Faegan nodded. “Tristan, if you please,” he said.
Tristan obligingly held one hand out. An incision appeared, and a single, azure blood drop fell with a soft plop onto the parchment next to the signature of the child. Faegan carefully placed a single drop of water from the Caves onto it. This time, however, due to the very high quality of Tristan’s blood, the signature was revealed far more quickly than any of the others. None of the people at the table, though, not even the master wizard Faegan, were prepared for what they saw in it.
Tristan’s signature was identical to Shailiha’s in form. That was to be expected. But branching off from his signature were far more Forestallments. Some were long, some short, and some thicker than others, crazily leading away from the body of the signature itself. More than half of them showed their own additional offshoots, like branches from a tree limb.
After a period of silence, it was again Faegan who spoke first. He described the unusual configuration to Wigg and then asked, “Tristan, do you have any idea why this would be so?”
“No,” the prince said solemnly. “Unless it has to do with the poisoning of my blood.”
“That is not the reason,” Wigg interjected. “Faegan and I have seen stalker blood poisoning before, and it has never manifested itself this way in a signature. Unless I miss my guess, these are truly Forestallments, though of a complex nature we had yet to see. But as to how or why there are so many of them, I am at a complete loss to say.”
“Then we shall start with what we do know,” Faegan said. “We originally postulated that the Forestallments placed in Shailiha’s blood were a ministration of Failee. Of that I feel we can be relatively certain. While the princess was with the Coven, there was ample time for the first mistress to accomplish such a thing. But, as the prince and Wigg have previously told me, their time with the Coven was much shorter. Nonetheless, the presence of so many Forestallments in Tristan’s blood must still be a result of his time with them.” He paused for a few moments, collecting his thoughts.
“Tell me, Tristan,” he began, “exactly in what ways any of the mistresses physically touched you while you were with them.”
Faegan’s blunt request brought back Tristan’s dark memories of his time with the four mistresses in the belly of the Recluse. Wigg and Geldon had been with him and were tortured, as he had been. But his abuse had come in a very different fashion. As he searched his mind, he could only remember one single time that any of them had actually touched him.
When Failee had sent Succiu, the second mistress, to rape him. He swallowed hard.
“The only time I was ever touched was during Succiu’s forced union upon me,” he said slowly. “She gloated about it, telling me that it would be the most intense physical pleasure I would ever receive. But instead there was great, unexpected pain. It shot through my entire system, and I almost blacked out. Afterward the glow of the craft formed around her. She said that she had already conceived, and would give birth in only three days. But because of the quality of my blood, she actually went into labor much sooner.”
“Did you tell me once that Failee said it was her intention to continually use your seed to breed what she called a race of superbeings, all female, who would use the Vagaries to rule forever?”
“Yes. But what are you getting at?”
Faegan sat back in his chair, stroking his cat. “I believe that is when so many unique, branched Forestallments were placed into your blood,” he ruminated, half to himself. “During Succiu’s rape of you. Ever since I read Egloff’s scroll, something has been troubling me. Namely, how is it that a Forestallment could be implanted within the blood of another without his or her knowledge? Such a strong, ongoing spell would surely have some form of immediate, physical reaction. In your case, I think it was the pain you described, though that may not be the case for everyone so affected. This also confirms another theory of mine: that the installation of the Forestallments within the blood of another can only be accomplished when actually touching the receiving party.” He paused for a moment, looking around the table. “It appears there was much more going on during your time in the Recluse than we first thought.”
Stunned, Tristan looked to Shailiha. She tried bravely to smile. Shailiha was there, watching the entire thing, he thought, horrified. Succiu made her watch. He turned his face away. Thank the Afterlife my sister remembers nothing of what happened there that day. Then, almost involuntarily, his eyes went to Celeste. And now we learn that Wigg has a daughter, a product of his time with Failee. When one door closes, another opens.
