The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Seven

"O x sorry," the huge Minion said, wringing his hands. "Ox should been inside palace with Chosen One, not outside with troops. Not happen again. Ox promise."

Tristan smiled over at the slow-witted but loyal Minion, knowing full well how ashamed the warrior felt. The prince had repeatedly tried to reassure him that what had happened had not been his fault, and that Krassus would have slipped by the Minion troops anyway. But as Tristan's supposed bodyguard, Ox hadn't agreed and had continued to castigate himself.

Deciding there was little more he could do to change the warrior's opinion, Tristan uncoiled his long legs and looked out the window, admiring the Eutracian landscape as it flew by below.

The prince, Ox, Shailiha, and the wizard Faegan were sitting inside one of the Minion litters, being carried through the sky by six of the winged troops. Another six warriors flew alongside as guards. They had been traveling this way for several hours, and it would take at least two more to reach the coastal city of Farpoint.

Sitting directly across from Tristan, Shailiha was obviously nervous. She did not like traveling by flying litter, even if it was with her brother. She would occasionally stick her head out, trying to adjust to the fact that she was soaring along so quickly, several thousand feet above the earth. Tristan gave her a wide smile, reassuring her it would be all right. She smiled back tentatively.

Faegan had immediately fallen asleep-or so it seemed. But Tristan doubted that the wily wizard was actually dozing, suspecting that Faegan was instead absorbed in his wizardly contemplations. The Paragon hung around Faegan's neck, its vibrant, red light shimmering from within as always.

Three days had passed since Krassus had breached the security of the palace. To the wizards' dismay, Tristan and Shailiha had insisted on traveling to Farpoint to witness firsthand whatever it was that Krassus had taunted them about. Wigg, although improving daily, was still too weak to make the trip with them. And so Faegan had come; both to protect them, if necessary, and to lend his experienced wizard's eyes to their observations. Celeste had stayed at the palace to tend Wigg.

The plan was to have the Minions drop them in the woods just outside the city. They would walk into town, and once there, would hire a carriage and tour the streets anonymously, trying to find out what they could. Ox and his Minions would stay in the woods with the litters, waiting for their return.

Tristan rubbed his face, not liking the thick, dark beard Faegan had conjured for him. He had never really had a full beard, and he would be glad to be rid of it.

Faegan had given Shailiha a change of hair color, from blond to black. A simple plaid peasant's dress replaced her gown. These changes in appearance were the results of new craft calculations the old wizard had been trying to achieve, but the calculations were still limited in scope, as were their applications.

Thinking back to the day of Krassus' attack, Tristan scowled. Not only had the traitorous wizard invaded the palace with ease, but his doing so had resulted in several amazing revelations. Over the past three days, Wigg and Faegan had adamantly refused to elaborate on these mysteries. That would be like them: to hold back information, at least until they had figured out more of the pieces to the puzzle.

But Tristan sensed there were other reasons for the crusty wizards' silence. And if Wigg wouldn't talk, perhaps Faegan now would-especially since the lead wizard wasn't here to listen.

Tristan stretched out one leg to nudge Faegan's foot.

"Faegan," he said gently, "are you awake?"

"Of course," the master wizard answered rather sourly, his eyes still closed. "Bouncing along in one of these contraptions, thousands of feet in the air, who could possibly be asleep?"

Looking at Shailiha, Tristan grinned.

"I have a question for you," he said to the wizard.

Faegan sighed, "What is it?" he asked grumpily. The ancient, gray-green eyes remained closed.

"Are partials endowed?" Tristan asked. "I always thought that people were either endowed, or they weren't."

Faegan's left eye suddenly opened, to stare directly at the prince. With another sigh, he opened the other eye and sat up, shaking off his previous thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he raised his arms and stretched his back. "It's not that simple," he said with a smile. "And I suppose that without Wigg here to castigate me, you expect to hear all about it, don't you?"

Tristan grinned, realizing that Faegan was about to give him at least some of his answers-if for no other reason than to eventually annoy the lead wizard.

"Partials are not endowed in the classic sense," Faegan answered, "but given the proper training, some of the more powerful of them can perform certain acts that unendowed persons cannot."

