Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  “The entire mixture was enchanted,” he went on, thinking out loud.

  “And if the brain and bone marrow came from a person who had committed suicide, then a special enchantment might well revive a desire to take one’s own life. Transferred to a living host, the poison then becomes active. The subject goes mad, and he or she commits suicide involuntarily.”

  “But why include the oil of encumbrance?” Abbey asked. “That would only seem to weaken the potion, rather than strengthen it.”

  Placing one hand under his chin, Faegan thought for a moment. “True,” he said. “But oil of encumbrance’s true nature is to delay the effect of other ingredients. For example, if you wish to make a slow-acting medicine, oil of encumbrance would be the perfect additive.”

  “But why would the assassin wish to slow the process?” Duvessa asked.

  “For one reason only,” Faegan answered. “To allow him time to get away. Just imagine how perfect it all is! First, the victim is surreptitiously poisoned. The poison goes to work slowly. Several hours later the victim is seen raving like a lunatic and commits suicide before a group of witnesses. Foul play is never suspected. The entire event is chalked up to madness, and by then the assassin is long gone. The only other mark on the body is the derma-gnasher attack, and everyone else near him also has those.” More amazed than before, Faegan sat back in his chair.

  “It’s as monstrous as it is brilliant,” he breathed. “And it means that there is an assassin of the highest order lurking about Eutracia. One who is in league with someone of the craft. Or these two vast talents may reside within a single person. Either way, we are now forced to assume that the members of the Conclave have been marked for death.”

  “But how would he or she possibly know who the members are?” Adrian asked. “All of our meetings have taken place here in the Redoubt. And the Conclave was formed only several months ago.”

  Faegan looked back at her with knowing eyes. “Tristan’s meeting with the citizens in the Hall of Supplication,” he said. “If you remember, he not only introduced each of us, but he also went so far as to explain our various roles. I would not be surprised to learn that Geldon’s killer had been sitting there the entire time, sizing us up.”

  He let go a deep breath, then looked back over at Geldon’s corpse again.

  “Our enemies have planned exceedingly well,” he said. “But who is this assassin, and who of the craft is he in league with? This formula was mixed by an expert, I assure you.”

  Suddenly Abbey stared at the wizard as though she had just seen a ghost.

  “What is it?” he asked her.

  “Do you suppose…,” she said softly.

  “Suppose what?”

  As if not knowing how to begin, Abbey took a deep breath. “Fifty years ago—long before Wigg brought me back to Tammerland—a badly wounded man stumbled onto my cottage. He had been savagely tortured, and he was delirious. Several of his fingers had been cut off. I took him in. But by then a massive infection had set in, and there was little I could do for him. Still, he told me a few things before he died.”

  Faegan leaned closer. “What did he say?”

  “He told me that he was a Valrenkian,” she said.

  Faegan sat back in his chair. “Did you believe him?” he asked.

  “At the time I thought it was his delirium talking,” she answered. “But as the years wore on, I came to believe it. It was a deathbed confession. Why would he lie?”

  “Why indeed,” Faegan mused. Then his expression changed and he looked sternly at her. “Why didn’t you report this to the Directorate?”

  Abbey pursed her lips. “You don’t know what things were like then,” she said defensively. “You were still in Shadowood. The partials had been banished for nearly three hundred years. Worse yet, before I left, Wigg granted me the time enchantments. That was strictly against Directorate policy. Had I suddenly returned, they were sure to find out. He would have lost his seat on the Directorate, or worse. Despite what he had done to me I still loved him. So I stayed away.”

  Faegan gave a little smile of understanding. “Did this man say anything else?”

  “He wanted to repent,” she said. “When he wished to leave that life, they refused. They told him that once you were accepted into their midst, you were a Valrenkian until death. They tortured him, but somehow he managed to escape. But he did also say that he was sorry for the things he had done. And then he whispered the most telling thing of all.”

  “And that was?”

