Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  “All I want you to do is watch, you ignorant bastards,” he hissed.

  “Watch and remember.”

  Before Ox could move, Geldon raised his dagger and plunged it into his own right eye.

  He didn’t scream, tremble, or complain. As the fluid from his injured eye snaked down his cheek, the other eye closed, and he began to fall forward.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  _____

  TRISTAN WATCHED ANXIOUSLY AS THE BLACK IRON DOOR, creaking on its hinges, grudgingly opened in response to Wigg’s azure bolts. Complete darkness reigned on the other side. No sound came from the depths.

  The prince, Alrik, and Celeste waited for Wigg to lead them in, but the wizard showed no signs of moving. Tristan narrowed his eyes to try to see into the room beyond, but nothing was visible in the inky darkness. Awaiting their orders, the rest of the warriors stood staunchly behind them in the knee-deep ash. Wigg finally turned to face everyone.

  “I suspect that there will be enchanted lamps in there, just as there were here,” he whispered. “After I light them I will go in first—followed by Celeste, then the prince, and finally the warriors.” Tristan started to object, but Wigg quickly raised his hand, cutting him off.

  “If I am correct and these were once Failee’s personal research chambers, then there are bound to be safeguards of some sort. I want Celeste to follow me because of her prowess with throwing azure bolts. Magic will be far more effective in this place than any metal weapon ever made, I assure you!” Then he looked past Tristan to his daughter.

  “Sheathe your sword,” he whispered. “It will only interfere with your use of the craft.” Celeste did as she was told.

  Wigg turned back to face the darkness. Raising his arms, he called the craft again. Light slowly began to build on the other side of the door and gradually flooded out over the dark gray ash. Wigg carefully walked through the door. The others followed close behind.

  Tristan felt as if he had been here before. But that was impossible, he thought, as he looked around. Then he realized why it all felt so familiar: the place was like a miniature version of the Archives of the Redoubt.

  The room was large; its ceiling very high. Several closed doors were visible in its stone walls. The many wall sconces Wigg had illuminated burned brightly, giving everything an eerie, almost sterile feel.

  Lining the walls were tall bookcases packed with texts, scrolls, and parchments. Worktables sat here and there littered with tools of the craft: tubes, beakers, and charts of esoteric symbols. The air was dusty and dank.

  Walking over to what had apparently been Failee’s desk, Wigg sadly ran one of his long fingers across the wood. His fingertip traced a telltale line in the dust. He sighed, and a distinct shininess appeared in his eyes. But, true to form, he collected himself. Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robes, he lifted his head and resumed his examination of the room.

  Tristan couldn’t quite escape the feeling that there was something wrong about the room, as if significant parts of the puzzle were still missing. He lowered his dreggan and, accompanied by Celeste, walked over to Wigg.

  “Are you thinking the same thing that I am?” he asked.

  Wigg pursed his lips. “If you’re saying that there must be more to all of this than just what we see here, then, yes, I am,” he said. Wigg looked over at one of the closed doors in a far wall. “Our search for this so-called Scroll Master may prove to take far longer than we imagined—if he is here at all. There is no telling how large this place might be.”

  Suddenly, with a great bang, the door they had used to enter the room swung shut. Several warriors ran to it and tried to pry it open again, but even their combined strength couldn’t budge it. A terrible stench filled the air.

  Glowing azure ooze began to run from the gaps between the walls’ stone blocks. As more and more of it appeared, the awful stench, like that of decaying flesh, became overpowering. Transfixed, they watched as winding rivulets of the stuff snaked to the floor and gathered into separate, undulating puddles.

  The ooze kept coming. A few puddles became dozens of pools, and the smell became so unbearable that Tristan placed his free hand over his nose and mouth. It did little to help.

  Stunned, he looked at Wigg. The wizard’s face was white. Pointing toward the mysterious puddles, Wigg snapped his head toward Celeste.