"Such as?" Shailiha asked.

"Skills such as blaze-gazing, or being able to force someone to reveal the truth, even against his or her will. Healing or causing illness. Also, it is rumored that some could perform several arcane forms of beast-mastery. All of these talents require the use of some form of organic life, such as that which comes from the ground or the water. The most gifted of them often became what we called herbmasters or herbmistresses, using specific combinations of plants, herbs, and oils to refine and strengthen their craft even further. Most wizards had little to fear from them, as partial adepts-as we called those partials who practiced the craft-were not particularly powerful."

"But why would a partial's gifts be limited to only certain aspects of the craft?" Shailiha asked. "That doesn't make sense to me."

"I can understand your confusion," Faegan replied. "As is true with so many things of magic, the answer has to do with the Paragon." He held the square-cut, bloodred stone up for inspection.

"If you were to count the facets of the surface of the Paragon, you would find there to be twenty-five in all," he told her. "Just as there are twenty-five major facets of the craft, such as the Kinetic, the Sympathetic, and the Formative. The facet, for example, allows the practitioner certain dynamic uses of the craft, such as the throwing of azure bolts. The Sympathetic facet allows the user certain gifts associated with sound, touch, and vibration. And as you might well guess, the Formative facet has to do with the conjuring and altering of things-or their disappearance. These are but three of the twenty-five."

Neither Tristan nor Shailiha had ever heard this, and it put the Paragon in an entirely new light.

"How do you know all of this?" Shailiha asked.

"This information came to us from the preface to the Tome," Faegan answered. "The Ones Who Came Before constructed the jewel as the living passageway between endowed blood and the orbs of the Vigors and the Vagaries-the two fountainheads of all that is the craft. The twenty-five facets that the Ones cut into the stone represent what they considered to be the most important disciplines of the craft."

"But that still doesn't explain why a partial adept's gifts are limited, and vice versa," Tristan pressed.

"That is because the Ones granted those of fully endowed blood sole access to all of the facets save for one," Faegan told them. "The arts of that one facet are divided between those of fully endowed blood, and the partials."

"What is that facet called?" Tristan asked.

"The Organic," Faegan answered.

"And what aspects of the craft does the Organic facet control?" Shailiha asked.

"Those arts that are made possible only through the use of such organics as herbs, oils, plants, water, and so on," Faegan explained. "These arts have the greatest effect of all on the plant life, water, and air of the world. The Ones Who Came Before channeled some of the arts of the Organic into the weaker blood signatures of the partials, and the rest into the blood of the fully endowed. A wizard has access to a far greater number of skills, and has much greater power, but partial adepts have access to some Organic skills that we do not."

"But why would the Ones do that?" Tristan asked. "Wouldn't they want the fully endowed to have all the gifts, so that they could be used to their greatest advantage?"

"Enabling one group to employ all of the arts of the Organic discipline to their utmost was precisely what the Ones were trying to avoid," the wizard said.

"But you still haven't answered why," Shailiha pressed.

"It seems that what the Ones wanted most, second only to the preservation of the craft, was to prevent any future recurrence of their war with the Heretics of the Guild. The preface to the Tome tells us that during their War of Attrition, as they called it, vast areas of the world became scorched and lifeless. If they couldn't preserve the land, air, and sea for future generations, humankind ran the risk of becoming extinct." He paused for a moment in thought.

"People are replaceable, I suppose, should one care to characterize things in such a manner," he went on, as their litter continued to bounce along through the air. "But the earth we walk upon, the water we drink, and the air we breathe is not. And without them we would soon perish, taking the craft with us. For in the final analysis, our endowed blood is the ultimate resting place of the craft, and our lives the instruments by which it is passed down through the generations, thereby making it timeless. That is why the Ones devised the Organic facet of the Paragon the way they did: gifting some of the most dangerous of these arts only to those of partial blood. That way, they hoped, no one would ever be able to use them again in a manner that was so destructive."

"But if these Organic gifts are so potentially destructive, why allow them to be used at all?" Shailiha asked.

"Because their potential to be used for good is just as strong," Faegan answered. "If all these aspects of the craft had not been preserved, knowledge of them would have died with the Ones. Even now we have no way of knowing how many of their arts may have vanished with the Ones' passing from the world."

