The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Nine

B y the time Tristan had hidden the dead demonslavers in the alley behind the apothecary shop and the three travelers were ready to go on, the streets seemed even more deserted. The few people who did venture out glared and pointed at the prince and his sister, as if the two of them had no right to be any part of the city's population.

Faegan searched out a clothing shop and, leaving Tristan and Shailiha waiting in the shadows of a nearby alley, went in alone to purchase two hooded robes to cover the bodies and heads of the Chosen Ones. Not perfect disguises, but the best he could do without the aid of the craft. Tristan worried that the robe covered his weapons, making it nearly impossible for him to grasp them quickly, but he kept his concerns to himself. There seemed little other choice.

They then proceeded to a stable, where Faegan was forced to pay the suspicious stablemaster handsomely for three run-down horses, a dilapidated cart, and extra tack. Tristan harnessed one of the mounts to the cart and hoisted Faegan atop its seat, and at last the three of them made their way to the harbor area of Farpoint.

Although the sun was beginning to set, the docks were alive with people. A large crowd had gathered here, and it was clear they were eagerly waiting for something to happen. The air was full of the smells of salty sea air and freshly caught fish.

Tristan slid off the swaybacked roan mare, and as Shailiha dismounted her aged gelding, he went around to the back of the cart and got out Faegan's chair. Shailiha held the chair while Tristan lifted Faegan from the buckboard seat and got him settled.

Then he turned to study the inn where Faegan had directed them to stop. Many of its shutters were broken and peeling from the constant exposure to the strong, salty winds. Some of the windows were cracked, and the steps to the lobby were in disrepair. The place had clearly seen better days.

"Why are we stopping here?" Shailiha asked. She was eager to get to the oceanfront. "The carriage driver said we needed to get to the docks. Can't we just quietly wend our way through the crowd?"

"No," Faegan answered adamantly as he looked around. "This inn is perfect for what I have in mind-the kind of place where few questions will be asked. Besides, Krassus may be near, not to mention more of the demonslavers. Tristan, I want you to go around back and tell me what you find. In particular, I want to know whether there is any way up to the roof, and a secure place where we might tie the horses."

Tristan nodded. After a smile to his sister, he was gone.

The alley behind the inn was inconspicuous enough, with the usual iron rings embedded in the building's rear wall to secure bridle reins. Several mounts were already tied there, telling the prince that the shopworn inn had at least a few customers. An iron fire ladder reached from the ground all the way to the roof, with platforms at each of the inn's four levels. Backing farther into the shadows, Tristan observed the inn quietly, branding the scene into his memory. Finally satisfied, he returned to the street.

"Bridle rings and a ladder," he said quietly to the wizard.

"Does the ladder go all the way to the roof?" Faegan asked.

"Yes."

"And does the roof appear to be flat?"

"From what I could see, yes."

"Good," Faegan answered. Tristan and Shailiha could see mischief coming to the ancient wizard's eyes as his plan continued to form.

"I want you and Shailiha to walk the three horses around back," he said. "Leave your two saddled. Unharness the cart and put it to one side. Take the extra saddle and bridle from the cart and put them on my horse. Tie all the horses to the wall. Then return. Do it quickly."

Tristan and Shailiha carried out the wizard's orders as swiftly as they could, then returned to the front of the inn.

"Is it done?" Faegan asked. Tristan nodded.

"Very well," the wizard said. "Follow me into the inn. Whatever you do, do not lower your hoods. Stay quiet, and follow my lead. Try to act as though you do not exist." He pointed to one of the loose boards of the inn steps. "Tristan, if you would?" he asked.

Understanding, the prince reached down to tear the wide, loose board away from its few remaining nails, then inclined it against the steps of the inn. It made a serviceable ramp. After briefly testing its strength, he wheeled Faegan's chair up and through the door into the lobby, Shailiha right behind.

Inside, the inn was dingy, dark, and unappealing. The large front room held several chairs, tables, and a long bar with a mirror behind it. Sullen-looking men, some obviously fishermen, sat hunched over the tables and bar, drinking quietly. Several scantily dressed women walked among the tables, flirting with the men. For hire, no doubt, Tristan thought with a slight shake of his head.

The thin, greasy-looking man Tristan took to be the innkeeper sat at a small desk in one corner, making notes in a bound ledger. A tankard sat before him. He did not look up. Indeed, no one took any great notice of the newcomers at all, save for a few furtive, curious glances at Faegan's chair. With a smile, the wizard calmly wheeled himself toward the proprietor.

"Three rooms, please," Faegan said politely.

