He took another quiet, smooth step toward the cage, then turned to Faegan.
“Drop your warp,” he ordered. He stood defiantly, expecting to be obeyed.
From his chair, Faegan looked up into the eyes of the Chosen One. He too had noticed the black veins on Tristan’s shoulder, and knew what they meant. For one of only a handful of times in his entire life, the master wizard was uncertain.
“What is it you are planning to do?” he asked Tristan calmly. In truth, Faegan’s mind was racing. He certainly had no love of the Minions. But a highly respected consul, who had not yet been fully given the chance to explain his reasons, had purposely brought this one back. And he also expected that there was much more that the warrior might tell them, things that might be immensely invaluable, that even Joshua and Geldon might not know. With so much at stake, allowing the prince to kill the Minion was not an option.
But even I may not be able to stop him, Faegan thought. Despite his illness, I may have to trust him. If for no other reason than to determine his state of mind.
“Drop your warp,” the prince ordered for the second time. “I may have never officially taken the office of king, but nonetheless I am the only sovereign head of state that Eutracia has. And as a wizard it is your duty to obey.” He continued to look at Faegan with fierce determination. “Drop your warp. Now.”
Faegan closed his eyes, and the warp began to disappear. The warrior remained on one knee, unmoving, his head bowed. Slowly and carefully, Tristan crossed the remaining distance to where the winged one knelt. He pointed the shiny, razor-sharp dreggan directly at the top of the warrior’s head, his thumb feeling for the button in the sword’s hilt that would release its blade the extra foot.
“Look at me,” Tristan said quietly.
The Minion warrior obediently raised his face. The point of the dreggan was now directly between his eyes.
“To whom do you owe your allegiance?” Tristan asked.
“To the Chosen One, of azure blood, lord of all Minions,” the warrior answered crudely.
“And to whom else, after me?”
“Traax. Second in command.”
“And do you swear, upon your honor as a Minion warrior, that you will do no harm to the peoples of Eutracia or Parthalon, unless so ordered by me?”
The warrior bowed his head. “Yes, my lord,” he answered.
Tristan paused, inching the dreggan closer yet, until it actually touched the warrior. Its point punctured the skin of the warrior’s forehead, and blood began to run down its blade.
“And lastly,” Tristan snarled, “were you one of those who had a personal hand in the killing of the Directorate or the husband of the princess, or the murder and rape of my mother?” Silence again fell over the room, every person suddenly anxious to know the answer to the prince’s unexpected question. And what he would do if it was affirmative.
“No, my lord,” the warrior answered. “I elite assassin. I outside palace only.”
Tristan, his breathing slowing, apparently made up his mind. Moving his thumb away from the button on the hilt, he slowly replaced the dreggan into its scabbard across his back. “You may rise,” he ordered.
The Minion warrior stood, and for the first time their eyes truly met. Despite his reliance on the crutch, the warrior towered over the prince by nearly a foot.
Now we shall see, Faegan thought.
“What is your name?” Tristan asked.
“I be Ox,” the warrior said. “I brought here by consul and dwarf.”
Tristan finally turned back to Faegan, the agitation in his face somewhat lessened. “I’m sorry,” he said, uncoiling his muscles. “When I saw the warrior my instinct just took hold. He was the last thing in the world I expected to see. I also had to know if he remembered me, and to whom his allegiance is sworn. It will be imperative to know this when I return to Parthalon.”
Holding Morganna, the princess walked to Tristan, looking at his arm where the deadly appearing veins lay. “Are you all right?” she asked urgently.
“I’m fine, Shai.” He smiled to her. “But I do not know what these marks are, or why they are here.” He turned to Faegan. “I’m sure the wizards will tell us.”
“Indeed,” Faegan answered. “There is a great deal to discuss. But not in this open place. We are too exposed here. Follow me back to the Redoubt, all of you.” At that Joshua took Wigg’s hand, and everyone in the room, including the Minion, began to follow Faegan toward the door. Except for Shailiha.
