Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

The first mate nodded.

"Very well," Krassus said. "Go now."

Looking astern, Krassus saw the Wayfarer and the Stalwart following in their wake, saw the alternating beams of azure light shooting toward them from the lantern, giving them their orders. He turned to Grizelda.

"Now we shall see what we shall see," he said quietly.

The herbmistress' face showed concern. "Surely my lord has not forgotten that the Chosen One is still aboard the Wayfarer," she said questioningly. "He could be killed."

Before answering, Krassus turned to see the additional sails being raised, and the first of the Talis slaves coming topside, blinking their eyes in the sunlight. A gang of slavers stood waiting, swords drawn. As the slaves appeared up the stairway one by one, the slavers stepped up behind them quietly, cut their throats, then tossed the bodies over the gunwales and into the sea.

Sharks swarmed, snaking through the increasingly bloody water. Krassus turned his dark eyes back to the three enemy frigates, ignoring the screams of the dying slaves as if they weren't there.

"Of course I haven't forgotten," he said quietly. "If he dies, he dies. In the end it doesn't really matter. As I have already told you, for what I have planned, his blood signature is of no use to me. But if he should be rescued, I have arranged a little surprise for him and his wizards-one that could be very much to our advantage. So you see, there is no need to worry about him."

He watched intently as the Wayfarer and the Stalwart began to alter course, heeling hard to port, to take on the three advancing frigates. Hundreds of demonslavers could be seen on their decks, swords waving in the air.

As the Sojourner's extra sails snapped open she began to pick up speed, distancing herself from the impending calamity.

T ristan pulled hard on his oar while trying both to keep one eye on the commotion coming from the deck above, and to ignore the searing pain in his back. They had been rowing at battle speed for the last quarter of an hour, ever since the Wayfarer had made a sharp, unexplained course change. Looking out his oar slit, he was sure they were now headed north. As the pacemaster continued to pound out the impossible beat, slaves began groaning and collapsing at their stations, and the lone guard-all the other slavers had been ordered topside-was using his nine-tails with abandon, trying to force them back to work.

For the first time, Tristan noticed a hint of concern in the faces of the two remaining slavers. Then the Wayfarer lurched to port, leaning over hard. As she did, one of the oarsmen on the other side of the ship suddenly dropped his oar, pointed out the slit in the hull, and began babbling wildly.

"Ships!" he screamed, his eyes alight with hope. "Three Eutracian ships! And they fly the war banner of the monarchy!"

Picking up his trident, the demonslaver mercilessly stabbed the man through the abdomen. Then he pulled the prongs out viciously, twisting them to maximize the damage. The man was dead before he hit the deck.

But he hadn't died in vain.

Almost every slave in the galley let go of his oar and craned his neck to look outside. Shouting and pandemonium reigned as the slaver tried in vain to whip them back into submission. Tristan could see nothing on his side of the ship but empty sea. Nonetheless, he was stunned by the slave's words. There was only one answer.

They had finally come for him.

Part of the Minion fleet had arrived, and Wigg and Faegan might even be aboard. His heart sang with the promise of escape. And of killing Krassus and his herbmistress, and taking as many of his horrific captors to their graves as he could. They might even be able to recover the Scroll of the Vagaries. There were debts to repay, and he meant to have his revenge.

While the slaver who had beaten him was preoccupied with trying to whip the excited oarsmen back into submission, Tristan reached into his right boot and slid out the brain hook. Cupping it in his hand, he laid the blade up along the underside of his forearm, then placed his arm down by his side. The blade felt sharp and comforting against his skin.

He knew this would have to be a very closely run thing, for his chains did not allow much freedom of movement. He would only get one chance, and it had to be right.

Hungrily he eyed the ring of keys hanging from the slaver's belt. The large one in the center was still there. Amid the screaming and confusion, Tristan willed the slaver to come to him.

Almost as if he had heard Tristan's silent pleading, the slaver turned, glared at the prince hatefully, and began walking to the front of the ship. Summoning up all the saliva he could muster, Tristan spat toward him and then smiled.

The slaver took another step. Then another. Finally he was directly alongside Tristan. With a smile, he raised his trident.

But suddenly the Wayfarer collided with something. A massive blow struck hard against the port side, and the hull tipped hard to starboard. Losing his balance, the slaver slipped to the right.

As the prongs of the trident came down, Tristan slid toward the bow and grabbed the handle of the trident, using the ship's momentum to pull the surprised slaver down into his lap. In one smooth motion he grabbed the slaver by the throat and shoved the point of the brain hook into the thing's ear.

The slaver screamed and began to struggle. With a vicious twist, Tristan yanked out the hook. The slaver was dead, blood pouring from his ear.

Tristan shoved the brain hook back into his boot. Then he snatched the key ring from the slaver's belt and pushed the corpse off him, into the aisle.

The gigantic pacemaster was already on his feet, waving a hammer and coming toward Tristan. Finding the large key in the center of the ring, Tristan shoved it into the padlock lying on the deck and turned it.

Nothing happened.

A quick glance told him that the pacemaster was nearly upon him. Again he turned the key in the rusty lock. The lock sprung open.

As fast as he could Tristan pulled his chain free, which allowed him to move his feet. But his wrists and ankles were still shackled together, and there was no time to pick up a weapon. The pacemaster, hammer raised, was looming over him.

As the great hammer came down, Tristan slipped to the right, dodging the heavy blow. Then he slid back in, placed his hands together, and swung them around, slamming his wrist shackles into the slaver's right cheek and eye. Blood sprayed, and the slaver crashed to the deck atop the other one's body.

Praying that the same key would unlock his shackles, Tristan shoved it into the lock binding his feet together and turned it. This time the lock sprang open immediately. The same proved true for his wrist shackles. Smiling, he turned and passed the key to the man seated behind him. There were tears in the fellow's eyes. Tristan started to speak, but suddenly realized that words were not necessary.

Reaching beneath the body of the first slaver, Tristan recovered the thing's short sword. He darted for the stairway, then stopped and purposely slowed his breathing.

Picking up the gold medallion that hung around his neck, he gazed at it for a precious, dangerous moment and thought of all his loved ones. Then he dropped the medallion back to his chest, raised the cool blade of the sword vertically to his forehead, and closed his eyes.

From the way the hull of the ship had been impacted and the sounds of battle coming from the deck above, no one had to tell him that they were being boarded.

Holding his sword before him, Tristan ran up the stairway and into the light.

Twenty-two

S erena felt like an outcast as she looked down at the sumptuous plate of food. She sat alone at a dining table that was very well appointed, complete with candlesticks and wine. She was dressed in yet another lovely gown picked out for her by Janus.