Robert Newcomb: Savage Messiah

The wizard laid one hand gently upon Tristan's shoulder. "You and I must leave here immediately," he said.

Stunned, Tristan searched Wigg's face. "Are you mad?" he shot back. "Look at these people-can't you see they need our help? How can we possibly leave them?"

Faegan wheeled his chair a bit closer. His expression was as determined as Wigg's.

"Wigg is right," he said. "You and the First Wizard must depart now. There is no time to lose."

"But why?" Tristan asked.

"We have to know what we're dealing with," Wigg answered. "We must ascertain how much damage it has already done and where it is headed next. Faegan will stay behind to direct the aid efforts with the acolytes and Minion healers. But right now, you must call for a Minion litter, and a group of warriors to fly guard alongside!" The wizard's aquamarine eyes flashed.

"While we waste time arguing, I fear thousands more may be dying!" he added sternly. "Your nation needs you now as never before, and you must help her!"

Tristan looked across the courtyard toward Shailiha, Abbey, and Celeste. Blessedly, their situation seemed less dangerous now. The warriors were allowing more victims inside the circle, but only as the three women could accommodate them. Tristan reluctantly turned to Traax and nodded.

The Minion second in command was gone in a flash. In mere moments he returned with a litter borne by six warriors, as well as an additional fifty warriors to fly guard. Wigg quickly climbed aboard, anxiously gesturing to Tristan to join him.

With one last look at the horrible scene, Tristan stepped in and took the seat next to the First Wizard. He closed his eyes.

Traax barked out the order, and the litter rose into the sky.

Wigg knew how to find whatever was attacking their people. All they would have to do was follow the trail of dead bodies.

As they soared over the courtyard, Wigg shouted as much to Traax, who immediately passed the wizard's orders on to the litter bearers and guards.

Below them, the streets of Tammerland overflowed with the wounded, the dying, and the dead. Some looked up at the flying warriors and shook their fists at them. Tristan had little doubt that if they had been flying lower, he would have been able to hear their curses, as well.

Apparently many of his subjects still considered the Minions their enemy. Tristan could hardly blame them. All they knew of the winged warriors was that they had destroyed much of Tammerland, butchering, torturing, and raping the citizens in the streets and in their homes. They didn't know that the Minions were under Tristan's firm control now, no longer a threat to Tammerland and, indeed, pledged to defend all of Tristan's people.

Most of the citizenry also had no idea that the Directorate of Wizards was no more. They deserved to know that, and also to know that Tristan loved them and wanted to be-needed to be-a strong leader for them.

How can I possibly accomplish all this? he wondered. How does one inform an entire country of so many bizarre twists and turns behind the devastation that has beset it in its recent history? Even he scarcely believed all that had happened, and he had seen it firsthand.

Disheartened, he looked down at the medallion around his neck. Taking it in one hand, he slowly closed his fist around it. The gold medallion had been given to him by his parents, just before they had died at the hands of the Coven of Sorceresses. The medal showed the lion and broadsword, the twin symbols of the House of Galland. Shailiha wore an identical one.

"It's not your fault," Wigg said quietly. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. "It never has been. You must sense that. All you have ever done is protect both the citizens and the nation you care for so much. But they don't know that, Tristan. And that is because they are still without what they need the most."

Tristan did not look up. "And what is that?" he asked.

"What only you can provide," Wigg answered. "Their rightful king."

Tristan took a deep breath. For several long moments silence filled the space between him and the wizard.

"But to be king, I must wear the Paragon," he said at last. "And to do that, my blood must first revert to its natural state."

"Yes," Wigg answered heavily. "Despite whatever is causing all of this destruction, we must never lose sight of the fact that finding a way to alter your blood is paramount. If we do not figure out how to do that, then everything else we do-no matter how well-meaning-will be for naught. The Jin'Sai must eventually be trained, and then read the entire Tome of the Paragon. The future of our world depends upon it."

Tristan thought for a moment. "You still haven't told me what is causing all of this," he replied defensively.

Wigg took a deep breath. "If I am right, when we reach it, one look will tell us all. And if I am wrong, which is also entirely possible, then we will be seeing whatever it is for the first time. For now I would prefer to leave it at that."

As the litter continued west past Tammerland, the dark, slow-moving columns of people seemed to stretch on forever. But then he saw a break in the crowd, and for a moment his heart leapt-until the litter drew closer and he realized what he was seeing.

Directly below their flight path, a deep crevasse split the ground. It looked to be at least ten to fifteen meters deep and about one hundred meters across, a V-shaped, jagged scar that snaked its way west as far as the eye could see. Tristan guessed it was recently made: It still smoldered, gray plumes of soot and ash corkscrewing up into the air from its charred black bottom. It was a gruesome, unnatural thing, and it sent a chill down the prince's spine.

Aghast, Tristan looked at Wigg. The wizard's face was dark with worry.

Wigg stuck his head out of the litter and shouted to Traax that he wanted the warriors to change course and follow the smoldering crack wherever it might lead. Then he looked sadly down at his hands and said no more.

A great sense of foreboding rose in Tristan's chest. His gaze followed the strange, snaking catastrophe as the litter flew on toward the setting sun. "The oxen are thirsty, father," aaron said. "can't we all rest for a bit?"

The young man gave each of the two straining beasts a reassuring stroke on the head. The sun was going down. The day had been unusually hot, even for the Season of the Sun. They had been toiling since dawn, yet Aaron's father showed no sign of stopping. Finally Darius pulled hard on the reins that lay over his shoulders and slowed the oxen and plow to a halt.

Glad to rest, Aaron of the House of Rivenrider jumped down. Looking back, he saw the hard-won rows of rich soil that they had scratched into the earth. Before long those rows would be filled with the waving stalks of wheat and barley that he and his family would sell at the farmers' market in Tammerland.

It was late in the season to be planting. This year money had been short, and only now had they had gathered enough kisa to buy the last of their seed. Still, with a little bit of luck and a great deal of hard work, they might reap enough to see them through the coming winter-especially if this year's Season of Harvest proved to be a long one.

The ox nearest Aaron rubbed his face against the young man's shoulder, nearly knocking him over. Smiling, Aaron reached out and petted one of the great animal's ears. Darius dropped the leather reins and stretched his cramped muscles. Walking up to his son, he produced a rag from his trousers for what seemed the hundredth time that day and wiped the dripping sweat from his face.

Aaron's mother, Mary, and his sister Tatiana were still bent over in the field, sowing the seeds in the freshly overturned dirt. They wore broad, straw sunbonnets on their heads, and each carried a heavy bag of seed slung over one shoulder. Sowing the seed was backbreaking work, and by now their hands and nails would be black with soil.