The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  “For some unknown reason I seem to be important to those in power here,” he said at last. “When this leader named Krassus finally comes, I might be able to persuade him to let you stay here with me.”

  Placing a finger beneath her chin, he raised her face back up to his. “Would you like that?”

  For the first time in days, Serena managed a smile. Her heart was sure of this strong, gentle man.

  She took one of his hands in hers and placed it on her breast.

  Understanding, Wulfgar looked into her eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked gently.

  Smiling, she reached behind him and freed his long, sandy hair from its worn leather band. She watched his mane fall down around his shoulders and ran her fingers through it slowly.

  Narrowing his eyes slightly, Wulfgar gently laid her down on the bed. His breathing had quickened, and there was a strong sense of command about him that she desperately wanted to surrender herself to.

  As his mouth met hers, her body rose to meet him.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-three

  You did what to my herb cubiculum?” Faegan shouted. Shailiha had never seen him so angry. As if the loss of Tree Town and so many of the gnomes he loved hadn’t been enough, now he had just learned that his cubiculum had been partially destroyed. His face was bright red, and his gray-green eyes were practically bulging out, a rare sight indeed. The Paragon swung from its gold chain around his neck, refracting its bloodred light about the room.

  Lionel the Little sat at the table, his little body trembling. His broken spectacles hung off the end of his nose; the singed tuft of hair was bathed in sweat and stuck flat to his forehead. He suddenly wished he had never, ever, heard of herbs.

  “But the explosion was a small one, Master,” he countered lamely. “Not as large or destructive as the two others, and I—”

  “There have been others?” Faegan exploded. He slammed both his hands down on the armrests of his chair on wheels.

  Shailiha, Celeste, and Lionel had returned on schedule, after hiding the bags of herbs and the vat of oils, and cleaning up the laboratory, as best they could. They had spent one night in Shadowood, during which time there had been no sign of any other demonslavers. When they finally exited Faegan’s portal, they found Wigg, Abbey, and Faegan waiting anxiously for them.

  Seeing that the women’s jerkins were bloodied and that they had none of the herbs or oils Abbey had requested, the wizards had demanded an explanation. But first Shailiha anxiously inquired about Tristan, only to learn that there was still no word. After hearing what Shailiha and Celeste had to say, the wizards then ordered everyone to the Hall of Blood Records to discuss the situation further.

  At the table sat Wigg, Faegan, Abbey, Shailiha, Celeste, and Lionel. Shailiha had requested that Morganna be brought to her, and she now held her baby happily in her sling. Atop a pedestal in one corner of the room sat the Tome of the Paragon.

  With a great sigh Faegan leaned forward, placing his hands flat upon the table. He looked directly at Shailiha. As he did, she could feel his immense power.

  “Do you mean to tell me that every remaining bit of dried herb and refined oil left in my cubiculum has been contaminated?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered sadly as she rocked her child. “We arrived in time to save most of the gnomes from death, and some of Tree Town from fire. But not in time to keep the slavers from stealing what they needed and mixing together the remaining herbs and oils. Had we not arrived when we did, there would most probably be nothing left to use at all. I’m sorry we didn’t do more.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Wigg said compassionately from the other side of the table. “If it hadn’t been for the two of you, we would have lost everything. We’re very proud of what you have done.” Smiling at them both, he placed an affectionate hand over his daughter’s.

  “Yes, they are indeed to be commended,” Abbey added. “And thank the Afterlife for Celeste’s Forestallment. But do any of you fully understand how much more difficult our task has just become?” The herbmistress was clearly frustrated. Sighing angrily, she ran a hand back through her gray-streaked dark hair.

  “What was once considered arduous has now become virtually impossible,” she continued. “And we are still no closer to finding Tristan, Wulfgar, or these scrolls you speak of. Not to mention discerning what Krassus’ eventual goals in all of this might be.”

  Celeste looked over at Faegan. “If only a small bit of one herb blew up the laboratory, then why is it that all of Tree Town didn’t go up when the demonslavers were burning the herbs by the bagful?” she asked.

