Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

The consul then reached one hand through the azure dome and placed his palm on the slave's forehead. Terrified almost beyond insanity, the helpless slave struggled, but to no avail.

Closing his eyes, the consul recalled the calculations of the still-unidentified Forestallment just gleaned from the scroll. Then he carefully began infusing it directly into the endowed blood of the slave.

The slave on the table began to convulse. Foam ran from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes rolled back up into his head as his body jerked violently: a marionette dancing on someone else's strings. Although he screamed wildly, no sound could be heard through the azure dome.

Such an interesting phenomenon, Krassus reflected emotionlessly. To see one convulse and scream so violently, yet hear no sounds of torment.

And then, finally, it was over. The slave collapsed, eyes closing.

As the consul removed his hand from the slave's head, the azure dome faded away.

"Is he dead?" Krassus asked casually.

"No," the consul answered. "Some of them live, though most die. Interestingly, it seems that those with a blood assay value of four or better often survive, and can be subjected to the process again. Such information may prove useful one day."

Narrowing his eyes, the loyal consul again called on the craft. He caused a small incision to form in the slave's right arm and ordered a single drop of the slave's blood to land on the parchment next to the blood signature.

Reaching into his robes, the consul produced a vial. Opening it, he released a single drop of red water taken from the Caves of the Paragon. Almost immediately the two drops began to move across the page toward one another, quickly becoming one.

As the slave's blood signature formed, the consul removed another piece of parchment from his robe. It held an exact copy of the Forestallment branch they all searched for-the one given to Krassus by Nicholas just before his death. After closely comparing the two, he shook his head. They were not of the same length, nor did the various branches match as they trailed away from the blood signatures.

"Negative again, Master," he said. He summoned one of the many demonslavers in this area to come to the table. "Take this one away," he ordered.

Suddenly they heard a shout of unmitigated joy come from the other side of the room. Navigating his way between the busy tables, Krassus hurried over to the consul who had cried out.

"What is it?" he asked, not daring to hope.

"I have found it, Master," the consul breathed, his excitement barely allowing him to get the words out. Krassus looked down at the tabletop to see that the female slave the consul had been using was dead.

"Show me," he ordered. His hands were trembling with excitement.

With a slight bow, the overjoyed consul handed over both his copy of the long, angular Forestallment branch they searched for, and the copy of the blood signature just taken from the dead slave. Krassus examined them carefully. As he did, his heart leapt.

There could be no mistake. This was the Forestallment branch that Nicholas had ordered him to search for. Now the next stage of this amazing journey in the craft could finally begin. He turned to one of the demonslavers, his dark eyes flashing.

"Bring me Wulfgar," he said quietly.

Forty

A s the skiff approached the shoreline of the Isle of Sanctuary, the sheer beauty of the island astounded Tristan. The other skiffs had already been beached, and the last of the crew could be seen eagerly headed down a path into the woods.

Steep, sharply pointed hills rose almost straight up from the shoreline, their tops obscured by gray mist. Below the level of the mist, they were carpeted with a dense, emerald growth. He found himself smiling. At first glance, it looked like paradise.

Gnarled, multicolored trees grew wide and tall, and were dotted with colors that could only be fruits and berries. Thick, strong vines stretched between the trees to create an odd sort of twisted, tangled harmony. The air had a pleasant, sweet-sour aroma, the scents from the flowers and plants combining with the saltiness of the sea as it washed up over the sandy shore. The birdsong he could hear was unfamiliar and melodic.

As he clambered up out of the skiff to stand with Tyranny and Scars on the wooden dock, Tristan tried to remember what the captain had said about Sanctuary being both alluring and dangerous. The first part of the captain's warning he now found easy to understand. But as he took in the serene beauty, he frankly found it difficult to convince himself that it could be dangerous, as well.

As if reading his thoughts, Tyranny turned to him, the same look of concern still blanketing her face.

"Where are all the ships you said were stationed here?" Tristan asked as the three of them walked off the dock and onto the shore.

"The ships are usually moored in various coves around the island," Tyranny answered. "That way if Sanctuary is attacked, all of them cannot be destroyed at once, and at least some of them can escape."

As she spoke, she began leading them down a narrow but well-trod path through the dense foliage between two of the hills.

"That is why you anchored on this side of the island, isn't it?" Tristan asked. "So your ships wouldn't be found."

"Yes," she answered, pausing to push a low-hanging vine out of her way. "I want to enter Sanctuary quietly on foot, as I do not know what kind of reception I might receive from Rolf, if he is in port and not out to sea. If he were to commandeer my ships, we could end up here for a long time."

Looking down at his right knee boot, Tristan thought of the small piece of the Scroll of the Vagaries that had been hidden there by his still-unknown benefactor. All too aware that he must get it back to the wizards and their herbmistress as soon as he could, his jaw hardened. He had had quite enough of being controlled by others. He longed to be home again, and he would do anything-including kill, if need be-to get there.

"And where do we get the sailcloth and spars from?" he asked.

"There are merchants and smiths here," Scars told him. "Most of them were part of the pirate group at one time, but decided to go into the business of turning the stolen raw materials into finished goods. Good money, and much less risk. Especially since most of the raiders would rather be out on the sea than sitting here sewing sailcloth and shaving spars. An unusual arrangement, but it works. So unless Rolf objects and orders otherwise, they will do business with us. But I fear their price may be very high, indeed. Too high, perhaps, for our stores of kisa are not what they once were."

Then Scars pulled Tristan closer, indicating that he wanted the two of them to lag a bit behind Tyranny. Curious, Tristan slowed down.

"The truth is that I have my doubts about our overall success, especially where Rolf is concerned," Scars whispered in a rare example of emotion. "I can only imagine how he reacted after the captain finally left him one night without warning, sailing away as she did by the light of the full moons. By then he had begun to beat her, and she wouldn't stand for it. Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't kill him. But love has a way of tempering one's resolve, does it not? And as you have no doubt noticed, she is very adept at hiding the scars on her heart. Had I known what was happening, I would have killed the bastard myself." Scars paused to look sternly at Tristan. "Keep your sword and your knives at the ready. Rolf is used to seeing me around the captain, but he won't take kindly to a newcomer who is friendly with her, and he is very good with his sword."

Tristan's jaw hardened again. So am I, he thought.

They walked on in silence for a time. The narrow, rutted path wound back and forth, and Tristan noted by the position of the sun that they were traveling west. After a while, he saw the first pieces of marble.