Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

He thought for a moment. Then he spoke again. "Tristan, I want you to go up and sit with the driver. He probably won't be happy about it, but be cordial. Try to get as much information out of him as you can without raising his suspicions. If you see anything untoward, return at once and inform me."

Tristan nodded. After giving Shailiha a reassuring pat on the hand, he swung open the door and quickly hoisted himself up onto the driver's bench.

Surprised, the grizzled driver glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?" he snapped. "You shouldn't be up here-especially not now. For the life of me I can't understand why you and the girl would want to do this. Hasn't the old cripple told you what's going on here? Is he insane, or just stupid?" He spat down loudly into the passing gutter.

Tristan grinned. "The old one doesn't tell us a lot," he answered. "The sick old fool only hired me for my sword. The woman is his nurse. Truth be told, I don't know why we're here, either."

He let several precious seconds go by. Then he put on his most innocent expression and asked, "Why don't you tell me what's going on here?"

As if finally willing to answer Tristan's question, the driver turned to him. But just then, something seemed to catch his eye. Drawing a quick breath, he pulled the team of horses up short. The carriage came to an abrupt stop. Raising a finger, the driver pointed to a corner down the street.

"Do you see them?" he whispered. His hands shook; his face was blanched with fear.

Snapping his head around to look, Tristan caught sight of several strange-looking figures walking hurriedly away. They were tall, with white, almost translucent skin-but that was all he could make of them before they rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

"Demonslavers," the driver whispered, so quietly that Tristan barely heard him.

"What?" Tristan asked. The man's obvious terror was unnerving.

"This is as far as I go!" the driver shouted, jumping down from his seat. "Everybody out!"

Running around to the side of the carriage, he violently jerked the door open, grabbed Shailiha's arm, and literally pulled her out. By the time Tristan got there, the man was screaming at Faegan, ordering him to get out.

"Very well, very well!" Faegan shouted back. He looked at Tristan. "If you would," he said.

Understanding, Tristan reached in, retrieving the old one and his chair the same way he had placed them inside. But this time the driver didn't care about Tristan's supposedly amazing feat of strength. All he wanted was to leave, and quickly.

"If you value your lives, go back to wherever you came from and forget this place!" he shouted frantically. "No power in the world can help this accursed town! If you remain foolish enough to carry on with this madness, the place you are searching for is the docks! But you would be insane to go there!" He climbed back into the carriage seat as fast as he could.

With a crack of his whip, he wheeled his team around. "And if you know what's good for them, you'll get those two off the street before it's too late!" he hollered at Faegan, while pointing to Tristan and his sister. With another lash from his whip he charged his team back down the way they had come, the horses' hooves colliding noisily with the cobblestones. In mere moments, he was gone.

"What do we do now?" Tristan asked the wizard.

A crowd had started to form. Some of the onlookers were staring oddly at the prince and Shailiha, as if they weren't human. Some started pointing. Many of them seemed to be angry.

"The last thing we need is attention," Faegan whispered urgently. "For the time being, we'll get off the street. Any of these shops will do. I suggest we hurry!"

Tristan saw a storefront with a sign in the shape of a mortar and pestle. The sign said "Apothecary-Drugs and Compounds." Swiftly he wheeled Faegan's chair around and, with Shailiha, made for the door.

The double doors closed behind them with finality, a little bell at their top happily announcing the fact that the shop's proprietor had customers.

Tristan looked around. They seemed to be the only people in here. The shop was quite large, lined with shelves and littered with tables all filled with multicolored bottles and jars. Everything was covered with a layer of dust, as if the merchandise hadn't been touched for years. A long counter stretched from wall to wall at the far end, with yet more wall cabinets behind it.

A massive, circular oak chandelier hung by a rope over the center of the floor. The rope ran through a pulley in the ceiling and on to a hook attached to the far wall, a system that allowed for the raising and lowering of the fixture for the filling of its oil sconces. The chandelier was not lit.

There was no sign of the proprietor. The place smelled of dust, lack of use, and countless exotic compounds.

Wheeling himself up to one of the tables, Faegan picked up a bottle and examined it. Removing the cork, he smelled the contents. His eyes lit up.

"Ground blossom of rapturegrass!" he cackled, triumphantly smacking one hand flat upon the arm of his chair. "I'd stake my life on it!" He appeared to be quite delighted. "I haven't seen this for decades!" He held the bottle up for Tristan and Shailiha to see. "Good for the libido," he added with a wink.

With a sigh and a slight shake of his head, Tristan looked over at his sister. She was watching Faegan with an expression of disbelief. As one corner of his mouth came up, Tristan reminded himself that she was not as familiar with the wizard's eccentricities as he was.

"Faegan," Tristan asked, "have you ever heard of something called a demonslaver?"

"A what?" Faegan asked, his full attention firmly locked upon the prince. Then Tristan heard someone clear his throat.

"May I be of assistance?" a different voice suddenly said.

Turning, Tristan, Shailiha, and Faegan looked behind the counter to see a thin, ruddy-faced man wearing wire spectacles that seemed far too large for him. Watching him push the spectacles back up the sweaty bridge of his nose, only to see them slide back down again, Tristan guessed that the automatic gesture had become a lifelong habit. The shopkeeper wore an apron covered with multicolored dust, and he appeared unusually nervous.

But when he saw the faces of the prince and princess, he turned absolutely white.

"Get out!" he shouted immediately. "You shouldn't be here! I don't want any trouble!"

"Nor do we," Tristan said courteously, taking a single step toward the counter. "All we want are the answers to a few simple-"

The twin doors to the shop suddenly blew open with such force that they banged into the walls beside them. Their etched-glass windows shattered, cascading to the floor in thousands of shards of prismed light. Moving instinctively, Tristan whirled around, reaching behind his back and drawing his dreggan. The ring of its razor-sharp blade resounded through the musty air of the shop.

There were five of them, and they were something out of a nightmare. The only way they seemed to differ from one another was in the various weapons they carried: in addition to swords, one of them carried a whip, another a trident.

Black leather skirts, slit down the front for walking, fell from their waists to the floor. Their chests and shoulders were bare. Their fingers ended in talons, rather than fingernails. Bright red capes cascaded down their backs. Short swords hung low behind their backs, almost to their knees. Tristan's experienced eye took quick note of the unique way the baldrics were hung, immediately sensing the ease and speed with which the things would be able to draw their swords. But it was their faces that were most unsettling.

Their skin was pure white-almost translucent-and seemed to shine. Polished metal caps covered their skulls and swept around their eyes and ears. The ears were long, pointed things, with earrings dangling from some of them. Their white, opaque eyes held no irises, but somehow seemed never to miss a thing.