  Faegan scowled. “I can only assume that is because they were so well mixed. I have never experimented with mixing all of my herbs together, because I feared what might happen.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “So now we know,” he said in a soft voice. “Still, this was a terrible way to have to find out.”

  Shailiha looked to Wigg. “There is absolutely no word of my brother?” she asked. “None of the Minion search parties have turned up anything?”

  The lead wizard shook his head. “I am sorry,” he answered sadly. “But they continue to search, and they won’t give up. Several days ago we sent Geldon and Traax to Parthalon, to activate the Minion fleet. They have been on patrol since, plowing the Sea of Whispers in an attempt to intercept Krassus’ supposed fleet and recover the Chosen One. We have yet to hear from them.”

  Shailiha and Celeste looked wide-eyed at the two old wizards. “So you sent the fleet out anyway?” Celeste asked incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Because you weren’t needed, and there wasn’t time for us to endure yet another of your blatant pleadings to go along with them,” Wigg said, trying to keep his tone light. “You are both very strong, valuable allies, and we thought your considerable talents might be better used for other things. As it turned out, we were right.”

  Shailiha glared at the wizards as she tried her best to be angry with them. But in the end, she couldn’t. She and Celeste had been so sure they had manipulated them, but in truth it had been the other way around. She was once again reminded that there was always more to dealing with Wigg and Faegan than first met the eye.

  “So what do we do now?” she asked the table in general. Morganna cooed, and the princess gave her a little hug.

  “Abbey and Lionel shall eventually go back to Shadowood to try to unravel the riddle of the herbs and the oils,” Faegan answered. “The bulk of the Minion forces will remain here. After all, we cannot be sure that Krassus and his demonslavers aren’t still in Eutracia. We must make sure the castle and the Redoubt are well protected.” He paused.

  “There is something else I wish to tell you all,” he added after a moment, “and this must come first, before anyone returns to Shadowood. I have been doing research into the Tome, to see if I might come up with something more to help us with these problems of the herbs and oils. And after hearing your story, I am most glad that I did.”

  Raising one arm, he commanded the Tome to come to him. It rose into the air and floated across the room to come to rest on the table. Narrowing his eyes, he employed the craft to open it to a particular section of the text. Then he looked back up at the lead wizard.

  “Tell me,” he asked Wigg, “have you ever heard of the Chambers of Penitence?”

  “No,” Wigg answered skeptically. “What are you talking about?”

  “At first I did not remember the phrase either,” Faegan replied. “But when I used my gift of Consummate Recollection to scan the Tome for the words ‘herbs’ and ‘oils,’ a strange thing happened. I also kept seeing the words ‘Chambers of Penitence’ in my mind. Not just once, mind you, but over and over again, until they started to crowd everything else out. It was as if the Tome was desperately trying to tell me something. Heretofore the text had only been a silent, static entity. But now it was as if it had suddenly come alive, just as the Paragon has its own otherworldly form of existence.
It was astounding. So I decided to actually read the pages, rather than simply rely on my memory. And when I did, further references to these chambers kept popping up, taking me to other related pages in the text. And after crisscrossing back and forth in the text this way, I was finally led here, to a specific volume of the Vigors. By itself, the passage would be confusing. But now, after having been led here from its many sources, the meaning is becoming more clear.”

  “And just what does the passage say?” Wigg asked.

  Faegan looked down at the page. “ ‘. . . And there shall be discovered many Chambers of Penitence, which shall both help to guide their way in the craft, and also ensure the existence of the Vigors. Each chamber shall be different in its secrets than the last, but each shall reveal aspects of the craft so complex that they must be hidden within the earth. But be forewarned, for the psychic price of such knowledge shall be dear, perhaps even mortal.’ “

  Faegan looked up from the great book. “Do you see?” he asked excitedly.

  Wigg leaned forward, intensely interested.

  “Let me show you,” Faegan went on. Narrowing his eyes again, he commanded more of the pages to turn to another part of the text. Running his finger down the page, he finally found what he was looking for.

