The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Twenty

"S uch a beautiful boy you are," cooed the aging woman in the ragged red dress. As if in defiance of her advancing years, there was a suggestive slit running a bit too high up one side of her frock, and her cheeks were overly pink with rouge. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice was old and cracked, much like the lines in her skin. She smelled faintly of cheap perfume and body odor. Running a gnarled hand over the boy's curly red hair, she bent forward slightly, so as to examine him better. He felt her coarse fingers grip his chin, then turn his face first one way, then the other.

"Would you like to come and work for me?" she asked coyly. "You look like you could do with a hot meal, and it is warm and dry where I live. Not cold and wet, like here."

She dragged her long, painted nails gently down one of his grimy cheeks, leaving odd-looking, contrasting rows of what had once been healthier, cleaner skin. He cringed. "You do trust me, don't you, dearie?" she asked sweetly.

Her face only inches from his own, she widened her mouth and kissed him lightly on the lips. With the kiss came the smell of garlic, wine, and half-digested fish.

His back hard against the brick wall, Marcus cringed. His foray to steal some food from this still largely unknown city had inadvertently led him to one of its darkest and most crime-ridden niches. Bargainer's Square, he had heard someone call it.

Night was falling, and the light cast from the oil streetlamps had begun to spread silent, shadowy fingers across the sidewalks and streets, morphing the silhouettes of passersby into twisted, misshapen monsters. Halfway into this human wasteland he had realized his mistake and tried to turn and leave. But by then the aging harlot had cornered him in the alley, and it had been too late.

Having just turned twelve Seasons of New Life, he was streetwise enough to understand what it was the old whore was trying to entice him into. He had heard stories about purveyors like her. She was one of those who sold young people to older ones, and every fiber of his being told him he wanted no part of it. He had to get free of her quickly, before any of her friends might appear and help her abduct him outright.

Because if that happened, 'Becca would be alone. And 'Becca needed him.

But just as he thought he might be able to give the old woman a sharp push and run around her, a shadow loomed.

Marcus raised his face to see a man-a large, dirty man-come up behind the woman. He had a thick beard and long, tangled hair. He wore a dark cloak around his shoulders, and huge, knobby boots. From where Marcus stood, the man's hands seemed the size of small hams.

"What'cha got here, Allison?" he asked in a heavy, gravelly tone. The woman just smiled.

The man studied Marcus. "A good one," he said approvingly. "Nice and fresh. With him in the stable, we can sit back and make a pretty pile of kisa, that's for sure." A yellow, broken smile spread across his bearded face. "And he's never been touched, I'd wager. I wouldn't mind breaking him in myself! But I won't, for his first time should bring a tidy sum. Might even be able to get an auction going, and get the losers to pay to watch his debut. Just like we did with that little blond girl we took from her screaming nanny on Highbridge Street last season. Now that was a night to remember, eh?"

With surprising speed the bear-man turned his great bulk and took a quick look around. There was no one near-no one, at least, who would be willing to help. He looked confidently down into Marcus' frightened green eyes.

"So are you going to come with us peaceable-like, or do I have to rough you up? Trust me, you little bastard-if you resist, you won't fare the better for it. And we don't want any bruises on that pretty face, now, do we?"

Marcus glanced back at the woman. She was smiling.

As the bear-man stood there staring greedily at him, Marcus realized that if he didn't act now, he would lose his only chance. Casually sliding his hand into his right pocket, he grasped his spring-loaded knife and ran his thumb over the button on its handle. He had never used his knife on a person before, and he knew he was about to do something awful-but it was unavoidable, if he wanted to stay alive and return to 'Becca.

He forced himself to smile.

"I am not so inexperienced as you think," he said slyly, while fingering the comforting coolness of the knife handle. "I've lived my entire life on the streets, and I know what it takes to get along. In fact, I like it. But I'm tired of foraging for myself, and I do need someone to look after me." Sick inside, he smiled again. "Before I go with you, would you like to see what I can do?"