The man looked up from his arithmetic. His eyes were dark and distrustful.

"The only rooms I have left are on the top floor," he said rudely, "but taking you up and down the stairs isn't included in the rent."

Some of the customers laughed aloud.

Faegan graciously ignored the insult. "Thank you for your worry, but my bodyguard will take care of that. He's quite used to it, in fact. Now then, how much?"

"How many nights?" the innkeeper asked. He took a sloppy gulp of stale-smelling ale, then set the tankard back down on the desk. Letting go a wet belch, he wiped his mouth with a stained, gartered shirtsleeve.

"Three rooms, one night each," Faegan answered.

"Twelve kisa," the man replied. "Fourth floor. The washing facilities are at the end of the hall. Take it or leave it."

Twelve kisa was a steep price for such a place, Tristan thought, but clearly Faegan thought it better not to bargain. Reaching into his robes, the wizard took out the necessary kisa and dropped them on the desk. After counting them, the innkeeper produced three keys, which he handed over to the wizard. Saying nothing more, Faegan turned his chair to the stairs, Tristan and Shailiha following behind.

At the foot of the steps, Tristan leaned in, putting his lips to the wizard's ear. "Are you joking?" he growled quietly. "Four flights of stairs?"

"No." Faegan smiled. "Actually, I'm hoping there will be five." Looking over to Shailiha, he gave her a wink. She smiled back quizzically.

"What do you mean five?" Tristan argued.

"We have no friends here, and this is no time for a debate," Faegan answered urgently. "Let's go."

Sighing, Tristan began pulling the wizard's chair backward up the steps. After what seemed an eternity, they finally reached the fourth floor. Tristan looked around cautiously. Nothing seemed amiss.

"What are our room numbers?" Shailiha asked Faegan as Tristan leaned over, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

"We won't be using the rooms." Faegan smiled and looked up at the ceiling. "That was just for show."

Before either of the Chosen Ones could ask the obvious question, the wizard found what he was looking for. In the middle of the ceiling was a wooden framework, from which hung a rope ending in a pull handle.

Faegan wheeled himself to the rope and gave it a tug. Stairs to the roof slowly descended on a pivot, revealing the first stars of the evening twinkling through the opening. Faegan grinned at the prince.

"As I told you, there are five," he said impishly. "But again you must pull me up without my using the craft. There might still be people about."

Tristan nodded. With a determined grip he pushed the chair to the stairs, and, with some help from Shailiha below, managed to pull it up and onto the roof. Shailiha scrambled up behind them, then pulled the duplicate rope on the other side, wisely lifting the pivoting stairway back into place.

The gray slate roof was large and flat. The wind had risen, and the smell of the sea came to them again. From here the prince could see much of the city, the flickering streetlamps casting macabre, dancing shadows along the sides of the buildings and down the cobblestoned thoroughfares.

"Quickly, Tristan," Faegan whispered. "Lift me from my chair and put me down by the east edge of the roof. Then both of you come and lie next to me, one on either side."

Tristan did as the wizard ordered, and Faegan lay on his stomach, peering over the edge toward the docks. Tristan and Shailiha lay down beside him.

Down on the stone piers that formed the breakwater to the sea, hundreds of people were milling anxiously about.Three large ships, their sails furled, lay tied up in docking berths, their white, salty waterlines riding well above the waves. Even Tristan's inexperienced eyes could guess that meant the ships were empty of cargo.

A raised wooden platform had been placed in a cleared area between the crowd and the water's edge. A short series of steps ran down from one of its sides to the ground. Alongside the platform a long, crude, rectangular table sat upon the pier. Seated behind it were at least a dozen men in dark robes. Consuls' robes, the prince thought. On the table before each man lay several objects, but Tristan could not identify them from this distance. The men behind the table sat patiently, as if waiting for something.

Before the table stood two large, black kettles with strange, curved iron handles. An orange-red glow emanated from each of their circular tops. Tristan assumed that the strange auras were being produced by glowing, red-hot coals deep within them. Black smoke rose lazily from the kettles' glowing embers, vanishing into the growing darkness of the evening sky.

Near the kettles, two pillories had been constructed. The orange glow from the black kettles mixed with the light from the dozens of oil lamps to cast strangely flickering shadows across the hulls of the silently waiting ships and the stark, empty pillories.

Then Tristan saw the white-skinned demonslavers lining the inner edges of the clearing, keeping the burgeoning crowd from approaching the raised platform by the constant threat of their nine-tails and tridents. Then Krassus came into view. The people in the crowd began to shout invectives and wave their arms in anger. Krassus didn't seem to care.

