Savage Messiah

by Robert Newcomb

  Putting one arm around her, Wigg looked sadly into Shailiha’s glistening eyes. “I’m sorry, Princess,” he said. “At this moment in the history of the craft, we are but pawns in the struggle between light and dark. The Jin’Sai’s destiny shall be what it shall be. We must accept that.”

  TRISTAN’S MIND WAS FEVERISH AND HIS BREATHING WAS IRREGULAR, as his body fought to stay alive. Time after time his consciousness struggled to resurface and join the world, only to be dragged back under again. And then—for the first time in his life—Tristan heard the voices of the Ones Who Came Before. They revealed themselves to him gently, soft tones in his mind.

  “Tristan…”

  His breathing shallow, his heartbeat slow and weak, Tristan did not move.

  “Tristan,” they called again, more insistently. “You must rise, our son. As the reigning Jin’Sai, you have done well. But you must discover whether you still possess the strength to perform this last deed. The release of your last Forestallment will bring you the acceptance and trust of your subjects that you have so long desired. Rise up, Jin’Sai. Rise and employ this last forestallment, to take your rightful place in your world.”

  Groaning, Tristan moved slightly. With a supreme effort of will, he raised himself up to his knees. He was exhausted. His body and clothing were both soaked with rain and charred and dirty from the fires. But he bowed his head and answered the call of the Ones Who Came Before.

  “I am here,” he told them silently.

  “You and your sister are the strongest Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou ever to walk the earth,” the voices said. “Our hopes run high that it shall be you and she who finally join the two sides of the craft. But, in truth, your travails have only just begun. If you live through the application of your final Forestallment, you know what your next deed must be, for the Scroll Master has told you. Do not tarry in that mission, Jin’Sai, for there is so little time.”

  “It shall be as you say,” he answered silently.

  Tristan got wavering unsteadily to his feet. He pushed his dark, wet hair away from his eyes.

  Trying to reclaim his senses, he again drew a knife. He hardly felt the fresh cut he made in his palm. No longer caring what became of the knife, he let it slip from his hand and fall to the wet ground. He closed his wounded fist to squeeze more of his blood onto the ground.

  Raising his arms, he closed his eyes.

  With the release of his final Forestallment, the small pool of blood on the ground began to glow with the aura of the craft. The azure pool grew larger and larger. It soon split into crooked lengths that looked like lightning branches. There were hundreds of them now, their ends starting to snake through the streets of Tammerland. Other tendrils traveled across the surface of the moat and invaded the palace grounds.

  Raising his hands higher, his body trembling and his mind pushed to the limit, Tristan silently ordered the branches to search out their targets. Their speed increasing, they obeyed. Lightning tore across the sky. Thunder cracked, and a stiff, cyclonic wind overtook the city, its ferocity sending the charred, wet debris from the fires whirling high into the air. One by one, the azure branches reached not only the citizens of Tammerland, but his own Minions of Day and Night as well.

  The terrified citizens tried to run. But the azure branches were too fast. The exhausted Minions held fast, most of them trying to strike down the snaking branches with their dreggans. But their blades caused no damage. Pandemonium reigned again.

  As those on the palace roof watched, they soon realized that the branches were not seeking out all of the people and warriors, but only some of them. Finally understanding, Shailiha’s eyes went wide and she looked at Wigg. With a smile, the First Wizard nodded back.

  The branches were only seeking out the wounded and dying!

  With each caress of the craft, the wounds healed. Burns and gashes closed, bleeding stopped, and broken bones mended themselves. Cries of jubilation rose in the city as the lame walked and the blind saw again. Crutches were cast aside, and tearful mothers and fathers held each other as they watched their stricken children become whole once more.

  As the citizens and the warriors came to understand what was happening, they embraced one another. As if they had suddenly found a common thread of humanity that had never before existed, the citizens began to shed their sense of fear, and the warriors gradually cast off the guilt they had felt for so long about what they had once done to these people. Even the stern warriors shed tears.

  Unfettered happiness engulfed the city in ways that the fires and the Enseterat’s forces had not been able to do. Someone climbed one of the city’s still-standing towers and began to ring its bells in celebration. Joy commanded the night.

  With tears in his eyes, Wigg looked down at Tristan. The Jin’Sai was still struggling to hold his arms wide. At last, sensing that his work was done, he lowered his arms. He watched weakly as the azure branches faded, then disappeared.

  Tristan fell to his knees and hung his head. Citizens and warriors rushed toward him with gratitude. With the end of his final Forestallment, the thunder and wind died away, leaving only the sounds of celebration.

  But his heart was not gladdened. Although he was grateful that he had succeeded, the merriment meant little to him. As the crowds formed around him he ignored them, his mind imprisoned by his own grief.

  Celeste, he thought. His tears came freely.

  His mind turned to the stark image of her azure death mask, hovering in space with so many others in the Well of Forestallments. Was her soul content? he wondered. Did she indeed forgive him from wherever she had gone to rest?

  Reaching into his leather vest, with a trembling hand he removed her wedding ring.

  Then he lost consciousness and fell to the ground.

  EPILOGUE

  _____

  “WE HAVE BEEN SUMMONED,” EINAR SAID.

  Looking up from the ancient text he had been studying, Reznik turned to stare at his visitor. His expression said that he did not appreciate the interruption. He sullenly looked back down at his work.

  “Can it not wait?” he asked. “I am at a critical juncture in my research, and—”

  “Now,” Einar insisted.

