Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  The sextant was a triangular-shaped affair made of shiny brass. At one end there was a small, horizontally mounted telescope. The telescope faced two mirrors mounted on the opposite side of the apparatus. The bottom portion of the instrument was curved, and it was marked off in degrees. A lever led down from the apex of the sextant and counted off the degrees at its pointed end.

  Tyranny gazed eastward through the telescope, focusing it upon the horizon. Then she moved the lever in order to align the two mirrors with both the horizon and the rising sun. Taking the sextant from her eye, she noted the number of degrees indicated by the lever. A worried look came over her face.

  She reached into the box and removed her charts. She closed the lid, then spread the charts out upon it. Using her dagger to point to a position on the chart, she looked back up at Scars and K’jarr.

  “It’s just as I feared,” she said. “By my reckoning we are a good forty leagues northwest of where Faegan’s portal was supposed to deliver us. I cannot be completely sure. Now let’s see what Faegan’s way of doing things has to say,” she said skeptically.

  Tyranny pushed the point of her dagger through the chart and into the teak box, so that it was now standing upright at the location she had just calculated. Holding the sextant with one hand directly over the center of the chart, with her free hand she reached into her jacket and removed a small piece of parchment. She held it up.

  “Ristutatem appricitamitat onovenatu!” she read loudly.

  Almost at once her sextant began to glow with the craft. When she released it, it hovered in the brisk sea air. Then it turned in the direction of the sun. K’jarr and Scars watched in awe as the lever on the sextant began to move of its own accord. The lever seesawed back and forth a bit before it finally settled down.

  Without warning, a slim azure beam suddenly shot from the base of the sextant and burned a small “X” into the parchment. Then the beam disappeared. Tyranny took the sextant from the air, and the glow surrounding it disappeared.

  “How did you do that?” K’jarr asked. “It was my understanding that your blood was not endowed.”

  Tyranny smiled. “It isn’t,” she answered. “Faegan enchanted the sextant before we set sail. It responds to my voice, rather than my blood. Provided I say the Old Eutracian command properly, the sextant will do the same thing for me every time. At first I thought the old wizard was going to suffer a nervous breakdown, trying to teach me the words. He finally gave up and wrote them down for me instead.” She shoved the parchment back under her jacket.

  She studied the chart. The charred “X” was about ten leagues away from the calculations she had just made manually. That put their position slightly closer to the planned exit point from the portal. Running one finger southeast across the chart, she pointed to the Isle of the Citadel. She looked up at K’jarr.

  “Can a warrior scouting party make the flight there and back?” she asked.

  K’jarr examined the chart, then turned to stare up at the sky, noting the direction and strength of the wind.

  “Yes,” he answered, “provided I send our most gifted fliers. The wind will be in their faces on the outward leg. But if it holds, it will be at their backs for the return trip. Do you wish me to lead them?”

  Tyranny nodded. “Make your course southeasterly. I want you to fly high and survey the Citadel without being seen. Make a count of any demonslaver vessels you might encounter. If you can capture a demonslaver, do so. Go now.”

  K’jarr bowed, and with a click of his heels, he was gone.

  She was about to speak to Scars when she saw a female Minion healer approach. The white feather of her craft stood out proudly on her black body armor. She came to stand at attention.

  “Permission to speak?” she asked. Tyranny nodded.

  “I have just tended to the princess,” the healer said. “Her wound will heal. She will remain dizzy for another day or two, but she should suffer no lasting effects. I have given her something for the pain. I suggest she remain in bed until tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” Tyranny answered. “And thank you. Please remain by her side until I order otherwise.” With a short bow, the healer went back to her patient.

  “I want that damage report as soon as I can get it,” she said to Scars.

  “We need as much speed and maneuverability out of this wallowing whale as she can muster.”

  Scars nodded. “We will do all we can, Captain,” he said.

  Tyranny nodded and her expression softened. “I know,” she said. “Now go.”

  When Scars was gone, Tyranny opened the teak box again. Reaching in, she removed one of her cigarillos and a common match. Then she walked over to lean her tired body against the gunwale.

  Hearing the familiar sound of Minion wings, she looked up to see a party of six warriors leaving the deck. They flew in the shape of an arrowhead, with K’jarr at the lead. After circling the ship once, they turned southeast.

  Tyranny watched them until they disappeared. Then she stabbed the cigarillo between her lips, struck the match against her scuffed knee boot, and lit the tobacco. Taking a welcome lungful of smoke, she raised her face and blew it back out into the air. The spent match went over the side.

  She looked with sadness down the length of her mangled flagship, thinking about her mission. Its beginning had not been auspicious.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  _____

  SURROUNDED BY FIGHTING AND SCREAMING, DUVESSA KNEW that she was close to defeat. Her muscles burned and sweat dripped maddeningly down her face, threatening to obscure her vision. It was just before dawn, and the glow from the torches surrounding the battle sent their shadows dancing eerily across the uneven killing ground. She knew better than to risk trying to see how her allies were faring. One mistake like that could cost her dearly.