  “Use your bolts!” he shouted. “Destroy the pools! If they all come to life in this enclosed space we will never make it out alive!”

  Raising his arms, Wigg sent bolts flying against the largest pool, which exploded into nothingness. Then he attacked another, and another. Celeste did the same. The bolts flying from her fingertips were even more explosive and earsplitting than her father’s. But as Tristan struggled to look through the haze created by the powerful bolts, his heart sank.

  More puddles were continuing to form on the floor. There was no way that Wigg and Celeste would be able to destroy them all.

  Motioning to his warriors to stand just behind him, Tristan grasped his dreggan with both hands, spread his legs slightly, and raised the heavy sword over his head.

  The first puddle took shape, a head rising up from the undulating ooze. It glowed azure, just like the pool that was giving it birth. The head was long with a curved snout and slanted, yellow eyes with black irises. Leathery wings sprouted from the spiny back; its body was squat and powerful. A snaking, forked tail whipped back and forth, and short, humanlike arms sprouted from either side of its torso. Hands formed, and then powerful rear legs, and the creature stood up ominously to face them.

  It was easily the size of an average human. The seven dark talons at the end of each hand looked as though they could tear a man in half with a single swipe. Arteries and veins pumping black blood lay just below the surface of its translucent skin.

  It turned its head and looked at them calmly for a moment. Then it opened its mouth, snarled, and launched itself straight up into the air. As it rose it turned itself over to land upside down on the ceiling. Somehow it simply hung there, defying gravity. Snarling again, it ran across the ceiling as easily as if it had been on the floor.

  Stunned, Tristan watched helplessly as it tore across the room. Then it stopped, and flipped over to fall back down. As it fell, it swiped a taloned paw at a Minion warrior, breaking his neck.

  Blood rushing from the gaping wounds, the Minion fell to the floor. Landing on top of him, the hideous beast let go another awful snarl, shook its head, and took a ripping bite out of the warrior’s broken neck.

  Two of the warriors standing nearby raised their dreggans to strike it down. But with lightning speed it launched itself into the air again, this time opening its wings as it went. It flew across the room, landed solidly upon the far wall, and clung there, looking down at them. It shook its head, blood running from its jaws, and hissed another savage warning.

  Twirling around, Tristan saw that the other puddles had now birthed more of the awful monsters.

  One of the creatures snapped open its wings and launched itself at the prince. Dreggan held high, Tristan waited until the last possible moment, then swung the heavy sword for all he was worth. As the blade whistled around it took off one of the thing’s lower legs, and the monster cried out in pain. Black blood spurted from its wound.

  Undeterred, it backed away in the air and attacked once more. Tristan forced himself to wait again, then lifted the point of his sword and impaled the thing through the chest. Black, sticky blood ran down over his hands. The stench was nauseating.

  Impaled upon Tristan’s dreggan, the beast screamed and lashed out with its talons, scratching him across the face. With every ounce of his strength, Tristan thrust the blade higher. The light went out of the creature’s eyes.

  Dropping the point of his sword to the floor, Tristan pushed the corpse off his
blade with one foot. Trying to catch his breath, he turned to look around the room.

  The Minions were battling ferociously, but the creatures had the advantage of being able to run across the walls and ceilings. Amid all of the confusion, Tristan had no way to tell whether his warriors were prevailing.

  Cutting another of the screaming things down out of the air, Tristan glanced frantically around, searching for Wigg and Celeste.

  The wizard and his daughter were hovering high in the air near the ceiling. Whenever a monster attacked, Celeste killed it. The ends of her fingers were scorched black, and she looked near the point of total exhaustion.

  Behind her, Wigg was using the craft to seal off the spaces between the bricks in the walls. Little by little he succeeded in using an azure force to blanket the cracks, and keep any more of the oozing fluid from entering the room. If he could finish in time, they might all have a chance at survival.

