Robert Newcomb: Savage Messiah

Leaving the oxen with his father, Aaron walked over to the edge of the field, where he could see Brook Hollow, their small village, lying in the valley below. From up here it looked like a giant patchwork quilt spread out on the ground-a quilt with the Sippora River running through it. He could see their modest farmhouse at the eastern edge of town, and their small, river-powered gristmill with which his father ground their wheat. His mother's heavy bread was the best in the world. He imagined that he could smell a warm loaf cooling on the kitchen windowsill right now.

When Aaron returned to his father, his mother and Tatiana had arrived, and his father was busy unfastening the large oilskin bags of water that the oxen always carried over their backs when laboring in the fields. With the bags came two large buckets.

Dutifully, Aaron uncorked one of the bags, filled the two buckets with water, and placed them before the oxen. The massive animals drank greedily, and Aaron smiled as he watched them.

"Sometimes I think you take better care of those animals than you do yourself," Tatiana chided him. There was a definite hint of mischief in her eyes as she peered out from beneath her sunbonnet. She was tall, pretty, and possessed endless amounts of curly red hair. Her hands and shoes were far beyond filthy. Two years her senior, Aaron loved to tease her about being his little sister. But Tatiana was quickly growing into womanhood, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to get away with that sort of thing much longer.

He gave her a mock-condescending look and pointed at her hands.

"And just how many boys will want to come and call on you with paws like that, Miss Filthy?" he shot back. "You look like you live in a pig pen! If the boys at school could see you now, you'd end up an old maid forever!" He watched Tatiana's mouth pucker up.

"That's enough, you two," their mother began. Then she stopped. At the expression on her face, they all turned back toward the field-and that was when they saw the huge shadow.

Dark and ominous, the shadow grew until it covered all of the ground around them. Then came an earsplitting noise-a great screech combined with an intensely deep howl that chilled them. Aaron put his hands over his ears, but it did little to help to muffle the noise. Looking up, he saw the source of the shadow: an enormous ball of golden light. His jaw dropped in wonder. Then, to his horror, it veered in midair and headed straight at his family.

Aaron's first instinct was to save the oxen, and he turned to unbuckle their harnesses so they could run without the awkward mass of the plow behind them. The golden orb was so close that Aaron could feel its blazing heat at his back.

As he unfastened the first of the buckles, Darius' strong hands came down on his own. Bewildered and frightened, he looked up into his father's eyes.

"Stop!" Darius screamed. "It's too late for them now! Run!"

Grabbing Aaron by the collar, Darius pulled him away from the oxen. They ran across the field as fast as they could. Aaron ran and ran until he thought his lungs might burst. Only when Darius thought his family was out of danger did they slow. They all turned to look.

The two terrified oxen desperately tried to run from the noise and the searing heat, but they were hindered by the plow, which had buried itself in the ground behind them as they ran. Aaron felt his heart shatter and steeled himself for the worst.

When the burning sphere closed on them, the two terrified animals vaporized instantly. As the fireball continued on its way, burning a deep swath of destruction down the field, all that remained of the oxen was a charred hole in the ground. Gray smoke rose into the late afternoon sky almost as an afterthought.

Running back to the crest of the hill, Aaron watched the sphere go. It was heading directly for Brook Hollow.

The rest of his stunned family came to stand beside him. They cried and held on to one another as they watched their world collapse.

Focused on the unfolding catastrophe, none of them saw the approaching litter with its phalanx of Minion warriors that flew guard alongside.

"Hold him!" she ordered the two minion warriors standing obediently by her side. Her voice could barely be heard amid the clamor all around her. "This must be done now, lest he die!"

Duvessa looked hard at the warriors and they grudgingly nodded back. She was well aware that they both outranked her, but as the leader of the Minion healers, she meant to have her way.

With both Traax and the Jin'Sai away, she had decided that the only two persons she would take orders from would be Faegan and Shailiha. Duvessa now knew them personally, and counted both as friends. If Traax wanted to punish her for her insolence to her Minion superiors when he returned, then so be it. But she doubted that would happen, because for the last several weeks she had been Traax's lover.

The man lying on the table writhed and screamed and struggled against the leather straps that held him down. Duvessa wished that either Faegan or one of the Acolytes of the Redoubt was available to employ the craft. That way, the man could be rendered unconscious before she began her work. But they were all busy elsewhere, dealing with other victims.

Had the casualty lying before her been Minion, there would be no need for the straps, and the surgery would be over by now. Minion warriors were far stronger and more stoic than most humans. Their harsh martial philosophy dictated that the use of luxuries such as sleep-herbs or painkillers was a mark of personal weakness. But the victim suffering before her was human, and Duvessa knew that according to human culture what she was about to do was savage, albeit absolutely necessary.

She looked grimly to a third warrior standing nearby. With an understanding nod, he grasped one of the torches from a nearby stand and held it toward her. Duvessa took up one of her serrated bone saws and placed its edge into the flame.

The fellow's right hand was gone at the wrist and bled still, despite the leather strap she had so tightly twisted around his upper arm. The ragged, throbbing wound had to be cleanly severed a bit higher, and that meant sawing through the bones. Then the wound's naked end would have to be cauterized. She wished she could spare the time to ply her craft upon the injuries to his face, but there were many others in even worse straits and they would have to come first.

As her saw began to glow, the man continued to bleed. Several more irretrievable seconds passed.

Seeing the hot blade above him, the terrified man screamed again. At a nod from Duvessa, the warriors tightened their grip on the patient and she began her work. later, as she walked through the palace, the sad scene before her seemed like something out of a living nightmare. Night had fallen, and makeshift healing tables had sprung up in nearly every room. Some held living victims who lay waiting to be tended. Others were still occupied by the dead who had yet to be carried away. Blood was everywhere. She thought about the man she had just worked on, the one with the severed hand. He would live, but like the other poor souls who had come seeking succor, he would never be the same.

As she walked, the nauseating stench of death permeated the palace halls. In every room, torches burned brightly, pointing up macabre shadows that mimicked the necessary horrors still going on.

She lowered her head and walked on, trying to avoid stepping in blood as she searched for Shailiha and Faegan.

Born in one of the Coven's birthing houses in Parthalon, Duvessa had been raised in one of the many Minion compounds that still dotted the nation across the sea. When she grew older, she was ordered to choose a traditional Minion occupation. Many of the boys chose to become warriors. To this day, that path was forbidden to the girls, despite Tristan's new orders insisting on equality for Minion females.