Suddenly something Faegan had said earlier began gnawing at the back of the prince's mind. "What is a blaze-gazer?" he asked.

Faegan pursed his lips. "A blaze-gazer is a partial adept who is able to use herbs to see events that are occurring some distance away. Or so goes the myth. That art is said to be very rare, and almost always the province of women, rather than men."

"Can you blaze-gaze?" Shailiha asked.

"No," Faegan answered testily. True to form, he was becoming irritable at the questioning of his abilities. "Nor can any other wizard I have ever known-including Wigg. I would love to learn to blaze-gaze, but it is doubtful that a partial adept would ever share such knowledge with an outsider, or even that the Paragon would allow me that skill."

"And Krassus now travels with a partial adept," Tristan mused. "Or at least he claims to."

"Yes," Faegan agreed. "If what he said is true, that does not bode well for any of us."

"Krassus said that Wigg knows one," Shailiha commented. "And the lead wizard became very defensive when we asked him about it. Could it be true?"

Faegan raised an eyebrow. "First of all, it is Wigg's nature to be defensive," he said. "You know how secretive he can be. When he does not wish to speak about a subject, even wild mules can't pull the words out of him." A bit more somber now, Faegan looked out the window again.

"You know, part of what Krassus said is quite valid," he mused.

"What part?" Tristan asked.

"He said that although I am the greatest keeper of the craft, Wigg is the greatest keeper of secrets," Faegan said softly. "That is so true. When thinking of Wigg, always remember that he has survived over three centuries in the maze of politics and magic that is Eutracia. The things he has seen and the secrets he still keeps may well be uncountable."

Tristan sat back in the seat, thinking. Something Wigg had told them that day still haunted him.

"Is it true?" he asked the ancient wizard. "Would Wigg have really done it? Would he do it still?"

"Do what?" Faegan asked.

"Would he truly kill Wulfgar, should our brother be found and his left-leaning blood signature induce him to the Vagaries?"

Faegan's expression darkened. Removing his hands from the opposite sleeves of his robes, he leaned forward. "Would Wigg obey the orders of a dead queen, and kill your half sibling in order to protect the craft? Or for that matter, would I? And even more importantly, would the two of you let us? Or could you stop us, should you choose to try?" His gray-green eyes narrowed.

"Those very thoughts have consumed my mind ever since Krassus revealed himself to us," the wizard said. "All I know right now is that we must find Wulfgar before he does, or none of it will matter. Not to mention these scrolls he searches for."

Suddenly there came a harsh, insistent pounding upon the side of the litter. Ox stuck his head out the window.

"Speak!" he ordered the Minion officer flying close by.

"Farpoint approaches, sir!" the Minion shouted. "You ordered us to let you know when we neared!"

Ox looked back questioningly at Tristan.

"Tell him they should land us about one quarter league from the outskirts of the city," the prince ordered. "Place us down in the woods, if possible. We must not be seen."

"I live to serve," Ox replied, and shouted Tristan's orders to his warriors. The litter began to tilt downward. Faegan's manner suddenly became even more serious.

"It was only after much discussion that Wigg and I agreed to let you come here," he said. "In truth, I doubt we could have stopped you, anyway, short of using a wizard's warp on you both. But that doesn't mean that we think this is a good idea. If it is to be done, it will be done our way. I have not visited Farpoint for many years, but I remember it as an exceedingly rough place. Eutracian fishing towns always are. Tristan, I want you to push my chair for me. If questioned, you are to say that you are my bodyguard, and my ward. Shailiha, you are to pretend to be my nurse. Remember, we are here only to observe, not to participate." He pursed his lips.

"One other thing," he said, sounding solemn. "Tristan, should anything untoward happen, I want you to employ your skills to protect us, rather than my resorting to the use of the craft. I don't want anyone here to know I am a wizard unless it becomes absolutely necessary. For all we know, Krassus may even be here. He has already sworn to kill Wigg and me. At the very least he is probably expecting us to take the bait by simply coming here. Therefore, I will be cloaking our endowed blood-a job that, because of the combined, exceedingly high quality of our blood, shall take a great deal of effort. Only in the direst of circumstances will I drop the cloak and employ the craft. Otherwise, it is your duty to protect us. And let me do the talking. The first thing I want to do is to find a carriage for hire. It will be faster and safer than walking the streets. Do you understand?"

