Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

Turning away from the stall for a moment, Wulfgar took a piece of apple for himself and looked down the length of the barn. For as long as he could remember he had loved the sights, smells, and sounds of this place more than any other.

His father, Jason of the House of Merrick, owned these barns and presided over the combination of stables and blacksmith shop. Thanks to the Directorate of Wizards, peace and prosperity had reigned for more than three centuries, and Jason's business was good. Even so, the Merrick family was by no means wealthy. But father, mother, and son were happy in the ways that money could not buy.

The young man of thirteen looked down the length of the barn. It was full to capacity. Yellow straw lay everywhere, and the smell of green hay, amber grain, horses, and saddle soap combined with the sooty smoke and char of the blacksmith's hearth in the next room to create a familiar scent he breathed in gladly. A soft, low light came from the many lanterns lining the aisle between the rows of stalls. To his ears came the occasional snorts and whinnies of the horses and the comforting double clangs of his father's hammer on the anvil. These sounds and smells had become an integral part of his life.

Wulfgar gave Traveler another piece of apple. Then he noticed that the clanging of his father's hammer had ceased. Turning, Wulfgar saw his father approaching. Jason looked tired, but he grinned affectionately at Wulfgar as he approached. His weathered face and hands were covered with dark soot, as was the worn leather blacksmith's apron tied around his middle.

"Enough for one day," he said, his voice gravelly and strong. He smelled like hot charcoal. As usual, his massive strength was both comforting and familiar to Wulfgar, like standing next to a favorite old oak tree.

"Dinner must be ready by now," Jason added as he folded his apron and looked out from the barn. Warm, inviting lights came from the small house lying just beyond. "You know how your mother gets when we let her creations go cold." He winked.

"I'm not hungry," Wulfgar countered gamely. "Besides, I still have tack to polish. The customers will expect it done by morning, when they arrive for their mounts."

Jason smiled. "There's another reason why you don't want to leave the stables, isn't there?" he asked.

Wulfgar looked down at some straw near the toes of his boots and didn't answer.

"The tack can wait until morning," his father said. "You still have schoolwork to do, and that must come first. Given the fact that we're full up, if some of the tack doesn't get polished, I'm sure the customers will understand."

Wulfgar's face fell. He liked his lessons well enough-indeed, he was one of his school's best students-but he had always been something of a loner, with a fiercely held sense of independence that set him apart from the other boys. Having schoolmates was fine, but it was the horses that continually came and went from these barns that truly possessed his heart.

"Suppose I told you that dinner tonight is veal pie-your favorite," Jason said, as he draped a muscular arm over his son's shoulders and turned the boy toward the far doors of the barn. Sighing, Wulfgar nodded. With a final look back at Traveler, he tossed the remains of the apple into the stall. Then, side by side, father and son left the barn and headed for-

Wulfgar suddenly started awake, all of his senses coming alive at once. He shot upright. Sweaty and breathing heavily, he glanced wildly around the room, trying to remember where he was.

He had been dreaming again, he realized, rubbing the back of his neck. He wished he had not woken up. The dream was infinitely preferable to his current reality.

He had been locked within these rooms-supposedly the personal quarters of the one called Krassus-for the last four days. During that time, he had seen no one, save for the demonslavers who supplied him with food, toilet articles, and clean clothing. Not one of them had spoken to him.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he retied his long sandy hair behind him with the worn leather strip and then turned to look out the open balcony doors. Morning was dawning, the sky sunny and clear.

Reluctantly he took the frantically patterned silk robe from the settee at the end of the bed and put it on. He felt like a fool. He acutely missed his simple leather breeches, boots, and matching sleeveless shirt, the one that had been so forgiving when he used to swing the heavy hammer down on the anvil. He walked sleepily to the spacious balcony and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs.

His velvet cage-as he had come to think of his prison-was indeed sumptuous, but there was absolutely no way to escape it. The only exit was through double doors of solid marble, locked from the other side. Two armed, white-skinned slavers stood perpetual guard in the hall.

The chambers consisted of a bedroom with a gigantic four-poster bed, an adjoining drawing room with shelves full of books and a large fireplace, and a huge, ornate bath. The rooms were of highly polished marble, as was the open, low-walled balcony where he now sat. Below, the sea crashed against the nearby shore, and he could smell the crisp, salty sea air.

Looking toward the west and out over the seemingly endless Sea of Whispers, he was again reminded that his quarters were hundreds of feet in the air, and surely comprised but a small part of the massive building in which he was being held. One corner of his mouth came up knowingly. No one guarded him on this side of his quarters, for there was no need to. The exterior walls were slick and smooth. Any attempt to escape that way would mean a fall and certain death on the jagged rocks that lined the shore.

Tall, white-sailed ships arrived daily-no doubt transporting yet more slaves-and each time the swaying masts and graceful sails appeared on the horizon, the view steeled his resolve to escape-someday, somehow. But not before killing Janus, he promised himself, and as many of the grotesque slavers as he could.

During the last four days there had been little to do except sit and watch the restless ocean. He had tried to read the books in the drawing room, but they were all written in a beautiful-looking but utterly foreign language. The only words he recognized were Talis and R'talis, and they seemed to be repeated over and over. He was alone with unanswered questions. Why was he was being treated like a king, while his fellow slaves were supposedly confined somewhere else, somewhere far less comfortable? Why had such excitement accompanied his arrival at the docks? Things had been said and done to him there that he couldn't even begin to understand.

Shame washed over him, and he closed his eyes.

The darkness momentarily brought back his dream, and his thoughts turned to his home in the coastal city of Farpoint, and the parents he loved with all his heart. As far as he knew, Jason and Selene were still alive and well, though surely they missed him. Jason still worked in the stables, but no longer performed the difficult manual labor required by his trade. Wulfgar, now thirty-five Seasons of New Life, had stayed on, taking over the blacksmith shop. His strong, hard body showed the years of hard work, his muscles sculpted by so many strikes of the hammer to the anvil. Although there had been several women in his life, he had yet to marry.

He had been abducted in Farpoint while making a trip to order grain for the stables. Rumors of the abduction of men and women his age had been circulating for days, but always the independent skeptic, he had ignored them and ventured into the city anyway. It was at the mill that several of the awful, white-skinned things had come at him at once. Sadly, he had been unarmed.

Nonetheless, Wulfgar had fought back like a lion, badly injuring several of them with his fists and feet before being rendered unconscious. He had awakened to the fire of a branding iron on his shoulder and was then bound in the darkness belowdecks on a ship that tossed its way through the Sea of Whispers for sixteen excruciating days.