Slowly he walked to the platform in his blue-and-gray robe. An elderly woman with frizzled gray hair and dressed in a shopworn black robe followed along behind him. As they approached, the demonslavers kept the crowd back. Without fanfare Krassus and his unknown companion walked to the side of the platform and up the steps. They remained silent.

Tristan looked over at Faegan. "Is that woman the partial adept Krassus talked about that day in the palace?" he asked urgently. "Do you know her?"

"From here, I can't tell who she might be," Faegan whispered back, not shifting his eyes from the scene. "But it is obvious she has importance for him."

Tristan expected Krassus to speak. But he didn't. He simply stood there, the woman by his side, as if he, too, waited for something.

Suddenly Tristan heard the sound of shod hooves rattling harshly against the same cobblestoned street he, Faegan, and Shailiha had just come down. Turning, he crawled on his stomach across the slate roof to its northern side and looked carefully over.

At least a dozen carriages-of-four were approaching, their teams trotting down the street and toward the docks. But as they neared, Tristan could see that the vehicles were really not carriages at all. They were more like bizarre, wooden-slatted cages on wheels, and they were being driven by yet more of the demonslavers. Finally he could see them better, and his heart skipped a beat.

They were full of people.

Each of the rough-hewn cages contained perhaps twenty or more people, men and women alike. They sat crammed upon what looked like piles of soiled straw, and he could make out black iron manacles here and there.

The cages continued rattling up the street toward the docks. Tristan crawled back across the roof to lie beside Faegan. Below, the demonslavers on the pier barked out orders, and the crowd reluctantly parted to allow the vehicles to pass.

The cages came to a stop before the long table. A group of demonslavers promptly went to one corner of the clearing, and from a pile lying there each of them took up a device that seemed to be a long iron rod with a ring at one end. Another group of demonslavers began unlocking and opening the cage doors.

One by one the rod-wielding demonslavers approached the open cages. With a quick twist of the rod handles, the rings at their ends clanged open. The open rings were shoved into the cages and forced up against the throats of the captives. With another twist, the rings closed viciously around the prisoners' necks. One by one, the men and women were dragged out, kicking and screaming.

With the captives finally free of their cages, Tristan could see them much better. It was then that he began to get an inkling of why he and his sister had been regarded so strangely all day.

All the slaves were about the same age as he and Shailiha!

Tristan looked back to Krassus. The wizard had yet to speak, but his dark eyes missed nothing as the prisoners were hauled from their cages and forced to move toward the table where the robed men sat waiting.

"Can you tell what's happening?" he asked Faegan quietly. All he could make out was that the robed men were busy doing something that involved the occasional azure glow of the craft, and were making notations in some kind of large books.

"I can see part of it," the wizard responded softly. "And yes, I believe I have a good idea of what is going on. But let us not speak of it now."

There was a distinct sadness in the old man's tone. Shailiha looked to her brother and placed an index finger across her lips. Tristan nodded back.

One by one the prisoners were hauled away from the table by their necks and locked into one of the two pillories. Two demonslavers pulled the rods from the black kettles; the ends of the rods came out glowing bright red. Branding irons.

Before each of the slavers pressed his hot iron to skin, he looked up to Krassus, waiting for a sign. And each time, before giving his blessing, the wizard in the two-colored robe would look down for an indication from the men at the tables. Then he would indicate with either his right hand or his left.

As the demonslavers pressed the heated irons into the left shoulders of the prisoners, screams resounded through the night. Many if not most of them fainted away in the stocks, and were dragged by their necks to separate areas on the pier. When one prisoner was finished, another immediately took his or her place. As the excruciating process continued, Tristan saw that one group of slaves was becoming noticeably larger than the other.

Faegan lowered his head. Shailiha closed her eyes, brushing tears from her face. Only Tristan's eyes remained locked on the gruesome scene, his hands balled up into fists and his jaw clenched with the frustration of not being able to take action. Finally he, too, could take no more, and he slowly closed his eyes against the spectacle.

Those prisoners were his people, the prince realized in shame and horror, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help them. Was that what Krassus' taunts had meant? What in the name of the Afterlife was it all about?

At last, blessedly, the branding stopped, all of the prisoners having been marked with a rod from one kettle or the other. The moaning and crying of the victims was softer now.

Those who had fainted were revived by having cold seawater splashed in their faces. Then the two groups were marched down the piers to the waiting frigates and forced up the gangways. Full of despair, Tristan lowered his head.