Both the Chosen Ones nodded.

Faegan sighed and shook his head. "Then may the Afterlife watch over us."

The six Minion warriors gently landed the litter in a small glade surrounded by fir trees. Then the other six landed, dreggans drawn, and formed a protective ring. The four occupants descended from the litter and onto the soft grass of the forest, the Minions handling the wizard's chair for him.

"Stay here, out of sight," Tristan ordered Ox. It was plain to see by the look on the warrior's face that he was severely disappointed not to be coming along.

"Sorry, my friend," the prince said with a smile. "But your presence in Farpoint would cause a commotion, to say the least! Light no fires. And send no sentries into the sky, as you normally would. Do, however, post guards in the woods. If you are found and must defend your lives, do so. But if your attackers are simple townsfolk, try to subdue them, rather than kill them. I do not know how long we may be gone, but wait for us. There is food and water stored in the litter."

Ox clicked the heels of his boots together. "I live to serve."

Tristan nodded back. With that he and Shailiha grasped Faegan's chair and began wheeling him out of the forest.

Pushing the wooden chair through the thick undergrowth was very difficult. Faegan could have levitated it, of course, but they could not risk being spotted using the craft. At last they came upon a hardscrabble road, which was smooth enough that Tristan could manage the chair without Shailiha's help. Tristan longed to have Pilgrim, his dappled gray-and-white stallion, beneath him, but it was also good to stretch his legs, especially after the hours aboard the flying litter.

The prince had made several official visits to Farpoint when his father and mother were alive, and he had to agree with Faegan that the fishing town was a rough-and-tumble place. The seafaring folk were a stern, tough, and uncompromising lot. They worked hard. And when they returned to town with their clothes full of the stink of fish and their pockets full of gold coins, they drank too much, gambled too much, and fought too much.

It was not much longer until they entered the outskirts of the city, and Tristan, with Shailiha at his side, wheeled Faegan's chair down one of the streets he felt would most likely provide adequate livery service. His magically acquired beard itched.

Several empty hansom cabs stood waiting on one side of the wide, cobblestoned boulevard. Tristan wheeled Faegan toward the first of them, and the old wizard turned his gray-green eyes up to the man sitting atop it.

"Good day," he said politely. "Are you for hire?"

"I don't be sittin' up here for my health, cripple," the driver snarled back. He spat, narrowly missing the wizard's feet.

Faegan remained unperturbed. "How much?" he asked.

"How far?" the driver countered, his careful eyes examining the old man in the wheeled chair.

Faegan took a slow breath. "We heard there is to be some special activity here today," he said. Then he winked conspiratorially up at the driver. When the driver remained silent, Faegan pressed, "You know the kind of activity I mean. And we have money to spend. But we are new here, and we do not know the way. Now will you take us there, or do we have to go to one of your competitors?"

Blatantly craning his neck to look over at the next carriage, Faegan conjured some kisa-the gold coin of the realm-into one of his robe pockets. Reaching in, he jangled them together loudly.

Scowling, the driver rubbed the salt-and-pepper grizzle on his chin. Then, looking down from his seat, he gestured toward Tristan.

"Except for that nasty-looking bastard with the sword and the knives, you don't look like the usual lot who goes there," he said cautiously. "Not only that, but if the two younger ones know what's good for 'em, they won't go there at all. The white ones will be there, ya' know."

This piqued Faegan's interest. "How much?" he demanded.

"All right, all right!" the driver said. "Don't get your robe in a twist! Twelve kisa should do it."

"Six!" Faegan countered.

"Eight!" the driver hollered down.

"Done!" the wizard said.

"Get aboard." The driver sighed, reaching for his whip. It was abundantly clear from his posture that helping Faegan in was not going to be part of the bargain.

Tristan opened the hansom door and helped Shailiha in, then walked around to the back of the coach. He was dismayed to see that there was no storage compartment large enough for Faegan's chair, and no way to secure it on top of the carriage.