  Just as her enemy’s sword came whistling around again, Duvessa raised her dreggan high and parried the strike vertically. The blades of the two weapons clanged together with such force that sparks flew. Summoning all of her strength, she turned and slid the edge of her blade down along her opponent’s, forcing his guard down. Sensing an opening, she pointed her sword toward her enemy’s throat and lunged forward.

  With a wicked smile her opponent stepped to one side, banging his blade down upon her weapon with everything he had. He stamped down upon her sword blade, pinning it to the ground. Then he struck her in the face. The sudden blow made her drop her weapon.

  Kicking her dreggan away, her enemy whirled around behind her. He kicked her viciously in the back. Thrown face down into the dirt, she tried desperately to think.

  “Kneel,” the harsh voice commanded.

  She had no choice but to obey. As she came to her knees, she dragged her right palm across the ground, filling her hand with dirt. She knew the killing blow would come any moment now.

  Holding her hands at her sides, she forced herself to look up into her killer’s eyes. With another smile he raised his sword high, its blade glinting briefly in the torchlight. Duvessa held her breath.

  Just as the sword reached its apex she rolled to one side, throwing the dirt into his face. He cried out, and she pulled her dagger from its sheath.

  She came to her feet and ran behind him. Grabbing his hair with her free hand she yanked his head back and pulled the blade of her dagger across his throat.

  “Enough!” the Minion head instructor shouted.

  At his sharp command, all of the warriors stopped fighting. Their chests heaving, they lowered the points of their dreggans to the dirt. Duvessa wearily recovered her weapon.

  “You’re learning!” the instructor shouted to the group at large. “But each of you has a long way to go before you can claim the rite of ascension. That is why we train as realistically as possible. Remember, only fully realized death blows are not permitted.”

  The instructor’s name was Ba
ltasar. Walking over to Duvessa, he smiled at her.

  “Well done,” he said. “Any trick that helps you stay alive is by definition a good one. Still, a Minion warrior should never find herself on her knees. With practice, your hands will become accustomed to retaining your weapon as it is struck by another. Even so, I must applaud your resourcefulness.”

  Duvessa gave him a slight bow. “Thank you,” she answered.

  Baltasar gave her a reassuring look. “I know that being chosen by the Jin’Sai to lead this new group of female warriors is a heavy burden,” he said quietly. “I also realize that each of you is eager to prove herself. And being Traax’s mate means that you—even more than the others—shall have a great deal to live up to. You must be the best of them. That is why I push you so hard.”

  “I understand,” she answered.

  Baltasar pointed to the white feather emblazoned on the chest of her body armor. “If you become as good a fighter as you are a healer, I think this new force shall be in very capable hands.”

  After giving her another brief smile, he turned to speak to some of the other female candidates about their progress. At the same time the male Minion warriors they had been sparring with offered their guidance, as well.

  Duvessa looked over at the warrior she had just bested. He was still trying to clear the dirt from his eyes. She sheathed her dreggan. Taking a cloth from beneath her armor, she told him to look up at the stars. She gently wiped away the dirt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” he answered. “You won, and that is what matters. Serves me right for assuming that you had given up! Like Baltasar said, any device that keeps you alive in combat is a good one. Had you really meant business with your dagger, I would be watering the ground with my blood.”

  After giving the warrior a respectful nod, Duvessa went to sit down upon a nearby stone wall and rest.

  This area and several others like it had been turned over to the advanced martial training of female warriors. Since the unexpected order had come from the Jin’Sai, hundreds had volunteered. For the last several days the instructors had rousted the recruits from their beds several hours before dawn. Then had come the training lectures, followed by the grueling hours of live practice. They had not complained.

  She knew that they weren’t ready for their rites of ascension. She also knew that not a single woman who had volunteered for these special phalanxes would give up until she had completed the course.

  Looking wearily out over the training field, Duvessa understood how much every woman here aspired to wear the red feather—and serve under her command. It would be a heavy responsibility, but one that she welcomed.

  Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see Abbey until the herbmistress was standing right in front of her.

  Abbey sat down on the stone wall. During her time here at the palace, Duvessa had come to like Abbey very much, and to respect the talents of the kindly partial adept. As she looked at her now, she could see that the herbmistress was concerned.

  “What is it?” Duvessa asked. She immediately thought of Traax.

  “Has there been word from Tyranny?”

  Abbey shook her head. “Not that I know of,” she answered. “Faegan wishes to see you, me, and Adrian in the Redoubt. He told me that it is important.” She gave Duvessa a short smile. “I’m afraid your breakfast will have to wait.”

  Duvessa stood. After a last look at the phalanxes-in-training, the two women began the walk back.

  AS FAEGAN SAT WAITING IN THE CUBICULUM OF HUMANISTIC RESEARCH, he was overcome by several separate but equally compelling emotions. The first was an overwhelming sense of sorrow over Geldon’s death. The dwarf’s body, preserved by the craft, still lay on the examination table under the black sheet. The necropsy that Faegan had performed had been painstaking. More than once the wizard had been forced to stop what he was doing, wipe away his tears, and force himself to continue.