  “That they were a secret society of partial adepts. The last thing he said to me was that they were of the Vagaries, and that they used human and animal body parts in their work. They survive by selling their dark wares throughout Eutracia. Sometimes they kidnap citizens, and other times they rob graves for their raw materials.”

  Faegan closed his eyes. “So it’s true after all,” he said softly.

  “Who are the Valrenkians?” Duvessa asked.

  Opening his eyes, Faegan looked over at the Minion. “Until this moment, I believed them to be more myth than flesh and blood,” he answered. “Now I’m not so sure. Legend says that they were originally formed by the Coven of Sorceresses. They were supposedly converted to the Vagaries, and then taught their grisly trades. Right or wrong, these rumors were one of the major factors in the Directorate’s decision to banish the partials.”

  Faegan looked back at Abbey. “Did this man tell you where their community was located?”

  Abbey shook her head. “But if what we surmise about Geldon’s death is true, then a clue to their whereabouts might be right under our noses.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said that one of the ingredients in the poison used to kill Geldon was gingercrinkle, did you not?” she asked. Faegan nodded.

  “Gingercrinkle grows only in one place,” she went on. “On the southwestern border of Hartwick Wood. Trying to send out search parties to look for this assassin would be pointless. We don’t even know what he or she looks like. But if the killer acquired this potion from the Valrenkians, then that would be a good place to begin our search. If we can find them, they might lead us to him.”

  Faegan looked down at his hands and then back up again. “This issue of the gingercrinkle will probably be a mere coincidence,” he said. “But in good conscience I cannot let it go unexplored.”

  Silence fell over the room for a time as the wizard carefully considered his options. He finally looked over at Duvessa.

  “Go and fetch Ox,” he said. “I have a new mission for the Minions.”

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  _____

  WHEN TRISTAN FIRST HEARD THE INCESSANT POUNDING, HE thought he must be dreaming. Then he saw that the rising azure fluid licked the soles of his boots. His feet burned, and he knew it was the end.

  Even though he was close to passing out, something made him look upward. Marble dust fell onto his head and into his eyes. He still heard the muffled sound of hammering, but he couldn’t imagine how or why.

  Then a wide crack snaked jaggedly across the ceiling. Several others followed. With a great tearing sound, a chunk of the ceiling suddenly fell away, barely missing the four of them.

  Hands quickly reached down and grabbed them. With an upward heave, they were all suddenly hauled to the relative safety of the floor above, and then dragged away from the edge of the smoking hole. As Tristan tried to understand what had just happened, Jessamay fainted in his arms.

  At least fifty Minion warriors stood there, chests heaving. They held iron mallets. The floor of the room was a broken, smashed disaster. Celeste and Wigg stood weakly next to the prince as they all tried desperately to catch their breath.

  Tristan felt his legs start to buckle, and one of the warriors took Jessamay from him. Then he and Celeste suddenly felt strong hands under their shoulders, helping them to
remain upright. One warrior took the blood criterion and the signature scope from Celeste and placed them on the floor a short distance away.

  Wigg seemed able to stand on his own. Through blurry eyes, Tristan watched the wizard walk back over to the gaping hole in the floor.

  With Failee’s grimoire still in his hands, Wigg looked down. The ever-increasing azure fluid was still swirling upward. He opened the grimoire, and searched through it. Finally finding what he wanted, he held the book in one hand, raised the other, and began reading aloud from the text.

  Almost at once an azure glow surrounded the hole in the floor. The deadly fluid in the room abated, and then finally disappeared altogether. Closing the book and lowering his arm, Wigg let go a sigh of relief. He walked tiredly back to the others.

  The wizard examined Tristan and Celeste, and told them that they would be all right. Then he placed one hand upon Jessamay’s forehead. In a few moments she began to stir.

  Tristan looked around to see Alrik standing there. What the prince could see of the room looked bleak and unfurnished. The Minion officer smiled broadly.

