“A blood quality of one and a half,” one of them replied promptly. “We have never seen its like. That is, of course, with the exception of the Chosen Ones.”
“And the craft tendency?” Janus asked.
“Left-leaning,” the man seated on the right answered. “To a degree never before seen.”
“You don’t say,” Janus mused. Removing his fancy handkerchief from a pocket, he dusted off the lens atop the tripod. Placing his eye to it, he examined the design on the parchment for some time. Finally, he raised his head back up.
“Very well,” he said finally. “I stand convinced.”
The painted freak turned toward Wulfgar. “All of that magnificently endowed blood, just waiting to be trained,” he mused. Grasping Wulfgar’s chin, he examined the slave’s face as he turned it this way and that in the dim light of the torches.
“And you are so beautiful, as well,” he added. Then, letting out an exasperated breath, he backed away, all the while staring with revulsion at the slave’s soiled, torn loincloth and filthy, bare feet. Reaching into a pocket, he produced a small, golden tin of snuff. With careful movements, he held a pinch up to his nose and sniffed hard. A sudden, forceful sneeze followed. Then he smiled.
“No matter,” he said, sniffing twice again. “Your disgusting aroma can be remedied. And beautiful you are, my dear Wulfgar, despite your current state. You are living proof that the licentious tart that was your mother somehow always managed to vomit forth impressive children, no matter the quality of the fool she laid with. How nice.”
The slave’s answer was immediate: He summoned all the saliva he could and spat it directly into Janus’ face.
Slowly Janus wiped the spittle from his face with his embroidered handkerchief. “So much defiance,” he said softly. “And how like your half brother and sister you seem to be.”
Confusion flashed across Wulfgar’s face.
“Ah, but you don’t know about them yet, do you?” Janus asked nastily. “All in good time. We’ll see to it that the demonslavers watch over you well.”
Twenty-Nine looked over to the white-skinned monster on his right. Demonslavers. So that was what they were called.
Janus turned back to Wulfgar and looked into the slave’s hazel eyes. “Assign this one to Krassus’ personal quarters,” he ordered the ones at the table. “And keep the door securing our new charge locked at all times. See to it that he is bathed and properly fed. Nothing but the finest for our friend, wouldn’t you agree? Also see to it that our guest has some finery to wear. His forthcoming station shall require it. Otherwise, he is not to be disturbed unless I order it.” He smiled again. “I want him to be sleek and happy when he first meets his new teacher.” The robed men nodded.
Wulfgar struggled in vain to free himself from the demonslaver’s iron grip. “What do you want of me?” he growled. “What is it that I am supposed to do for you?”
Janus smiled. “Be at peace,” he cooed softly. “For the time being, all that matters is what we shall be doing for you.”
It was at that point that a single, defiant voice rang out from the crowd of slaves.
“Leave him alone! He has done nothing to you!”
Turning quickly, Janus narrowed his eyes and searched among the slaves. “It seems we have a wolf among the sheep!” he said loudly. “How wonderful! Come and show yourself!”
A man stepped out of line and began shuffling toward the table. The nearest demonslaver moved to strike him down, but backed down at a quick gesture from Janus. With a cavalier wave of one hand, Janus beckoned the loinclothed slave forward.
The man had served on the oaring deck. Twenty-Nine had never been afforded the opportunity to speak to him, for their stations had been too far removed from each other. But he did know that this slave had been one of the most quarrelsome. He had purposely given the demonslavers a great deal of trouble, sometimes even mocking them. Many of the others manning the oars had looked up to him. The grisly evidence of the demonslavers’ love for both the nine-tails and trident showed over much of his lean, hard body, and yet this man, like the slave named Wulfgar, had somehow managed to keep not only part of his strength intact, but also most of his dignity. As he walked slowly forward to face Janus, the demonslavers grudgingly made way.
“You are in no position to give orders,” Janus said, looking the man up and down. He grinned as he fingered the black-and-white spheres at his hip, rubbing them together in a circle around his palm. Twenty-Nine cringed at the perverse, metallic sound of their clinking together.