Lowering his head and closing his eyes, he let out a sad, lonely sigh. He remembered, too, some of Succiu’s last words to him, just before she committed suicide. “There is still so much you and the wizards do not know,” she had said.
“But why?” he asked, his eyes still closed. “They already had me to do with as they chose. Why this, as well?”
“You were given Forestallments for the very reason your sister and Celeste have them,” Faegan answered gently. “But your case was different. The greater the number of Forestallments in your blood, the less Failee would eventually have to teach her superbeings when they matured. And because of the nature of your blood, your Forestallments would be even stronger than those inherited from Celeste or Shailiha. For this reason also, you apparently received many more than they did. But do not be alarmed. Because you escaped, in many ways this may truly be a blessing.”
Angry and restless again, Tristan raised his head and opened his eyes. He looked at Faegan as if the wizard had suddenly gone mad. “How could such an abomination be a blessing?” he hissed.
“Because you now have talents, dormant in your blood, that do not require training to come alive,” the wizard answered. “Just like Shailiha’s amazing bond with the fliers. And if your Forestallments are event-activated, as hers were, you may discover them at any time. They may be truly wondrous.”
“Or something horrible,” Tristan said through gritted teeth.
“That possibility also exists,” Faegan answered softly. “Only time will tell.”
Tristan was suddenly very anxious. Though the room was huge, he felt like the walls were closing in on him.
He began to shake. At first slightly, but then with greater intensity until his entire body was firmly in the grip of uncontrollable spasms. His eyes rolled back into his head, and drool formed in the corners of his mouth.
Shailiha’s scream sounded far away to his ears.
The last thing he remembered before the awful blackness closed in was the horrific, painful convulsions throwing him from his chair onto the hard, cool, marble floor of the room.
CHAPTER
Thirty
The wind in his hair and his weapons at the ready, Scrounge gripped the specially made leather band strapped around the body of his personal hatchling as the awful bird carried him higher into the golden glow of the evening sky. He had been longing for this night ever since Ragnar had outlined this newest plan to him.
You will attack at night, the stalker had told him. It will add to the drama, confusion, and terror of what the master has planned. It had been almost two days since Scrounge and his birds had raided Fledgling House, taking the girls. But the dramatic, difficult task that now lay before him thrilled him even more.
The bird that carried him was also heavily armed. A long sword dangled from the baldric around the creature’s strong shoulders. At the hatchling’s hip lay a dagger, and the black leather gauntlets it wore were studded with long silver points for ripping and tearing into its victims at close quarters.
Scrounge looked down at the land of Eutracia as it passed dizzyingly below. He was still amazed at how fast the master’s new generation of creatures could travel through the air without ever seeming to tire. And then he looked behind him, and smiled. Traveling with him were thousands more of the great birds.
They flew due west in a giant formation shaped like a highly compacted arrowhead, with Scrounge an
d his bird at the forefront. None of the other creatures carried a rider, but each of them was armed in the same fashion as his mount. Ragnar’s assassin narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the unfortunate city that would soon bear the horror of their orders. Ilendium—one of the true jewels of Eutracia.
He didn’t yet see their target, so Scrounge allowed his mind the luxury of traveling back in time a few hours, to his visit to the amazing camp the hatchlings had established at Farplain, in the Triangle of the Grasses.
At Nicholas’ orders, thousands of black tents had been erected everywhere, the campfires before them sending smoke high into the sky. Hordes of hatchlings milled about on their strong rear legs, many of them talking to one another, those in positions of command shouting orders. Some were performing tasks such as sharpening weapons. Others were flying patrols, guarding the perimeter.
The largest and most ornate of the tents, set on a small rise overlooking the entire scene, held Ragnar. After completing his mission at Fledgling House, Scrounge had reported there for further orders.
The tent was furnished with items that had been brought here from the stalker’s underground chambers. Included among them was the ever-present vial of yellow fluid. Most of the furniture was upholstered in deep red. Decorative tapestries hung on the insides of the tent walls, and highly patterned rugs covered the grassy floor. Oil sconces adorned the tent poles. A golden table sat in the center of the room, a silver platter atop it containing fruit, olives of several colors, cheese, and wine—all of which looked untouched.