  “Thank you,” Tristan said thickly. His head was still swimming, but he was starting to feel better. He brushed the marble dust from his hair and clothing. “Where are we?”

  “We are still below ground,” Alrik said. “When I saw the iron door close I immediately ran, ordering my warriors to follow me. We grabbed our tools, and we barely arrived here in time. But as you can see, fifty Minion warriors with iron mallets are a force to be reckoned with. The floor did not want to surrender to us, but we finally broke through.”

  “You weren’t able to find the counteracting spell in time, were you?” Tristan asked Wigg.

  The First Wizard shook his head. “I needed more time. If it hadn’t been for the Minions, we would be quite dead by now. I considered trying to use the craft to blow a hole in the ceiling, but by then we were too close.”

  “What about all of Failee’s texts and scrolls?” Tristan asked. “Have they been destroyed?”

  Wigg nodded sadly. “But we still have her grimoire, and her blood criterion and signature scope,” he answered. Looking down at the leather-bound volume in his hands, Wigg ran one palm over its cover. “If I could have saved only one thing from that horrible place below, it would have been this.”

  Jessamay groaned. She still lay in the arms of one of the warriors. Her eyes fluttered. Wigg walked over to her and, gently lifting one of her eyelids, peered into her eye.

  “She will be all right, but she has been through a great deal,” he said. He looked around the room for a moment, and then back at the prince.

  “We need to get her back up to the Recluse.”

  Tristan took Celeste into his arms. He searched her face. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She coughed and scowled a bit. “I think so,” she said. She looked around the room again. “But let’s get out of here.”

  Tristan looked back at Alrik. “Escort us back to the surface,” he ordered. Then he smiled. “This time, we’ll follow you.”

  Tristan picked up Failee’s rescued instruments. With a click of his heels, Alrik led the way out of the room.

  The walk back to the surface took some time. When they finally reached the first floor, everyone was glad to take a deep breath of fresh air. Wigg ordered Alrik to take them somewhere where Jessamay could be made comfortable. After another short walk, Alrik stopped before a door.

  “This room should serve your needs,” he said.

  Handing the instruments over to Wigg, Tristan took Jessamay back into his arms. “You may leave us now,” he told Alrik. “And you may dismiss your warriors. But we shall need some food and drink brought to us. I have no idea how long we might remain.”

  Alrik clicked his heels. “Jin’Sai,” he said.

  As Alrik went about his orders, his warriors obediently following, Tristan carried Jessamay through the open doorway.

  The renovated room was spacious and well-appointed. Wide balcony doors lay open to the outdoors, letting in golden rays of sunlight and a cool, welcome breeze. Patterned carpet lined the floor, and a large, four-poster, canopied bed stood against one wall. An ornate writing desk and matching chair sat on the far side of the room, and a door across from it was open to an elaborate washroom.

  Celeste carefully placed the instruments on the desk, while Tristan laid Jessamay down on the bed. As Wigg sat on the edge of the bed, his daughter came to stand near him.

  Wigg placed one palm upon Jessamay’s cheek and smiled. “You’re safe now,” he reassured her. “After all of these years, you can begin to live for yourself again.”

  Jessamay shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears. “I can feel my powers starting to return,” she said softly. “And there is something I must tell you.”

  Smiling again, Wigg took his hand from her face. “Your time enchantments are still in place,” he answered. “There is all the time in the world to tell us about your experiences with Failee. Rest assured, we want to hear them all.”

  “No, no. You must listen to me,” she protested. “You must examine my blood signature again.”

  Wigg took one of her hands into his. “There is no need,” he said. “Don’t you remember? I already examined it, and I am convinced. What’s the matter?” he chided. “After all of this time, have you somehow managed to forget who you are? I certainly haven’t.”

  Jessamay began shaking her head violently. She tried to rise up from the bed. “You don’t understand!” she insisted. “You must reexamine my signature now, this instant! And this time use Failee’s signature scope! I must know if it’s true! The very future of the craft depends upon it!”

