hide. In truth, who could blame her?

  She and her husband were both fervent practitioners of the Vagaries. They were also human beings who loved each other deeply. He knew that she desperately wanted to see him the way he had looked when they had first fallen in love during their early days here at the Citadel.

  Even more, Wulfgar wanted his daughter to see him as he had once been: handsome and strong, rather than the freak he had become at the hands of the wizards of the Redoubt. A deformed monster who would undoubtedly make his new daughter cry, simply by looking down into the crib in which she would soon lie.

  He heard the huge double doors at the other side of the room unexpectedly swing open. Turning, he saw one of his armed demonslavers enter.

  “What is it?” Wulfgar snapped.

  The demonslaver bowed. “Forgive me, my lord,” he answered. “But Einar has come, begging an audience. He says it is most urgent.”

  Wulfgar nodded. “Very well.”

  The demonslaver bowed again and walked back through the doors. In a few moments the visitor entered the room and approached.

  Tall, erect, and almost ravenously lean, he had prematurely gray hair, which he kept tied behind his head, and bright blue eyes, which at the moment were calmly scanning his master’s face. Einar was the most gifted of Wulfgar’s Citadel consuls, and he was in charge of both their training and their day-to-day activities. He was also the overseer of the scriptorium, the great library that held the fortress’ most precious texts and scrolls.

  Then Wulfgar saw that the Scroll of the Vagaries glided along by Einar’s side. An azure glow surrounded it, telling Wulfgar that the consul had been recently working with it. Normally Wulfgar would be furious that the precious document had been removed from the scriptorium without his permission. But something about the fearless look on his lead consul’s face told him that he should hear what the man had to say.

  Einar stopped before him, the scroll hovering just a meter or so away. Wulfgar pointed to the parchment.

  “Why did you bring the scroll here?” he demanded.

  “I wanted to bring you this news personally,” Einar said. His eyes flashed with promise, and his gaze was steady.

  “We have found the Forestallment that we seek,” he said. “It’s true, my lord. The calculations exist.”

  Wulfgar stared wide-eyed at the consul, then looked at the scroll. “Can it be true?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord.
That is why I took the liberty of bringing the scroll here to you. Knowing how anxious you have been, I wanted to prove it to you immediately, and in private.”

  Wulfgar smiled. “Then by all means proceed.”

  Einar raised his hands, and the scroll began to unroll itself. On and on it went, until Wulfgar thought that it might extend itself completely. Then it stopped. Narrowing his eyes, Einar caused a specific portion of the text to duplicate itself in glowing azure and rise from the body of the parchment to hang in the air. Wulfgar walked closer and began to read the Old Eutracian text. The translation read:

  “And it shall come to pass that the bastard sibling of theJin’Sai will one day wish to hear, rather than simply read, of the mysteries that make up his blood. And when that day comes, the calculations for such a Forestallment shall be provided herein for his use. Only he, the Jin’Sai, and the Jin’Saiou are capable of accepting such a gift, for the quality of their blood knows no equal. Therefore the Enseterat —or the Lord of the Vagaries, as he shall also be known—shall finally be able to commune with us, and all will be revealed.”

  Inarticulate with joy, Wulfgar looked at the groups of numbers and symbols in Old Eutracian that comprised the formula for the Forestallment. The formula was both the longest and the most elegant solution of the craft he had ever seen. He looked back at Einar.

  “You have analyzed the calculations?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord. I believe that the end result shall be as the scroll promises. I have never seen so involved a formula. As such, the risk of error is great. For that reason, I suggest that if my lord still wishes to go ahead, that only I perform the transferal. And that it be done here in the throne room, in the strictest of privacy. Gifting you with this Forestallment will be arduous for both of us. I do not wish the demonslavers and the other consuls to hear you, should you cry out. This is why I brought the scroll to you, rather than requesting that you come to it.”