"Go ahead," Faegan said, giving Tristan a wink. "You're strong enough. I know you can do it."

Smiling, the prince suddenly understood. Reaching down, he grabbed the chair, wizard and all, just as the driver finally decided to come down from atop his seat to berate them for taking so long. The man approached just in time to see Tristan smoothly, effortlessly lift both the wizard and chair and place them through the open door of the coach as though they weighed no more than a feather.

The driver's eyes went wide; his grizzled jaw dropping with disbelief. "How in the name of the Afterlife did you do that?"

As Tristan climbed into the carriage, Faegan poked his head out the window. "As I said, he's very strong." He winked mischievously.

Scratching his head, the bewildered driver clambered back atop the carriage. With a whistle to his horses and a snap of his whip, the coach started rumbling down the streets of Farpoint.

Despite the danger of their situation, both Tristan and Shailiha began to laugh.

" 'He's very strong?' " Tristan asked the wizard. "I thought you weren't going to use the craft!"

"I couldn't resist." Faegan chuckled. "The driver deserved it after all he put me through. I sensed no endowed blood nearby, so I dropped our cloak momentarily. We had to get me into the carriage somehow, didn't we? Besides, what is the good of being a wizard if you can't have some fun once in a while?" He cackled gleefully.

Shaking his head and turning to look at his sister, Tristan had to laugh again. Traveling with Faegan was certainly different from traveling with the lead wizard!

Looking out the carriage window, Faegan grew more serious. "Pay close attention as we go down the streets," he ordered. "If you notice anything unusual-anything at all-tell me right away. Remember, we still do not know where we are going, or what we will find when we get there."

"Faegan, who are 'the white ones' the driver spoke of?" Shailiha asked. "He seemed to fear them."

Faegan shook his head. "I have been wondering the same thing," he replied.

Tristan looked out the window of the carriage. There were few people on the streets for this time of the day, he mused. Perhaps that was due to the fact that they were still on the outskirts of the city.

At first that seemed to be the answer: As they continued farther into town, he began to see the usual smattering of elderly and middle-aged people going about their business. There were children, too, and the usual groupings of teenagers. But then he began to notice something else, and his blood ran cold.

The city seemed to be completely devoid of people his own age.

The longer he looked, the surer he became. He saw no one who looked to be between the years of twenty to forty Seasons of New Life.

He told himself he was imagining things, that as they continued on, he'd certainly start to see more people of all ages. But he didn't.

Then he noticed something else. Most of the people he saw seemed weary and downtrodden. Some were even sobbing. It was as if some great pall had descended over the town.

He looked over at Faegan. "Do you see it?" he asked quietly. "Or am I dreaming?"

Faegan looked somber. "This is no dream," he replied. "Something dark has come over this place, and we must find out what it is."

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.

Tristan's heart pounded in his chest, and his right hand tightened around the hilt of his dreggan. He heard the shopkeeper scream, followed by the sound of running and the slamming of a door. The prince knew better than to turn and watch the man run away.

He sized up the situation, and his heart fell.

He had never before faced five at once, he thought nervously.

Faegan wheeled his chair slowly toward the counter. Shailiha walked behind Tristan and over toward the far wall.

"What do you want?" Tristan barked. "Go away and leave us in peace!"

Two of the monsters walked closer. "We want you," one of them said as he approached. "You and the woman. We do not require the old man in the chair." The monster smiled, showing dark, pointed teeth.

"I don't think so," Tristan growled. He raised the tip of his sword a fraction.

In a blindingly fast motion, the other creature drew his sword. It was the quickest use of a blade Tristan had ever seen. Had his dreggan not already been drawn, he would surely have died on the spot.

The two gleaming blades clanged together with a force so powerful they sent sparks flying. As was his habit, Tristan quickly backed off, trying to gain some maneuvering room. But suddenly he stopped, realizing that he did not want to bring his attacker any closer to Shailiha than he must. He began hacking viciously at his foe. But the monster was as skilled as he was, and he could find no opening. Then at last, he saw the chance he had hoped for.