Suddenly a long, silent, moonlit shadow flowed darkly across the roof between him and his sister. Then came another, and yet another. Tristan tugged silently on the sleeve of the wizard's robe, slid the dreggan from its scabbard, and smoothly rolled over onto his back. He was on his feet in a flash, his dreggan in a strong, two-handed grip.

Three demonslavers stood near the ladder at the other side of the roof, the rose-colored moonlight glinting off their alabaster skin. Each of them held a short sword. Two of them smiled.

Just then Shailiha turned to see why Tristan had risen, and the air left her lungs in a rush. Turning over, Faegan also looked. But before anything could be done, all three slavers charged at once.

Tristan ran across the roof, his dreggan slashing as he went. The first of the slavers he met died quickly, its head cleanly severed from its body.

But the next two would not be so easy. They hacked savagely at Tristan, who fended them off as best he could, his sword almost a blur. But inexorably they came on, forcing him to keep backing up toward the wizard and the princess, as the three blades clanged coldly, harshly against one another.

Shailiha looked aghast at Faegan, silently beseeching him to intervene with the craft, no matter the consequences.

The demonslavers were closing on Tristan, and it was plain to see that the prince was tiring. Faegan relaxed his mind and stopped cloaking their endowed blood.

Just then Tristan lost his footing on the slick roof and fell hard on his back. Sensing victory, the two monsters rushed in, swords held high. Faegan raised both his arms.

Twin azure bolts tore across the roof directly over Tristan. He could feel the searing heat, see the blinding azure light, and sense the rush of the wind as the force of them ripped at his hair and clothing and almost tore the dreggan from his hands. Turning his head and gritting his teeth, he held on to the sword with all his might.

Shailiha glanced down at Krassus and saw him suddenly stiffen. With a smile, he motioned to a group of about twenty demonslavers, then pointed to the roof of the inn.

Faegan's bolts struck each of the slavers squarely in the chest. Tristan, his eyes still closed, heard their bodies being ripped apart; he felt and smelled the sickening offal, blood, and sinew splattering down on him. In a matter of seconds, it was over.

He opened his eyes and saw one of the monsters' short, shiny swords lying quietly beside him in the moonlight.

But where was the other?

Wildly turning his head to the sky, he saw the shiny, silver point of the second sword. Launched skyward by the explosions of the wizard's bolts, it was free-falling straight down at him.

He started to roll to one side, realizing even as he moved that he was too late.

Suddenly an azure hand grasped the sword only inches from his throat. Wasting no time, Tristan rolled away, coming to his hands and knees in the slick, bloody mess. As the glow of the craft disappeared, he watched the sword fall harmlessly to the roof with a clang. He picked it up with his free hand and ran to Shailiha and Faegan.

The wizard was already seated in his chair, but the look on his face was far from reassuring. Tristan shoved the demonslaver's sword into Shailiha's hands. "Do you remember your fencing lessons?" he shouted urgently.

Smiling, she nodded.

"There is no time for talk!" Faegan growled, pointing toward the opposite side of the roof. "By now Krassus will surely know we are here! Make for the horses!"

Tristan, sword still in hand, looked briefly into his sister's eyes. Then they both sprinted across the slippery, blood-soaked roof. Faegan levitated his chair and soared ahead of them.

The wizard reached the edge first and looked down. Other than the tied horses and the abandoned cart, he saw nothing, but he knew that the relative peace of the alleyway wouldn't last much longer. He swung the chair back near the prince and his sister.

"Both of you-onto my chair, now!" he ordered.

Somewhat bewildered, the two of them did as they were told. Shailiha sat on the wizard's lap; Tristan clung to one of the chair arms. Then Faegan steered his chair over the side of the roof.

On the way down Tristan saw about twenty demonslavers working their way through the crowd and up the side street, viciously using their whips, swords, and tridents to clear a path.

Faegan hurried his chair downward as fast as he could safely manage. About one meter above the backs of the horses, he stopped and looked frantically at the prince and his sister.

"Jump!"

Tristan immediately let go, falling the remaining distance to the ground. As he ran to untie their horses, out of the corner of his eye he saw Shailiha drop directly into her saddle, the demonslaver's sword still in one hand. She masterfully whirled her horse around.

Faegan levitated himself from his chair and, with a wave of one hand, let it go. The centuries-old chair fell to the ground, smashing into pieces. Ignoring it, he lowered himself into the saddle atop the third horse. Tristan leapt into his saddle and wheeled his mount around, his back to the wall of the inn, to look down their escape route toward the end of the alley.

The rear door of the inn opened a crack. A gleam of soft, yellow light cut through the darkness of the alleyway, spilling out onto the ground.