She stood, wide-eyed, staring out at nothing, tears starting to cascade freely down her cheeks. Tristan was at her side in an instant.
“What is it?” he asked anxiously.
“Caprice,” the princess said in a soft, faraway voice. “My flier. She calls to me. She is coming home. Ilendium . . . there has been a great tragedy.”
CHAPTER
Thirty-three
Ragnar smiled as he watched the thousands of consuls employing the craft for the benefit of the young adept. He had demanded his red upholstered chair be brought from his tent so that he could be comfortable as he watched the amazing process unfold. At his feet sat the woman he had brought from the Caves, as well as a large assortment of food and wine.
He had been here since dawn, knowing that the work would continue night and day until they had secured all of the raw material they needed. It was the day following the destruction of Ilendium, and dawn had burst forth into beauty, providing an unusually warm day for this time of the year. But he knew snow would soon follow with the rapidly advancing Season of Crystal. Especially here, this far north.
He dusted off his robe, just as he had been forced to do so frequently this afternoon. He didn’t mind. The black grime came off easily, some of it falling to the ground, the rest catching on the wind, flying away into nothingness. Pausing for a moment he reverently, luxuriously, rubbed what remained of it between the first few fingers of his right hand. He could almost feel its power.
The forbidden material of the ancients, he thought. Finally to be unleashed after centuries of waiting. Only two others in the entire world besides the adept could ever accomplish such a feat. The Chosen Ones. But they remain untrained, and impotent. And very soon now, they will be dead.
He reached out and grasped the vial containing the yellow fluid. As he took a taste, he felt familiar heat rush through his system. Then he cast his eyes back to the vast marble quarries just outside the city of Ilendium, in the province of Ephyra.
At least half a league wide in any given direction and several hundred meters deep, the quarry pits had for over three centuries produced the most prized marble the nation of Eutracia had ever seen. The stone had made the province of Ephyra, despite her relatively small geographical size, one of the richest in the nation. That had been the way of things until the coming of the Coven and the subsequent collapse of both the government and the economy. Since then, the quarries had remained still. Until today.
I now fully understand what Nicholas hopes to accomplish. It will be like no other event in the history of our world. He rose from his chair to walk toward the edge of the pit, taking stock of the seemingly ceaseless activity.
Over three thousand consuls of the Redoubt struggled tirelessly, mining the marble. It was a strange scene, especially considering the fact that for three centuries this particular section of the quarry had been forbidden from harvest by unanimous vote of the wizards of the Directorate. The consuls’ dark blue robes were already filthy and torn with the effort of their labors. Their dirty faces emotionless masks of servitude and their movements autonomic, they toiled unceasingly at the harvesting of the beautiful stone.
Ragnar’s elongated ears perked up when he heard yet another series of blasts come from the bolts of energy that were being so unceasingly summoned by the consuls. The craft was being used to harvest the marble in a manner that had not been seen for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. As the select group of the Brotherhood sent yet more bolts to split free the
marble encased in the giant limestone walls of the pit, others of them walked through the dust and debris to gather the great, jagged stones.
On and on it went, the dark, rather ominous-looking soot continually rising into the air, the consuls going about their labors automatically, unflinchingly, without words or emotion. Ragnar smiled. The marble they were harvesting was very special indeed. Of the deepest black, with brilliant azure veins running throughout, it had not been seen in Eutracia for centuries. And it was this mystical, banned substance that the young master needed most to accomplish his goals.
Turning his eyes to the sky, the stalker saw thousands of hatchlings wheeling overhead as they monitored the endeavors taking place below in the pits. Scrounge could occasionally be seen on his personal bird, calling out orders to the others.
Deep within the quarries, Nicholas watched every move the consuls made. Suddenly he turned, rising quickly through the air to the top of the pit. His white robes billowing around him, he landed effortlessly next to the blood stalker.
Ragnar turned to look into the dark eyes of the being before him. “The mining progresses well, Master?” he asked carefully.