  Removing his spectacles, Reznik sighed. “Very well.”

  He stood up from his work stool, brushed off his clothes, and followed Einar from the room. The door closed heavily behind them.

  The walk was long but pleasant. Colorful birds flew about the inner ward; fountains danced and burbled happily, and the sky was clear. They crossed the grounds, then navigated a series of labyrinthine hallways. Finally, the men stopped before a pair of double doors. Einar knocked. A voice bade them enter. A servant opened the doors, and the two of them walked in.

  Serena stood at the far end of the throne room, facing the sea. When she turned to look at them, they could see that she had been crying again.

  It was known throughout the Citadel that she had lost her child two days earlier. The baby girl had been both premature and stillborn. It was rumored that in her grief Serena had enchanted the little corpse to remain fresh, and that it lay in state in her private quarters, but no one knew for sure. Nor did anyone dare ask.

  Despite her recent loss, the queen of the Citadel remained as beautiful as ever. Brunette ringlets hung to her shoulders, and her wide blue eyes regarded the men calmly. Her black mourning dress was tailored to perfection. Since Wulfgar’s departure for Eutracia, her demeanor seemed to have become even more commanding.

  “You called for us, your grace?” Einar asked.

  Saying nothing, Serena turned and walked to one of the two black marble thrones that overlooked the sea. She sat down and arranged the hem of her gown. Without being told, the two men came to face her.

  Serena reached to one side and took up a small, leather-bound journal. She opened the book and produced a flower that had b
een pressed between its pages.

  The single red rose was withered. Even so, it did not give the appearance of having been dead for long. Serena held the rose up to them.

  “This rose has died,” she said, “and with it many of my hopes and dreams.”

  “I do not understand,” the first man said. “Does this flower bear some significance?”

  “Before he left for Eutracia, Wulfgar plucked this rose and bound its life to his own,” she answered. “As long as he lived, so, too, would the rose.”

  Pausing, she took a moment to collect herself. She closed her eyes and pressed the withered blossom against her breast.

  “The Enseterat is dead,” she said.

  Stunned, the men looked at each other and then back at their queen. First her child and now her husband, one of them thought, and both dead within the space of only two days.

  “We can only assume that our invasion of Eutracia has failed,” she went on, “and that our armies have been annihilated. Worse yet, the Black Ships may remain intact and in the hands of our enemies. Only the blood of the Jin’Sai could have defeated my husband. That means that his blood is red once more, and that he can, therefore, be trained in the craft. He is now without question the most dangerous man in the world.

  “We must also assume that the assassin Satine is dead, and perhaps Bratach as well,” she added. “In addition, our entire network of consuls scattered throughout Eutracia may be in jeopardy. Buoyed by his recent victory, the Jin’Sai might even try to come and take away the Scroll of the Vagaries. He must be stopped at all costs.”

  Still trying to digest the awful news, the two men simply stood there for a time. Finally Einar spoke.

  “My greatest condolences for your losses, your grace,” he said.

  “And mine,” said the other.

  Serena nodded. “There is more to tell you,” she said. “Before he left for Eutracia, Wulfgar granted me dozens of additional Forestallments to my blood signature, and trained me in their use. I am now a fully empowered sorceress of the Vagaries.” As she paused for a moment, her expression turned grim.

  “You are my senior consul, Einar,” she said. “In many ways, your talents are equal to Faegan’s and Wigg’s. I shall need your expertise in the days to come.”

  “As you wish, your grace,” Einar answered.

  Serena turned her gaze to the other man. She took in his bloody butcher’s apron, bald head, and wrinkled face. She found him an unpleasant creature, but his gifts might prove useful, so she tolerated his presence.

  “And you, Reznik?” she asked. “I trust that you and your Corporeals are as comfortable here as you were in Eutracia?”

  “Yes, your grace,” Reznik answered. “It was wise of your late husband to bring us here after Faegan first discovered Valrenkium. We have settled in nicely. The fruits of our labors shall be yours alone.”

  Serena lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly, her gaze far away and her thoughts on her stillborn child. “The practitioners of the Vigors will soon rue the day they killed my family.” She looked back at her two servants.

  “Leave me,” she ordered. “I wish to be alone. Soon—very soon—our new work will begin.”

  Bowing, the two men left the room. The heavy double doors closed behind them.

  Alone once more, Serena allowed herself the luxury of tears. As they traced their way down her cheeks, she walked to the edge of the throne room and looked west, toward Eutracia.

  Lowering her head, she pressed the withered rose to her breast.

  This one’s dedicated to Paul, Katie,

  Elizabeth, and Allison Iaconis.

  My love to you all…

  By Robert Newcomb

  THE CHRONICLES OF BLOOD AND STONE

  The Fifth Sorceress

  The Gates of Dawn

  The Scrolls of the Ancients

  THE DESTINIES OF BLOOD AND STONE

  Savage Messiah

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ____________

  ROBERT NEWCOMB is the author of The Chronicles of Blood and Stone: The Fifth Sorceress, The Gates of Dawn, and The Scrolls of the Ancients. He traveled widely in his youth as a member of the American Institute for Foreign Study, studying at the University of Southampton, England, and aboard a university-sponsored ship in the Mediterranean Sea. After graduating from Colgate University with a B.A. in economics and a minor in art history, he enjoyed a successful career in business. He lives in Florida with his wife, a neuropsychologist and novelist. Visit the author’s website at www.robertnewcomb.com.

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