“Turn your left shoulder to me,” Janus ordered. The man obeyed. Janus narrowed his eyes.
“Talis,” he said approvingly. “Good. Your death shall be no particular loss. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a head start—say, twenty meters. Run as fast as you can toward the edge of the pier, where the ships lay docked. If you make it, I’ll let you live. And if you don’t, well, let’s just say that you will be saved the unpleasant experience of this place.”
After an indication from Janus, one of the demonslavers unlocked the slave’s manacles. The slave rubbed his tortured wrists in disbelief.
Smiling, Janus took the black-and-white rope from the hook on his belt and slowly began uncoiling it. Then he grasped the line at its center, letting the small iron spheres at either end hang down almost to the stone floor. Casually, he looked up into the eyes of the slave who had dared defy him.
“I suggest you start now,” he said softly.
The slave turned and began running toward the ships docked at the end of the pier.
Calmly, almost slowly, Janus raised the checkered line high over his head and began to swing the spheres around in a circle.The line and spheres sang hauntingly as they tore though the air—faster, faster, until they were a glimmering pinwheel of black and white.
And then Janus let go.
The weapon wheeled unerringly toward the running slave. He never had a chance.
The midpoint of the checkered line caught him in the back of the neck. Instantaneously the lines on either side wound around and around his throat.
The twin spheres closed ranks, smashing with a great cracking noise into his head—one into his face, the other into the back of his skull. Blood and brain matter exploded from his crushed cranium, and he crashed to the ground just before reaching the end of the pier. A hush came over the crowd.
The victim groaned.
“Don’t tell me he still lives!” Janus sneered. “How remarkable!”
The Harlequin strode to his victim and uncoiled his bizarre weapon from the slave’s mangled neck. The slave groaned one last time as the heartless butcher stood over him, watching him expire.
With a smile, Janus bent over to dip the spheres into the sea to clean them, then replaced them on his belt. He looked over to several demonslavers who had crowded around the body. Suddenly his smile widened.
“I think it safe to say he no longer has the head for this business!” And he gave a sarcastic laugh.
The slavers standing near him broke into raucous laughter.
Twenty-Nine lowered his head in shame. Then his shame quickly turned to anger, filling every corner of his heart. He looked down at his broken hands. Clenching his jaw, he turned to glare at the freak standing so proudly over his bloody victory.
“What shall we do with the body?” one of the demonslavers asked.
Thinking for a moment, the Harlequin turned back to the crowd of slaves and beckoned. Immediately the air became filled with the sounds of snapping nine-tails as the slavers forced the crowd toward the edge of the pier, where the slain slave lay.
“Hear me!” Janus shouted. “For those others of you who might defy us, know that what happened to this slave is perhaps the most lenient of consequences. There exist far more ingenious methods of obtaining your cooperation, I assure you! Your loved ones back in Eutracia know you are gone, but have absolutely no idea of where you have been taken. Nor shall they ever. Rescue is quite impo
ssible. And should any of you be thinking of plotting an escape, also know that you are on an island. Should you try to leave us, only death awaits you in these waters. Allow me to demonstrate!”
Janus calmly turned to several of the slavers standing beside him. He pointed to the mutilated corpse. “Hack the body into pieces, and throw them in,” he ordered simply.
Two of the demonslavers came forward, sliding their short, broad swords from the scabbards hanging low on their backs. With amazingly fast strokes, the body was quickly dismembered. Blood ran slowly toward the edge of the pier and dripped into the sea.
Two of the demonslavers grasped the bloody parts and tossed them into the ocean just aft of the Defiant. Then Janus turned to look down into the murky depths and held up a painted hand. The entire crowd went silent.
“Wait for it,” he said quietly. Then, slowly, something began to happen.
There was a disturbance in the water.
An area of the sea surface started to glow with the color azure. It began to writhe and churn. Deepening whirlpools, each several meters across, could be seen forming in various spots on the gloomy sea of the subterranean harbor. Everyone stood transfixed, waiting to see what would happen next. And then, almost as if with a single mind, the crowd recoiled.