“It does,” Nicholas answered. “The attack upon Ilendium went satisfactorily, also. You and Scrounge are to be congratulated.” He paused, looking down at the gathering of the dusty, black, history-laden stone.
Ragnar considered for a moment both the hatchlings and the carrion scarabs, suddenly realizing how the two horrific types of creatures actually complemented one another. One for swarming across the sky, he thought. And the other for marching across the ground.
“The citizens of Ilendium would have been in the way,” Nicholas said casually, as if he were speaking of brushing away a fly rather than annihilating an entire city. His dark eyes remained locked on the activity below. “Now we can work in peace. Besides, it would have been time-consuming to transport the marble any great distance, and I wish to employ it near a city. Ilendium was, of course, the logical choice. Summon Scrounge.”
Raising his arm, Ragnar sent a bolt skyward. It traced high through an open space between the swarming squadrons of hatchlings. Seeing the signal, a lone bird carrying a rider immediately began to descend, and landed softly before Nicholas and the stalker.
Ragnar’s assassin deftly threw one leg over the bird’s back and slid to the ground. “You require me, my lord?” he asked Nicholas.
“Bring me one of the consuls,” Nicholas said. “Any of them will do.”
“Yes, my lord,” Scrounge answered. In a flash he was back atop his bird, soaring into the sky to single out another of the hatchlings. The chosen bird swooped down to pick up a consul and carried him to the edge of the pit, where it unceremoniously dropped him at Nicholas’ feet. Scrounge’s bird landed softly, and the assassin quickly dismounted. The consul slowly rose to his feet, his expressionless eyes looking at nothing.
Nicholas cast his eyes to Ragnar’s assassin. “Kill him,” he said simply.
“Yes, my lord.” Scrounged smiled, then walked around to face the defenseless consul. In a flash his arm with the crossbow was raised, his fist snapping once toward the ground. The miniature, yellow-tipped arrow tore across the expanse between the two men and with a sickening thud buried itself into the forehead of the consul. The man fell onto his back and shuddered as he died. Scrounge walked over to remove the arrow.
“No,” Nicholas ordered. Scrounge stopped in his tracks. “Leave the arrow. It will prove useful.”
“Very well,” Scrounge said obediently.
Nicholas turned his palms upward, and a long, very narrow parchment appeared, hovering before him. He turned back to Scrounge. “Behead the consul,” he ordered.
Scrounge drew his sword and with a single, clean strike, removed the consul’s head from his body. Grasping the hair, he held the bloody, dripping thing before Nicholas. Death had come so quickly from the assassin’s arrow that the consul’s eyes were still open. The breeze tried to move the head back and forth hauntingly in the assassin’s grip as if it still somehow possessed sentience.
Narrowing his eyes, Nicholas called the dripping blood of the consul to him. The drops hovered just above the parchment, then began to rain down lightly on the page. They arranged themselves into letters, then the letters into words, and finally the words into sentences.
At last the narrow parchment rolled itself up, moved toward the arrow, and slid its open center down the length of the shaft. Ribbon then knotted itself around the parchment, securing the message to the shaft.
“This is to be delivered to one of the secret entrances of the Redoubt,” Nicholas ordered. “Make sure it is placed where it will not be missed.”
“I understand,” Scrounge said. He tied the consul’s head to the leather band around his hatchling’s neck and mounted the bird, wheeling it around to face Nicholas and Ragnar. “It shall be as you order,” he said. With that he prodded the hatchling into the air, turning southeast to Tammerland. Ragnar continued to watch until Scrounge and his mount became a mere pinprick in the late-afternoon sky.
“Another message to the Chosen One?” the stalker asked.
“Indeed,” Nicholas replied, turning his attention back to the mining of the marble. “And my father of this world cannot afford to ignore me. There is now a choice he must make.” Then he looked at Ragnar, and the stalker felt as if the dark gaze were burrowing directly into his brain. “It has to do with his blood.”