Teeth bared, his opponent suddenly screamed and rushed forward, his short sword raised high over his head. His intention was clear: to strike straight downward, cleaving Tristan's skull.

Just as the thing reached the zenith of his swing, Tristan rushed dangerously in and reached up, grabbing his attacker's sword wrist. And during the split second in which he held the monster's blade in place, he shoved the point of the dreggan to the thing's throat, angling it up.

He pressed the hidden button in the dreggan's hilt, and the blade shot forward the extra foot, entering just beneath the point of the thing's jaw and exiting the top of the head. The monster died immediately. Pressing the button again, Tristan retracted the blade and pushed the body off him.

Enraged, the second of them drew his sword as surely as had the first and with a scream, he rushed at the prince. But this time Tristan had the distance he needed.

Without hesitation he tossed the heavy dreggan from his right hand over into his left. Reaching back, he gripped the handle of his first throwing knife. With a whirl of his arm, the blade twirled unerringly toward its target and buried itself in the center of the thing's forehead with a sickening thud, stopping him in midstride. Stunned, the attacker simply stood as a trail of bright red blood snaked its sure, silent way down over his damaged skullcap and onto his white face. As if trapped in some impossible dream, the creature ran his fingers through it, then blankly examined it before staring back up at the prince. His sword slipped from his fingers and clanged noisily to the floor.

The white eyes closed, and he fell over onto his back, dead.

Chest heaving, Tristan glared at the remaining three. He tossed the dreggan back into his right hand, and his fingers tightened around the hilt.

He didn't have to wait very long.

Suddenly the huge oak chandelier came crashing down in a cacophony of noise, glass, and lamp oil. It smashed directly onto the heads of the three would-be attackers. All three collapsed, as glass shattered and oil spilled as the long rope pooled atop the mess. Blood mixed strangely with the oil and ran across the floor and into the cracks between the floorboards.

Tristan hesitated in shock for an instant, then rushed in and ran each body through. Two were already dead, and the third could not have been far from it-his neck lay at an odd angle, clearly broken, and he was unable to breathe. Tristan's blade was a blessing.

Once done, Tristan turned, and his eyes went wide.

Shailiha had untied the rope holding up the chandelier.

Letting out a great sigh of relief, Tristan uncoiled. Shailiha, arms akimbo, stared intently at the beings she had just killed.

This was the first time she had ever taken a life, Tristan realized as he went to her.

The moment he put his arms around her, she dropped her defiant stance.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently as he looked into her eyes.

"Yes." Her voice was strong and calm. She looked past Tristan's shoulder at the bodies lying beneath the chandelier. Faegan had wheeled his chair over to the tangled mess to examine the creatures.

"And just what were you prepared to do while all of this was going on?" Tristan growled at the wizard, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"After you killed the first two, even I doubted you could have handled the next three all at once," Faegan said with a smile. "I was of course prepared to use the craft to help you. But then I saw the princess had other plans."

"What in the name of the Afterlife are these things?" Tristan asked. Walking over, he reached down and wiped the blade of his dreggan clean with one of the victim's black leather skirts. Satisfied, he slid the sword back into its scabbard. Then he retrieved his throwing knife and repeated the process with it.

Shailiha walked up behind him and took his hand. "I have never seen anything like them," she said quietly.

"Do you remember your question to me about the demonslavers?" Faegan asked, his eyes alight with curiosity. "Well, I think you have just found your answer."

"But where do they come from, and why did they want us?" asked Shailiha.

"They are without question some product of the Vagaries," Faegan answered seriously. "But as to how they were produced or who they may have originally been, I cannot say. They may be mutated wizards, as are the blood stalkers. Or perhaps they are something else entirely. Only time will tell. These beings may have been hunting under Krassus' orders. He did, after all, literally dare us to come here to see what was taking place." He paused, rubbing his chin. "I fear, though, that we may have only scratched the surface of our troubles."

"What do we do now?" Shailiha asked.

"First," Faegan answered, "Tristan needs to drag the bodies out back and hide them behind the shop. We have been fortunate, but I believe we have yet to see whatever it is Krassus taunted us about. We must still make our way to the docks-the roughest part of all Farpoint.

"We're within walking distance. Tristan, we leave as soon as you have finished."