  Another of the things flew at Celeste from her blind side. Realizing that she didn’t see it, Tristan tossed his dreggan into his left hand, reached behind his right shoulder, and grabbed one of his throwing knives, which he let fly straight for the creature’s head. He held his breath as the silver blade spun across the room.

  The knife blade pierced one of the monster’s outstretched wings, pinning it to one of the bookcases.

  Screaming, it tried to remove the knife, but it couldn’t reach it. As it hung there struggling, its black blood ran down the spines of Failee’s cherished books.

  Finally, the room began to quiet. With the exception of the creature nailed to the bookcase, all of the monsters looked to be dead. But so were a good number of the Minion warriors.

  Exhausted, the Minions began tending to their wounded. Tristan wiped his sword blade clean, slid it back into its scabbard, and tried to catch his breath.

  Wigg and Celeste descended to the ground, and Tristan realized that it had been Wigg who had been keeping her in the air.

  She walked weakly to the prince, and he held her. She felt heavy in his arms and he knew that she was close to passing out. He pushed some of her red hair away from her face, and she managed to give him a brief smile. Tristan looked over at Wigg.

  “I think you have some explaining to do,” Tristan said.

  “First things first,” Wigg answered. Reaching out, he lifted one of Celeste’s eyelids and peered into her eye. Then he placed his palm on her forehead. He closed his eyes. After a few moments, he nodded.

  “She will be fine,” he said. “She has overtaxed her gift. She is still unaccustomed to using her powers for such a sustained period. But that will come with practice.” Then he took up one of her hands and examined her scorched fingertips.

  “She possesses the greatest ability with azure bolts that I have ever seen,” he added. “If we can one day safely activate the rest of her Forestallments, she will truly be a wonder.”

  “First Wizard, if you please!” Alrik shouted. Wigg went to the stricken warriors and employed the craft to help them as best he could.

  Celeste looked up into Tristan’s face. Her smile was stronger this time, and she stood on her own. Then she stretched up and gently kissed the scratches on his cheek.

  “I should come on these adventures of yours more often,” she said.

  “Especially if it means ending up in your arms.”

  Smiling, he stroked the side of her face.

  Wigg and Alrik appeared by Tristan’s side. “How bad is it?” the prince asked.

  Alrik scowled. “At least half of them were injured,” he said. “Several of them are beyond hope. The First Wizard was kind enough to grant those three painless deaths.” The wizard concurred with a nod.

  Tristan lowered his head for a moment as he thought. “Have the dead and wounded escorted back to the surface,” he ordered. “I want another dozen fresh warriors to join us down here. We don’t know what may still await us.” With a click of his heels Alrik left to attend to his new orders.

  An angry scream came from the other side of the room. Whirling around, Tristan saw that it had come from the lone surviving creature still pinned to the bookcase. He exchanged glances with Wigg and Celeste, and then they all walked over.

  The beast had lost a great deal of blood. It had to be nearly dead, yet it found the energy to snarl at them again, red Minion blood staining its open mouth.

  Studying it, Wigg placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe.

  “It’s called a Wingwalker,” he said. “Like the blood stalkers and Screaming Harpies, it was one of the Coven’s tools during the Sorceresses’ War. I have not seen one for more than three hundred years. Unlike the stalkers, these creatures are not particularly intelligent. Nor do they command the power of speech. They were conjured strictly for killing. They were a blunt instrument to be sure, but they were also particularly effective.” He looked at the prince. “Does it seem familiar to you in any way?”

  Tristan nodded. “They look something like Wiktors.”

  “Correct,” Wigg said. “My guess is that Wiktors are early descendants of the Wingwalkers. From Wingwalker to Wiktor—and then, eventually, through Failee’s magic, Minion warriors.” He turned and looked back over to where the warriors were standing. “But I wouldn’t tell them that,” he whispered.

  “How did they know we were here?” Celeste asked.

  Wigg looked back at the door through which they had entered. With a great collective effort the Minions had finally succeeded in opening it again.

