Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

"Very well," she replied.

He opened his eyes to see that the gleaming cube was still revolving in the air.

"What I say to you now is for your ears alone, and never to be repeated, do you understand?" she asked. Wigg nodded.

"The greatest tragedy of regret is not what one did or did not do to cause it," she said. "Nor is it what we did or did not experience at the time. It is therefore neither the doing nor the omission of some act that causes the greatest pain and suffering, but rather its aftermath that burns longest in our hearts, and eventually in the hearts of others. The aftermath of your regret spirals down through the years like a plague, infecting everyone and everything it touches. It has always been this way, just as it always shall be. It is therefore this part of that aftermath that you shall now see, for that night in the Sea of Whispers was only the catalyst, not the result. You just said so yourself, did you not? That is truly what the Chamber of Penitence is about, wizard. We are here to observe a small part of the results of what you caused, not simply the lone act that caused them. And may your endowed blood and your wizard's soul possess enough inherent goodness to survive what you shall witness, for it is only that same goodness, as it struggles within you against the aftermath of your error, that can keep you alive."

Then the watchwoman turned toward the gleaming, spinning cube and raised her staff. As she did, shapes began to form within it. Then the shapes came into greater focus, forming an all-too-familiar scene.

As the drama unfolded, Wigg was stricken with an intense, excruciating pain that shot through not only his entire nervous system, but cleaved into his very soul, as well. Though transfixed by the view, his pain took him to his knees. Sobbing, he found himself screaming at the watchwoman, begging her to make it stop. But it didn't.

In truth, it had only just begun.

The scene was of Tristan's coronation night-the night that everything in the wizard's world so irrevocably changed. Through his tears, Wigg could see the royal family standing proudly on the dais. Nicholas… Morganna… Frederick… the Chosen Ones… And the other members of the Directorate were also there, waiting for him to place the Paragon around Tristan's neck, sealing the prince's reign for the next thirty years.

Then came the smashing of the glass dome high above, its sharp, glass shards raining down as the first of the Minions dropped into the great hall and began slaughtering the defenseless guests.

Blood, screaming, severed body parts, and yet more blood… always, endlessly. The blood flowed until it seemed there was an entire sea of it, sweeping across the once-beautiful white-and-black checkerboard floor.

And then, suddenly, he was watching the struggle that had gone on outside of the palace-the one that until now he had never witnessed. The Minions descended on the gathered citizens like madmen, cutting them down as they went. Men, women, and children fell easy prey to the winged monsters wielding the strangely curved swords. By now some of the Royal Guard had begun to fight back, but the Minion army was too strong, and too large.

Some of the monsters picked up severed human body parts and began using their bloody, ragged ends as paintbrushes with which to scrawl obscenities and warnings across the walls. Raising one hand, Wigg tried to summon his gift and stop the vision, but nothing happened. He found himself forced to watch as it went on and on.

Just as had happened the first time, he found himself experiencing the cruel helplessness of not being able to stop any of it.

Then, quite unexpectedly, his mental and physical pain multiplied, searing through his system even more viciously than before. As each Minion sword came flashing down to cut through sinew and bone, as each woman was thrown to the ground and brutally abused, as each husband, wife, sister, and brother bent over slaughtered loved ones and screamed into the night, Wigg was forced to feel their physical and mental agony. His body convulsed with it, his mind was seared by it, and his heart pounded with it.

Crying madly, the exquisite agony wracking every iota of his being, Wigg fell facedown onto the cold stone floor. Nonetheless, some unseen force lifted his face back up so that he had no choice but to continue taking in the horrifying carnival of blood, gore, rape, and death.

And then he heard the beating of his own heart.

As the agony of the victims continued to flood into his being, the beating grew more insistent. Ever louder, ever faster, it became so overpowering that he thought it might burst his eardrums. Blood, pain, the frantic screaming of the innocents, and the pounding of his heart all combined into a massive, unrelenting crescendo that he knew would soon kill him unless it stopped.

But it didn't. It just kept on going and going, seemingly without end.

Then suddenly it was too much for even the endowed blood and the inherent goodness of the lead wizard to bear.

With the watchwoman standing over him, Wigg's face hit the unforgiving stone floor, and the light went out of his eyes.

Thirty-nine

A s Krassus walked into the weapons forge, he could feel the intense heat from the hearths blast him in the face. He could hear the constant hissing of the steam as the slaves lowered the red-hot, partially constructed weapons into the vats of brackish water to temper them. The sound of their hammers banging down on the hot metal rang out endlessly. Smoke and soot hung darkly in the air, infusing the entire place with a hot, charred odor.

As he breathed it in, he was overcome by the urge to cough. Quickly pulling the bloodied rag from his blue-and-gray robe, he placed it over his mouth and involuntarily let go several deep, convulsive hacks. Taking the rag away, he looked down to see his familiar blood signature twisting its way across the fabric.

His disease was advancing; he had been coughing even more of late. It was becoming increasingly evident that he must hurry in his work if he was to successfully complete Nicholas' mission before he died. And to be certain of his victory, he needed to acquire the Scroll of the Vigors, the only piece of the puzzle still missing.

Angrily stuffing the rag back into his robe, he walked purposefully up to the demonslaver in charge. The monster bowed.

"Status report," the wizard ordered simply.

"All goes well," the grotesque servant replied. "The store of new weapons grows daily, and ever more slavers come to take them up. There have been no further suicide attempts by any of the workers."

Satisfied, Krassus cast his dark eyes around the room, trying to find the slave that Janus had told him about. Finally Krassus found him standing on the far side of the room, his hands tied behind his back.

"Bring him to me," he said simply. The head slaver immediately obliged, walking over to where Twenty-Nine stood supervising another slave. Grabbing him by the throat, the slaver manhandled him over to where Krassus stood waiting.

Krassus walked completely around the loin-clad slave as if he were examining some beast of burden he might purchase. Then he grasped the slave's dirty chin and turned his face this way and that in the orange-red glow of the hearths.

Confused as to why he had been singled out, Twenty-Nine wondered who this frightening man with the long white hair and the piercing eyes was. He just as quickly found himself hoping that he would never have to face him again.

"So you're the one who gave us so much trouble by trying to take your own life," Krassus said softly. "Did you really think it would be so easy, my friend? I'm glad to see that you have been properly restrained and are giving us no further concern. But as you will soon learn, nothing here in this chamber, including you and the weapon smiths you supervise, will matter very much longer." He turned back to the head demonslaver.