Long and languorous, a brunette woman with deep blue eyes lay propped up on one arm along the length of a curved, bloodred sofa. She smiled when Scrounge came in. Only a single, diaphanous piece of fine Eutracian silk covered her; it left little to the imagination. Her face was badly bruised, no doubt from some form of punishment administered by the stalker. But by her coy look the assassin decided she hadn’t minded, and had perhaps even enjoyed it.
Ragnar was seated in a high-backed, red velvet chair at the end of the room, a vial of brain fluid in his hand. His robe was of the deepest purple, and Wigg’s three-hundred-year-old golden dagger was at his hip. He placed two fingers into the vial and then into his mouth before beckoning the assassin forward. Scrounge took several steps into the room, the silver spurs of his knee boots jangling lightly.
“The raid at Fledgling House went well?” the stalker asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, my lord,” Scrounge answered.
“And are you ready for the next of your assignments?”
“Indeed,” Scrounge answered, his eyes flashing. “This latest mission promises to be the most satisfying yet.”
“Good,” Ragnar answered. “You fully understand Nicholas’ instructions? That nothing is to be taken except life. Also destroy as much of the city as possible. Make the evidence of your actions lasting, and particularly explicit. How you accomplish this part of it I leave to your rather considerable talents. But remember, Nicholas wishes to make a clear example of this first attack. It is not the city itself he wants; it is the people living in it. And after you have made the necessary preparations for the master’s other servants, be sure to avoid their impending arrival.”
Ragnar stood from his chair, going to the table. Selecting a grape, he walked to the brunette on the couch. He held it for her as she opened her mouth, seductively taking it in. Ragnar smiled.
“While it is true she is not Celeste, she is nonetheless very talented,” he said. “Would you like to partake of her charms before you leave?”
Scrounge looked down to the beauty before him, and then back up to his master. “Not now, my lord. Frankly, the prospect of the mission lying before me is far more exciting. But perhaps, when I return . . .”
“Of course,” Ragnar answered. “Go and carry out your orders. And do not disappoint us.”
With that, Scrounge had turned on his heel and walked out.
Straining his eyes against the wind, the assassin could now make out the lights of the city of Ilendium, about one league away. Ilendium, he thought. One of the most cultured and artistic of all the Eutracian cities, and also one of the wealthiest. What an excellent place for the master to begin.
He looked behind him to make sure that the birds he had selected were still grasping torches.
“You know your orders! Fly in low and drop the torches first. Then proceed as planned. Be sure to leave several hundred survivors, and herd them into the square in the center of the city.” With quick nods of their grotesque heads, the hatchlings began a long, descending glide toward the unsuspecting city, and the thousands of other birds of prey immediately followed suit.
Descending low over Ilendium, they dropped the billowing flares onto the quiet, sleeping city.
The straw roofs went ablaze first. They caught quickly, the sudden, intense flames snapping and popping as they went roaring up into the darkness of the night. The buildings with stone or marble roofs, those housing the wealthier citizens, were treated differently. In those cases the hatchlings landed in the streets, smashing out windows with the hilts of their swords and tossing the torches inside. On and on it went, building after building, street after street. The entire city was soon a raging inferno.
The assassin flew over the expanses of the desperate city, intently watching the master’s hatchlings go about their work. He smiled viciously, enjoying the moment, and then spurred his bird lower, and soared recklessly through the city streets. His sword at the ready, he watched for survivors as the flame-ridden buildings flashed by on either side. His first victim was a little boy, lost and alone in the mayhem, screaming wildly as he tried to find his parents.
Many more such defenseless victims followed. So many, in fact, that near the end he was barely able to raise his sword.