  “Most likely that door was charmed to react to any blood passing through it other than that of the Coven,” he answered. “In turn it signaled the release of the Wingwalker fluid from the walls.”

  Tristan indicated the azure energy now coating the walls. “You will continue to enforce that spell?” he asked.

  Wigg smiled. “That would be a good idea, don’t you think? When time permits I shall dissolve the barrier one bit at a time. That way the warriors can dispatch any remaining Wingwalkers one by one as they begin to form. But now I need to finish one more task.”

  Removing his hands from the sleeves of his robe, Wigg pointed at the surviving Wingwalker. It looked back at him with venom in its eyes and then let go a bloody scream of defiance.

  A narrow band of azure light shot from Wigg’s fingers and raced across the room to strike the beast in the chest. The Wingwalkers skin and muscle began to melt away, until all that was left was its seared white skeleton. The First Wizard slowly lowered his hand.

  Wigg seemed about to speak again when something made him stop and tilt his head this way and that, as if seeking the source of a sound only he could hear.

  Looking around in concern, Tristan noticed that one of the doors on the other side of the room stood ajar. An azure glow silently filtered in through the opening.

  Then Wigg cocked his head to the side again, listening hard.

  “Do not follow me,” he ordered Tristan and Celeste. Before they could muster a reply, he was crossing the room.

  Wigg pointed to the partially open door. Unlike the others, it opened easily for him. Azure light shone on his face and robe.

  Then a voice came from the other side, just loud enough for Tristan and Celeste to hear.

  “Wigg…is that really you?” The words coming from the other side were struggling and soft-spoken. “How…why…?”

  Wigg’s mouth fell open and his face blanched. As the breath rushed out of him, he bent over in shock. For a moment it looked as though his knees might give way. Then he regained control and stood upright again.

  Without turning to look at Tristan or Celeste, the First Wizard walked slowly, numbly, through the doorway and into the azure light.

  CHAPTER XXX

  _____

  SOMEONE SLAPPED HER ACROSS THE FACE. PULLING AWAY, SHE frowned and tried to go back to sleep. Then she was slapped again,
and someone began shouting at her. She should never be awakened this way, she thought. Didn’t they know she was a princess? And why was she so cold and wet?

  Then the insistent voice came again: “Shailiha! Wake up! We’re in trouble!”

  Then came another stinging slap across the face. The princess of Eutracia finally opened her eyes—and realized that she was still tied to the gunwale, slumped in her bonds. She raised her head and looked up blearily, trying to remember.

  It was night and a sea storm was raging. The Reprise seemed helpless and crippled as the wind tore at her. Parts of her foremast and its rigging had come down, and now it rolled back and forth across the pitching deck. The rain came in unrelenting sheets, and the ship bucked wildly upon the waves. Crewmen and warriors, their shouting drowned out by the howling wind, worked frantically to regain control of the vessel.

  Her vision clearing, Shailiha recognized Tyranny standing before her. The privateer was soaked to the skin. There was a look of desperation on her face that the princess had never seen before. Removing her dagger from its sheath, Tyranny quickly cut Shailiha’s bonds.

  As she struggled to stand on her own, the princess found the lingering effects of passing through the portal and the bucking of the ship nearly debilitating. Helping Shailiha to find her sea legs, Tyranny held her shoulders. Shailiha placed her mouth next to Tyranny’s ear.

  “What happened?” she shouted against the howling wind.

  “We’re taking on water!” Tyranny shouted back. “And this storm isn’t helping! The stress of going through Faegan’s portal must have weakened the hull! We have a great deal to do if we are going to survive this!”

  Shailiha looked over at the scorched foremast to which K’jarr and Scars had been tied. What was left of it rose awkwardly toward the sky, like a tree that had been hit by lightning.

  “K’jarr and Scars!” she shouted. “Are they…?”

  “They’re alive!” Tyranny shouted back. “But when the mast was hit, it gave them a rude awakening!”