  “ ‘If it be of the herbs and oils of the craft that one seeks guidance, it shall be found in one of the Chambers of Penitence. Within the chamber they shall find the Floating Gardens of the Craft, eternally guarded by the watchwoman of the waters. But the cost of such knowledge shall be dear indeed, and it should be searched out only in times of great distress, for the risk is great. At the base of the Woman of Stone, one shall begin to find the answers. But only with the help of the Paragon, for it alone shall light the way.’ “

  “The Woman of Stone?” Celeste asked. “What is that?”

  “The Woman of Stone is a rock formation on the coast, not too far from here,” Wigg answered, rubbing his chin. “Over time, the waves have carved the profile of a woman into the rock wall overlooking the Sea of Whispers. It has supposedly existed for eons. Long enough, it would now appear, for the Ones Who Came Before to know of it as well, and use her as a landmark by which to leave one of these so-called Chambers of Penitence.” Pausing for a moment, he looked back over to Faegan.

  “But what of these floating gardens?” he asked. “And who is this watchwoman who is supposedly eternally guarding them? And what does the Tome mean by the ‘psychic price to be paid’?”

  “We won’t know until we go there, will we?” Faegan cackled. His expression and posture reminded Wigg that nothing so entranced his old friend as an unexplained secret of the craft, especially if he was the only one to possess the answer.

  “I think we should depart first thing in the morning,” Faegan added.

  Wigg looked over to Abbey to see a hint of disappointment in her eyes. It seemed they would be separated again, after all. Then he looked back at Faegan and sighed.

  He hoped the master wizard was right.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-four

  Raising his sword high, Tristan narrowly parried the sharp strike from the demonslaver’s blade. The guard had rushed from the deck above to confront him, even before he had ascended the last two steps of the stairway.

  Struggling against the ceaseless blows, he somehow made it topside and gained some badly needed maneuvering room. As his opponent raised his sword yet again, Tristan finally sensed an opening. Sliding in on the balls of his feet, he swung the blade around in a flat, perfect circle. The tip of the sword sliced the slaver’s abdomen open, and the monster fell to the deck.

  Trying to ignore the desperate pain in his back, Tristan stole a precious moment to get his bearings. There were five ships involved in the struggle. The Wayfarer and the Stalwart lay next to one another in the water. Two of the still-unidentified frigates flanked them. The third lay before their bows. The three mysterious frigates had employed heavy grappling hooks to pull all the ships together and hold them there. There was nothing for the monsters to do but stand and fight. All five of the vessels’ decks swarmed with combatants.

  Many of the slave ships’ sails were torn and hanging down, while their masts had fallen, shattered, to the decks. Rigging lay everywhere, making fighting all the more difficult. Small fires had broken out here and there, dark smoke rising to blur vision.

  Suddenly Tristan realized what was wrong about it all.

  There were no Minion warriors about. Not a single one. The fighters who were struggling alongside him and his fellow slaves seemed to be a ragtag, unorganized lot at best. Each of them fought with skill and abandon, as if every moment were his last. They seemed to have precious little fear of the demonslavers, and relished killing them, almost as if they all had personal scores to settle. Amid the blood, the screaming, and the clashing of weapons, Tristan found himself stunned and confused.

  A trident came whistling through the air, to bury itself directly beside his head in the thick mast that stood just behind him. Instinctively he reached behind his right shoulder to grasp one of his throwing knives, only to remember that they weren’t there.

  Cursing, he finally saw the demonslaver that had thrown the trident. He stood a little way across the bloody deck, glaring at him. Sword in hand, the monster smiled and nastily beckoned the prince forward.

  On impulse, Tristan raised his sword high and ran toward the slaver across the slippery deck. As he neared, though, he caught a glimpse of yet another slaver running around the corner of the wheelhouse, and realized he was trapped. Tristan knew he couldn’t possibly take them both—especially without his usual weapons at his command. So he kept going for all he was worth, intent on cutting down at least the first of them.