From the midst of the azure whirlpools, squat, menacing heads silently began rising up out of the sea.
The long, flat skulls were covered with dark red scales. Slanted, yellow eyes, with vertical black irises, darted from side to side as the heads turned menacingly this way and that, searching for whatever had disturbed the surface of the sea. Several of them began slithering hungrily toward the pieces of severed corpse, portions of their long, smooth bodies intermittently rising and submerging as they went. Their strangely forked tails rose silently from the water, only to submerge again. In the center of their backs a spiny fin occasionally swept up in a gentle curve only to fall again, to lie against the sinuous spine.
Dozens of them were rising silently to the surface now, slithering over and under one another, writhing and twisting in the dark sea. The only sound was their eager hissing.
Some of them had reached their meal, and they opened their jaws wide. Astoundingly long pink, forked tongues flashed out to entwine the bloody body parts. Then the tongues retracted, pulling the meat into waiting maws. In each mouth, four long, white fangs—two at the top and another pair at the bottom—flashed as they bit down. With snorting, snuffling grunts of pleasure the monsters swallowed.
The sea became a whirling riot of activity as the grisly feeding frenzy continued unabated.
When the dismembered corpse was finally consumed, the beasts, silent now, slithered back into the depths. The surface of the sea stilled; the azure glow faded away. The bloodied, soiled loincloth of the dead slave floated to the surface of the murky water—all that was left of the man who had dared defy Janus.
Smiling, the Harlequin turned back to the gaping crowd.
“They are called sea slitherers,” he said. “Created by my esteemed master. They number in the thousands, and completely surround the waters of these isles. As I said, escape is impossible.”
Twenty-Nine stood numbly, unable to believe what he had just witnessed. He turned to look at the man called Wulfgar. It was clear he had given up struggling with the slaver holding him.
Gloating, Janus sauntered back from the end of the pier.
“Enough fun for one afternoon,” he said casually. “Our little object lesson is now concluded.” He looked commandingly at the two robed ones still seated at the table, then pointed to Wulfgar.
“Have him taken to his quarters,” he ordered, “and see to it that my other commands are carried out to the letter. His well-being is paramount. Should any harm befall him, you will have to answer to Krassus himself.”
The men behind the table nodded obediently.
“Also see to it that the two parchments carrying his endowed signature and blood assay are securely locked away in the vault of the Scriptorium,” he added.
He looked back at the hundreds of filthy slaves standing in the dim light of the torches. “In the meantime, keep processing these vermin,” he added. “And be quick about it. Two more ships are approaching, and will be in need of docking berths.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
As Janus left, several demonslavers gathered around Wulfgar, presumably forming a security squad to escort him to his quarters.
Strong hands suddenly gripped Twenty-Nine from behind. A knee was slammed into his back, and he was muscled around the end of the table.
His foot shackles rattling, he was herded roughly toward the far wall, where two dark, stone doorways waited. Over one was carved the word Talis. Over the other, R’talis. A steep stairway led upward from each, curving around and out of sight.
Just before being shoved through the door marked Talis, he forced his head around one final time to look at Wulfgar. Perhaps he could give him a look of hope, as Wulfgar had done for him.
But Wulfgar was already gone.
A trident at his naked back, Twenty-Nine began climbing the steep, rough-hewn stairway.
CHAPTER
Seven
Ox sorry,” the huge Minion said, wringing his hands. “Ox should been inside palace with Chosen One, not outside with troops. Not happen again. Ox promise.”
Tristan smiled over at the slow-witted but loyal Minion, knowing full well how ashamed the warrior felt. The prince had repeatedly tried to reassure him that what had happened had not been his fault, and that Krassus would have slipped by the Minion troops anyway. But as Tristan’s supposed bodyguard, Ox hadn’t agreed and had continued to castigate himself.
Deciding there was little more he could do to change the warrior’s opinion, Tristan uncoiled his long legs and looked out the window, admiring the Eutracian landscape as it flew by below.