CHAPTER
Thirty-four
Ox stood gingerly upon both feet, testing his weight. He was stunned at what the wizards had been able to accomplish in so short a time. Faegan and Wigg had worked diligently for hours to reattach the severed foot, and had at last been successful. But it would take several weeks, they told the warrior, before he was himself again. The glow that had once surrounded both the lower leg and the newly reattached ankle had faded, and would soon disappear altogether.
“Ox still no believe,” the dumbfounded warrior stammered. “Ox give gratitude.”
“You’re welcome,” Wigg said, echoing Faegan’s thoughts.
Upon hearing of the attack on Ilendium from the princess, the wizards had become quiet, and quite visibly disturbed. They had also listened intently to Geldon and Joshua’s report. Then they had immediately excused themselves, going off to be alone. They had come out to reattach the Minion’s foot, and then had beckoned everyone to join them in the Archives.
Despite the victory regarding the warrior’s foot, the mood was both tense and morose. Tristan, Shailiha and her baby, Celeste, Joshua, Ox, Geldon, and the two wizards were present. The prince could see that Faegan wished to move on to more important, more private matters, as did he.
Wigg turned his white eyes in the general direction of Joshua. “The Minion is your charge,” he said flatly. “Despite the fact that it is Tristan who is his true lord, you are the one who brought him here. And neither Faegan nor I have the time or the inclination to monitor him. You are of the craft, and should it become necessary to use it regarding the Minion, we expect you to do so. If such becomes the case, you are to report your actions to us at once.”
He then turned toward Ox. “Please understand we mean you no ill will, provided nothing untoward happens as a result of your presence. Given the circumstances in Eutracia we must be careful at all times, and your appearance here was quite unexpected.”
“Ox understand,” the warrior said simply. He turned to Tristan. “I live to serve,” he said, bowing his head.
Tristan took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. This will take some getting used to, he thought.
At Faegan’s nod, Joshua escorted Ox from the room.
Anxious for answers, it was Tristan who changed the subject. “I want to know why the veins in my arm are turning black,” he said bluntly. “I’ve had no pain anywhere, except during the convulsion. Then it was all-encompassing. What is happening to me?”
“As time progresses, the convulsions will grow in both in
tensity and frequency,” Faegan said. “As to the veins, there is only one answer.” The wizard in the chair looked glumly to Tristan’s shoulder. “Put simply, your blood is dying.”
An uncomfortable silence engulfed the room for several moments. “Is there nothing that can be done?” Shailiha asked in a small, tentative voice.
“Faegan and I have done little else, night or day, other than search for a cure,” Wigg answered. “We have uncovered several references in the scrolls of the Archives as to the possibility of an antidote.”
At the sudden glimmer of hope in Tristan’s and Shailiha’s eyes, Faegan quickly held up a hand.
“But the formula remains elusive,” Wigg continued. “Even if we were to deduce the calculations to produce the antidote, there might not be enough time or power to do so, given the decay of the Paragon and the resultant lessening of our gifts.”
“And what of the stone?” Shailiha asked suddenly. “Does its condition continue to worsen?”
“Not only is the stone’s condition worsening,” Faegan replied, “but it is doing so at a progressively faster rate. We calculate that it will now be approximately one month before the Paragon is completely void of color, and the world is without the craft of magic. Save for that one, still-unknown being whom we believe is garnering it for himself. You should also know that both Wigg and I have experienced a further, dramatic loss of our powers,” he said sadly, “reducing our effectiveness at finding a way out of all of this. As our powers lessen, we also surmise that the strength of the being responsible for this grows in direct proportion.” He paused. “And whoever that being is, he or she will be very difficult to stop,” he said softly.
“But what of the Tome in all of this?” Tristan asked urgently. He glanced over to see that the white, leather-bound book was still resting securely on the table nearby. “Wigg and I risked our lives so that it might be brought here, and so I could read the Prophecies of the Tome for you. Is that not still the best course of action?”
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