  Wigg pushed her back down onto the bed. “Very well,” he said, “if that’s what it takes to make you lie still. But after that, you must get some rest.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Wigg caused another incision to appear in Jessamay’s wrist. A single drop of blood rose from it, and then the wound closed. The blood drop came to hover in the air before the wizard, where it twisted itself into the same blood signature they had all seen before. Wigg looked up at the prince.

  “Please see if there is any parchment in that desk,” he asked.

  Tristan walked over and he looked through the newly made drawers. He found a small piece of parchment and placed it on the desk.

  Staring at the hovering blood, Wigg commanded it to glide over to the desk. It gently landed upon the parchment. Leaving Jessamay’s side, the wizard walked to the desk and sat down.

  Confidently, Wigg casually positioned the tripod directly over the blood signature, then looked down through the lens secured at the top.

  He took a quick breath. He looked in shock at Jessamay. Upon seeing his reaction, she covered her face with her hands and began to cry even harder.

  Wigg’s face was blanched and his jaw was working. But in his completely astonished state, no words came. Finally he found his voice.

  “But this is impossible…,” he said, so softly that Tristan and Celeste could barely hear him. “This violates every established precept….”

  With shaking hands, Wigg readjusted the scope. He looked again. His expert eye remained glued to the lens for a long time. As Jessamay watched in fear, her sobbing continued unabated.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  _____

  AS SERENA SAT AMONG HER HUSBAND’S NEW SERVANTS, SHE felt a shudder go through her. Were they dead, alive, or something else, she wondered. Even given her immense skills of the craft, she could not tell.

  But at least she could understand Wulfgar’s vision of the future—the vision that had been imparted to him by the Guild of the Heretics, and that he had at last explained to her.

  The meeting room was large and well appointed. Ten sat at the table: herself, Wulfgar, Einar, and the Council of Seven, as her husband called his new s
ervants. A pair of armed demonslavers stood guard on the other side of the closed double doors. Two candelabras on the table threw their flickering light over a sumptuous spread of food and wine. In the far wall, a fire danced merrily in the hearth. Its smoke smelled familiar and comforting.

  Taking up her wine glass, Serena refocused her attention on Wulfgar’s words.

  “…each of you will captain a Black Ship,” he was saying. “You will command not only the Earthshakers assigned to your vessel, but also several full legions of demonslavers. Tomorrow you shall practice the sea maneuvers that you once carried out centuries ago, albeit for a very different cause. I wish to be sure that the legends of your prowess are still true.” As he spoke, the ravaged half of his face contorted grotesquely.

  “When we finally launch the war against Eutracia, several of you shall march your forces north to ensure the continued self-destruction of the Orb of the Vigors,” he went on. “That is our chief concern. The rest of you shall aid me in the attack upon the royal palace. We shall destroy the Conclave of the Vigors, my half brother’s Minions of Day and Night, and the Redoubt of the Directorate. When our victories are secure we will then turn our attention east, toward Parthalon. Compared to Eutracia, Parthalon will collapse like a house of cards.”

  “A question, my lord,” one of the seven captains said.

  It was the first time Serena had heard any of them speak, and it surprised her. Like the others, his glowing eyes and white teeth shone in his black skull.

  “And that is?” Wulfgar asked.

  “Are we to assume that any opposing force nearing the orb—especially that which might be commanded by the wizards or the Jin’Sai—is to be obliterated?” the captain asked.

  Wulfgar smiled. “Indeed.”

  Then the Lord of the Vagaries leaned over, and placed both his hands upon the table. His single eye seemed to take everyone in at once. Even Serena found it unnerving.

  “But hear me well,” he added quietly. “The Jin’Sai and the Jin’Saiou are not to be killed. I have my own plans for my dear half brother and sister. Any of you who disobey this order will again find himself imprisoned in the sea—this time for all eternity.”