The prince, Ox, Shailiha, and the wizard Faegan were sitting inside one of the Minion litters, being carried through the sky by six of the winged troops. Another six warriors flew alongside as guards. They had been traveling this way for several hours, and it would take at least two more to reach the coastal city of Farpoint.
Sitting directly across from Tristan, Shailiha was obviously nervous. She did not like traveling by flying litter, even if it was with her brother. She would occasionally stick her head out, trying to adjust to the fact that she was soaring along so quickly, several thousand feet above the earth. Tristan gave her a wide smile, reassuring her it would be all right. She smiled back tentatively.
Faegan had immediately fallen asleep—or so it seemed. But Tristan doubted that the wily wizard was actually dozing, suspecting that Faegan was instead absorbed in his wizardly contemplations. The Paragon hung around Faegan’s neck, its vibrant, red light shimmering from within as always.
Three days had passed since Krassus had breached the security of the palace. To the wizards’ dismay, Tristan and Shailiha had insisted on traveling to Farpoint to witness firsthand whatever it was that Krassus had taunted them about. Wigg, although improving daily, was still too weak to make the trip with them. And so Faegan had come; both to protect them, if necessary, and to lend his experienced wizard’s eyes to their observations. Celeste had stayed at the palace to tend Wigg.
The plan was to have the Minions drop them in the woods just outside the city. They would walk into town, and once there, would hire a carriage and tour the streets anonymously, trying to find out what they could. Ox and his Minions would stay in the woods with the litters, waiting for their return.
Tristan rubbed his face, not liking the thick, dark beard Faegan had conjured for him. He had never really had a full beard, and he would be glad to be rid of it.
Faegan had given Shailiha a change of hair color, from blond to black. A simple plaid peasant’s dress replaced her gown. These changes in appearance were the results of new craft calculations the old wizard had been trying to achieve, but the calculations were still limited in scope, as were their
applications.
Thinking back to the day of Krassus’ attack, Tristan scowled. Not only had the traitorous wizard invaded the palace with ease, but his doing so had resulted in several amazing revelations. Over the past three days, Wigg and Faegan had adamantly refused to elaborate on these mysteries. That would be like them: to hold back information, at least until they had figured out more of the pieces to the puzzle.
But Tristan sensed there were other reasons for the crusty wizards’ silence. And if Wigg wouldn’t talk, perhaps Faegan now would—especially since the lead wizard wasn’t here to listen.
Tristan stretched out one leg to nudge Faegan’s foot.
“Faegan,” he said gently, “are you awake?”
“Of course,” the master wizard answered rather sourly, his eyes still closed. “Bouncing along in one of these contraptions, thousands of feet in the air, who could possibly be asleep?”
Looking at Shailiha, Tristan grinned.
“I have a question for you,” he said to the wizard.
Faegan sighed, “What is it?” he asked grumpily. The ancient, gray-green eyes remained closed.
“Are partials endowed?” Tristan asked. “I always thought that people were either endowed, or they weren’t.”
Faegan’s left eye suddenly opened, to stare directly at the prince. With another sigh, he opened the other eye and sat up, shaking off his previous thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he raised his arms and stretched his back. “It’s not that simple,” he said with a smile. “And I suppose that without Wigg here to castigate me, you expect to hear all about it, don’t you?”
Tristan grinned, realizing that Faegan was about to give him at least some of his answers—if for no other reason than to eventually annoy the lead wizard.
“Partials are not endowed in the classic sense,” Faegan answered, “but given the proper training, some of the more powerful of them can perform certain acts that unendowed persons cannot.”
“Such as?” Shailiha asked.
“Skills such as blaze-gazing, or being able to force someone to reveal the truth, even against his or her will. Healing or causing illness. Also, it is rumored that some could perform several arcane forms of beast-mastery. All of these talents require the use of some form of organic life, such as that which comes from the ground or the water. The most gifted of them often became what we called herbmasters or herbmistresses, using specific combinations of plants, herbs, and oils to refine and strengthen their craft even further. Most wizards had little to fear from them, as partial adepts—as we called those partials who practiced the craft—were not particularly powerful.”
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 7