As they ran madly from the burning buildings, the citizens were cut down by the sword-wielding hatchlings. Sometimes a particular group of hatchlings chose to use their long, black talons to trap their living victims on the ground, and would then use their daggers or the points of their gauntlets to tear through the clothing and abdomens of those beneath them. Then, they employed their long beaks and sharp teeth to peck and pull the organs from their victims. Often, at the end of such brutality, the birds would lift their faces to the flame-ridden skies, calling out shrieks of victory to the others, their mouths and teeth dripping with blood. The streets and gutters eventually ran red, and the screaming of the citizens evolved into a softer, agonizingly helpless crying and moaning.
Some of the fires had begun to subside, while others still raged furiously. The orange-and-red flames threw their light up into the night and across what was left of the falling, burning buildings, spotlighting the grisly specters of the hatchlings going about their work. Acrid, soot-laden smoke billowed everywhere as Scrounge finally sheathed his bloody sword. He then turned his bird toward the center of the city, toward the gathering place known as Ilendium Square.
His hatchling landed softly and bent down, and Scrounge swung one leg over to slide to the ground. The cobblestone square was already full of the living. Some were wounded; some were not. The birds kept prodding and poking their captives, forcing them to remain in the center of the square. Other hatchlings flew the corpses of the disemboweled to the square, dropping them on their backs. At last, Scrounge issued his orders.
“Begin the search for stragglers!” he called out. “Leave no stone unturned. And place all the disemboweled here, in the center. The master’s other servants shall arrive at any time. We must be in the air by then, or suffer the same fate as your conquests.”
Scrounge watched as some of the hatchlings before him rotated their endowed, scarlet eyes partially out of the sockets in preparation for the search. Beacons soon shot from their orbs into the blackness of the night, criss-crossing crazily through the sky and across the ground. Then the birds flew off, searching for survivors. As they went, the red shafts coming from them shot down the streets and through the flicke
ring orange of the flames, adding to the macabre nature of the scene. Amid the blood, the carnage, the corpses, and the wailing, Scrounge waited.
The hatchlings eventually returned with hundreds more survivors, and unceremoniously dropped their captives to the stones of the square amid the dead and the living alike. Scrounge smiled. He walked back to his personal hatchling, and remounted, then wheeled the bird around to face the thousands of other hatchlings on the ground and in the air.
“Those of mine still standing in the square,” he shouted, “come join your brothers in the sky!” With a great flapping of wings, scores of hatchlings took to the air, joining the others. “Hover above the square and wait. Eventually you will see what it is that your master has created,” he shouted, his face twisting into a grin. “And be glad you are not one of those below!”
Patiently hovering over the barbaric scene, the hatchlings bided their time. Occasionally a survivor would try to run, only to have one of the great birds swoop low to snatch him up in its talons and return him or her to the center of the carnage. An incongruous silence gradually crept over the scene—almost a peacefulness of sorts—as the thousands of birds kept watch over the captives below.
At first, all that could be heard was a soft scrabbling sound. Faint and distant, it grew nearer by the moment. It was almost like thousands of bits of metal scratching against themselves to create a sinister, uniform din. On and on it came, growing louder until it was a roaring, living wall of noise descending on the square from every direction. It was then that Scrounge, safe atop his hatchling, saw the first of this new breed of Nicholas’ servants: carrion scarabs.
Scrounge watched, transfixed, as hundreds of thousands of black beetles deluged the square. Each one was about the size of the palm of his hand, with an indentation down the center of its hard, shiny shell. A pair of black fangs, curved and sharp, protruded noticeably from the front of each of the heads. Their many legs scrambling, their antennae stretched forward and hungrily scenting the carrion before them, they filled every entryway leading into Ilendium Square. They came relentlessly, so many that they finally poured out of the shattered doorways and windows of the weakened buildings, knocking down the charred window frames and doors that had been loosened by the fires. It was a virtual sea of blackness, undulating and flowing as if a single entity—a seemingly never-ending torrent of fluid motion.
The Gates of Dawn Page 33