  Holding his blade in a one-handed grip straight out before him, Tristan ran in and roughly pushed the slaver’s sword arm to one side with his free hand. Then he plunged the point of his sword directly into the demonslaver’s throat. He turned the edge of the blade sharply, then raised one foot and pushed the body off his sword. Blood rushed from the slaver’s neck as he fell to the deck.

  Tristan turned around as fast as he could to face the one rushing up behind him. If he died this day, so be it—at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken several more of the awful demonslavers to their graves with him. But what he saw surprised him.

  A great bear of a man had come up behind the other slaver and taken it around the neck with one of his huge arms. The man’s other arm was pushing on the back of the demonslaver’s head, forcing it down and forward. Suddenly the man gave the slaver’s head another forceful shove downward, and Tristan heard the neck snap like a dry tree branch. Then the giant picked up the dead body and threw it a good five meters across the deck, as if it weighed nothing. Tristan couldn’t help but stand speechless for a moment, looking into the eyes of the fighter who had just saved his life.

  He was the largest human being the prince had ever seen—even taller and heavier than most of the Minion warriors. Easily topping seven feet, he wore torn, bloody breeches and nothing else—no shoes, shirt, or weapons of any kind. He seemed to be a bit older than Tristan, and his eyes were dark. His head was clean-shaven, and his hugely muscular body was covered with scars of every description, one of which ran diagonally down across his forehead, over his left eye, and onto his cheek.

  Tristan watched in awe as yet another demonslaver, his sword held high, rushed toward the giant. With a speed Tristan would have thought impossible for one so large, the man turned and grabbed the slaver’s sword arm, giving it a sharp twist. The arm broke, blood and splintered bone erupting through the white skin. As the slaver screamed in agony, the giant picked him up easily and then let him fall straight down onto his raised right knee. Then he lifted the dead body up into his arms as if it, too, were weightless, and it went flying across the deck.

  After giving the prince an expressionless look, the giant turned away, searching for another victim.

  Tri
stan looked around but could find no immediate enemy. The battle was clearly subsiding, and it seemed that his mysterious saviors had won the day. Exhausted, chest heaving, Tristan lowered his sword.

  His first impulse was to find the Sojourner, but clearly she was not here. Turning to the east, he squinted into the sun and let his gaze pan across the horizon. Finally he found it: The white speck of sail in the far-off distance that meant Krassus and his herbmistress had escaped. Angrily he turned back to the now-quiet battle scene.

  Bodies—human and demonslaver alike—lay everywhere in impossible poses. The Wayfarer and the Stalwart lay low in the sea, and the fires upon them were still flaring up here and there. Groups of the still-unidentified crew were busy trying to put them out before the flames licked their way over to their own ships. Weapons, bone, and organs littered the decks, which were awash in blood. Slaves walked vacantly amid the carnage, staring at nothing. Others simply sat on the bloody decks, sobbing in horror and gratitude. Some of the victorious fighters were already looting the two slave ships, loading their bounty of humans, food, and water aboard the three mysterious frigates.

  In one corner of the aft deck of the Wayfarer, part of the crew that had saved them were busy lining up the surviving captive slavers, forcing them to their knees, and beheading them one by one. The bodies and heads were thrown overboard. Drawn by the blood, packs of sharks had begun to form, their dorsal fins curving ominously through the waves.

  At first Tristan’s heart recoiled at the casual beheading of the demonslavers, and he gave momentary thought to trying to stop it. But then he remembered that he wasn’t in charge here. He finally decided that after witnessing all of the brutality the slavers were capable of, he simply didn’t care what happened to them.

  He walked on, deciding that he had to discover who was in command. Surely this group of saviors would have a captain, and Tristan was anxious to meet him.

  Then one of the men who had helped free them began rounding up the slaves. In a firm, controlled voice he told them to walk to the bow deck of The People’s Revenge, the ship still barring their way. There they were to await further orders. Tristan soon found himself among a trudging crowd of slaves as the pitiful mass of humanity slowly made its way across a gangplank and aboard the mysterious frigate.