It was the greasy innkeeper. Raising a demonslaver sword high in both hands, the point forward, he charged at the prince's back.

Shailiha noticed the sudden light and raised her sword. Spurring her horse forward, she used the momentum to shove her blade directly into the man's throat; it went through his neck and came out the back. She pulled her weapon out hard and swung it.

Tristan wheeled his horse around just in time to see his sister swing her stolen blade in a perfect arc, taking the innkeeper's head cleanly off at the neck. The headless body remained standing for a moment, as if it were still somehow in control of itself. Then what was left of the innkeeper fell forward, into the alleyway in front of Shailiha's horse. Blood poured from the ravaged neck into the thirsty dirt.

Without pause the three of them turned their horses and charged side by side for the end of the alleyway. Tristan held his breath, wondering if they could make it to the street before the passageway filled with demonslavers. But even before their horses could break into a full gallop, the prince had his answer.

The monsters flowed down the street like a river, blocking the way to freedom. There had to be at least one hundred of them. Waving swords and tridents, they shouted and hissed as they formed what seemed to be an impenetrable wall at the entrance to the street.

Tristan turned frantically around in his saddle. He looked behind him, only to be reminded that the way back was a dead end. Charging through the slavers was the only way to freedom, but he knew in his heart that it couldn't be done.

Holding up his hand, Faegan brought his mount to a skidding stop; Tristan and Shailiha followed suit. The alleyway became strangely quiet, as the slavers stopped shouting and began walking purposefully, menacingly toward them. Tristan turned frantically to the wizard.

"Can you kill them?" he asked.

"Some," Faegan answered quickly, his eyes trained upon the monsters as they came. "But there are too many, and no doubt even more are following behind them." Then a knowing look crossed his face, and he turned to the prince and princess. "Killing them is not the answer."

"Then what is?" Shailiha asked urgently.

"Avoiding them. Follow me single file, and don't look back," he ordered. "Whatever happens, don't be surprised at what you see, and just keep on going. When we finally reach the street, whip your horses for all they're worth, and stay with me. Do you understand?" His last sentence wasn't a question. It was an order.

They both nodded.

Whipping his horse with the reins, Faegan charged down the alley, Shailiha behind him, Tristan bringing up the rear.

At first the prince thought he must be seeing things. Glowing a brilliant azure, something took solid form.

It was a bridge.

Barely wide enough to allow a single rider at a time, it arched from the dirt of the alleyway, and climbed over the heads of the slavers, touching down again on the other side. Caught off guard, the demonslavers stood in confused wonder.

At the sight of the glowing bridge, all three horses skidded to a stop and reared in fright. Several precious seconds passed as Faegan fought to bring his mare under control. Only when he got her moving again did Tristan's and Shailiha's mounts settle down and obey their commands to approach the bridge.

Faegan's horse reached it first, his mare's hooves banging down loudly upon the embodiment of the craft as she carried him to its apex and then started down the other side. Next came Shailiha. Following close behind, Tristan's horse approached the glowing ramp.

But upon placing her first, poorly shod hoof onto the glowing bridge, Tristan's mare stumbled, and went down hard on both front knees.

Tristan was launched forward. Her front legs broken, the mare fell over onto her back, screaming wildly. Somehow Tristan managed to keep hold of his dreggan, but the slavers charged him immediately. He staggered drunkenly to one knee, then finally to his feet. Forced to use both hands, he raised his sword weakly, but could only get it as high as his waist.

From where he stood, he could see nothing but slavers coming toward him, their awful faces and the whiteness of their skin strangely highlighted by the glow from the azure bridge.

On the other side, Faegan and Shailiha wheeled their horses around to look. Shailiha screamed and would have spurred her gelding back over the bridge, but Faegan grabbed her reins, forcing her horse around. Some of the slavers near the bridge were already coming their way, and there was no time to lose.

"No!" he shouted. "We have to go! There is nothing we can do for him now! We will return for him, I promise!"

Shailiha cried out as she lost sight of her brother. The glowing bridge dissolved, leaving only the mob of angry slavers as they crowded in around the prince.

Shailiha turned her terrified eyes back to the wizard. Finally she lowered her head and nodded. It was without question the hardest single decision she had ever been forced to make.

Following Faegan's horse, Shailiha thundered down the cobblestoned street just as another wave of the sword-wielding demonslavers rushed in.

Stunned and bewildered, his hands and body covered with blood from the battles on the roof, Tristan tried his best to swing his dreggan at the first of them. But the heavy blade was too much for him, and its momentum took him to his knees.

Then a blinding white light seared through his consciousness, and he collapsed to the dirt.