  Another emotion stirring within him was pure, unadulterated wonder. The necropsy had revealed a great deal about the nature of Geldon’s death. He knew he had to share what he’d learned with those Conclave members who remained at the palace. As an experienced herbmistress, Abbey’s counsel might be particularly helpful.

  A third emotion had crept in as his examination progressed. It was a deep sense of anger directed toward whoever had done this to his friend. He still did not know why his friend had been killed, but he meant to find out.

  When the three women filed into the room, they could all sense Faegan’s outrage. The wizard was without question the greatest living scholar of the craft, and they knew him for his kindness of heart. But this seemed to be a different Faegan. This Faegan wanted revenge, and he clearly meant to have it.

  “Please forgive the hour,” he said. “I know it is very early. What I have to tell you simply couldn’t wait.”

  Faegan beckoned Duvessa, Adrian, and Abbey to sit at a nearby table. He wheeled his chair over to join them.

  Several texts and scrolls lay there. Two other tools of the craft sat next to them. One of them was a blood criterion, used for measuring the quality of endowed blood. The other was a signature scope. Its purpose was to identify the lean of a blood signature. When the women were seated, Faegan placed his gnarled hands flat upon the tabletop.

  “I know what killed Geldon,” he said.

  “You mean why he committed suicide?” Abbey offered.

  “No,” Faegan answered flatly. “I mean what killed him. Geldon was murdered.”

  “How can that be?” Duvessa asked. “Several dozen Minion warriors saw him plunge the knife into his own eye. Surely you don’t think they are lying?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Faegan shook his head. “Geldon used the knife, all right. But he was compelled to do it. As I suspected, the craft is afoot here. This particular use of magic is one of the most devious and clever that I have ever seen. So clever, in fact, that I nearly missed it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Adrian asked.

  “When faced with such a difficult problem, it is always best to start with what one knows,” Faegan answered. “Geldon was of unendowed blood. Despite all of the problems we are wrestling with, he seemed to be happy. He was one of the most resilient men I ever knew. He had to be, to survive as long as he did in the clutches of the Coven. Suicide was simply not in his nature.”

  He took up a parchment and laid it flat. The paper held an unidentified blood signature.

  “Despite the fact that he was unendowed, this showed up in his blood,” he said. “He acquired it just before he died. When I first saw it, I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  Abbey picked up the parchment. The blood signature was “complete,” meaning that it showed evidence of both the mother and the father. Therefore, whoever had possessed this signature was of fully endowed blood. She placed the parchment back on the table.

  “I mean no disrespect, but what you are saying is quite impossible,” she argued. “Blood simply cannot be changed from unendowed to endowed.”

  “It wasn’t,” Faegan answered. “But that does not mean it cannot carry the signature of another for a time, if they are mixed somehow. Take a look at this list of foreign matter I found in Geldon’s blood.” He unrolled another parchment and handed it to her.

  “Please read it aloud,” he asked.

  Abbey looked down the page. “This list shows human brain matter, human yellow bone marrow, human red bone marrow, derma-gnasher venom, root of gingercrinkle, and oil of encumbrance. There are also a few other trace elements mentioned here.” With a puzzled expression, she looked back up at Faegan.

  “How on earth did he manage to get all of these ingredients into his bloodstream?” she asked. “I have never come across such an unusual concoction in all my life.”

  “He didn’t put them there,” Faegan answered. “Someone else di
d. Geldon was poisoned. I don’t have quite all of the pieces to the puzzle yet, but I’m close.”

  “But what makes you think he was poisoned?” Duvessa countered.

  “After all, they were a long way from home. Isn’t it possible that through some quirk of fate he ingested these things naturally?”

  Adrian shook her head. “Gingercrinkle, perhaps,” she said. “And even the oil of encumbrance. But human brain? Bone marrow? Impossible.” The First Sister of the acolytes looked at Faegan.

  “It was the derma-gnasher attack, wasn’t it?” she asked. “It had to be. He consumed what the others did. These things couldn’t have been in the food or drink, or they would all be dead. And the derma-gnasher puncture was the only insult to his body—other than the damaged eye, of course.”

  Faegan nodded. “Well done,” he said. “When I did the necropsy, you may remember that I took a crosssection of tissue from the area surrounding the bite mark. The ingredients listed on the parchment were found in far higher concentration there than anywhere else in his body. The bite was therefore the poison’s point of entry.”

  “So what does all this mean?” Abbey asked. “That we have a swarm of infected derma-gnashers infesting Eutracia? With everything else that is going on, I cannot believe that Geldon’s death was so random an act.”

  “Nor do I,” Faegan agreed. “This is what I think happened. I believe this potion was concocted by someone of the craft. The blood signature that appeared in Geldon’s blood was obviously not his, as his blood was not endowed. Given the bite on his neck, the derma-gnasher venom was to be expected. I still don’t know what the actual delivery system was. It may have been an enchanted derma-gnasher, trained to do its master’s bidding. Or it could have been something else entirely—like a blow dart, for instance, disguised with the venom to throw us off. But coming that close to a Minion camp unseen would take skills of the highest order.” The ancient wizard paused for a moment as he collected his thoughts.