The old harlot's face lit up. "Of course," she purred. Then she tilted her head back toward bear-man. "Why don't you prove your talents on him first? I'll watch."

Marcus' mind raced. This was exactly what he had been hoping for, but there would be only once chance-one razor-slim door of opportunity. If he failed, his failure would last forever. And then there would be no one left to take care of 'Becca.

He took a few steps forward, then went to his knees. Holding out his left hand, he crooked a finger suggestively at the man standing before him.

With an eager grunt, the huge man stepped nearer. The dark cloak parted. Large, meaty hands unbuttoned the front of his breeches. His face, looming over Marcus, was split in a wide grin.

Trying to control his revulsion, Marcus grinned back in kind and moved closer yet. Inside his pocket, his right hand closed carefully around the knife hilt. With his left hand, Marcus reached out toward the man's groin. The leering brute groaned and closed his eyes.

Better yet, Marcus thought. The knife felt cold and hard, just like his heart. With one swift movement, he slipped it from his pocket and pressed the button on the hilt.

Click.

At the sound, the man's eyes popped open and he recoiled, but it was too late. Marcus had grabbed the exposed privates and pulled hard. With a single, relentless slash he cut straight down.

Marcus cringed, feeling the sensation through the blade as it first struck home, ripped its way in, and then finally broke free. The amputated entities in his left hand suddenly felt warm, soft, and sticky, and he dropped them to the ground.

Even before the man could scream, Marcus was back on his feet, turning on the harlot. With a single slash of the knife, he cut the right side of her face from ear to chin. Then he whirled and ran, leaving behind the earsplitting, inhuman screaming of his victims.

Marcus ran from the alley and down the long, dark streets, until he thought his lungs would burst. Finally he stopped, his chest heaving, and leaned against the wall of a closed rug shop.

He was on one of the more widely used boulevards. Numbly, he wiped the knife off, folded it, and returned it to his pocket. Then he looked cautiously around the corner of the shop. Not far from him, a dark alley loomed. As he walked toward it on unsteady legs, he suddenly felt queasy. The moment he entered the alley, he fell to his knees and vomited, retching over and over until he thought it might never stop.

And then, finally, he curled up on the ground in a little ball, thought of 'Becca, and cried silently, shoulders shaking, until at last sleep came.

R ebecca of the House of Stinton was shivering. The fire in the abandoned one-room shed had gone out hours ago, and even the embers had long since faded away. She couldn't light another, for she had no more wood. Besides, Marcus had told her never to do so on her own, no matter what. And Marcus always knew best.

And so she remained hungry and cold in the little dilapidated shack while she waited for his return. Watching the shadows from the single oil lamp creep silently across the clapboard walls, she wondered what would happen when their dark, twisting fingers finally reached her. The cold hearth smelled acridly of spent wood, soot, and charcoal, and her hands were shaking. Curling up on the single cot, she felt terribly alone, and began to cry.

She was very frightened. Marcus had never been gone this long before. Her stomach growled as she pulled the single thin sheet closer around her shoulders. She had not eaten since the previous morning, and even that had been meager. Almost past the point of caring, she reached down to touch her belly. As she did it growled again. Then she suddenly saw the glow, and she froze with terror.

The strange, blue light beneath her cot had returned. All the other times this had happened Marcus had been with her. But he wasn't here now, and the thought of being left alone with it horrified her. Pulling her head under the dirty sheet, she cowered, hoping the strange light would simply go away. But the light didn't stop-it just kept getting brighter.

The glow continued to strengthen. She thought she should look under the cot, but at first couldn't summon the courage. Finally forcing herself to get up, she went to the ground on her knees before the light. Despite her fear, she knew exactly where the strange light was coming from.

The thing she and Marcus had stolen was glowing again. Dozens of pinprick-sized rays of azure light streaked up through the soft dirt where it was buried, hauntingly illuminating the underside of the cot and the walls and roof of the shed with their shimmering, ethereal glow.

Ever since she and her brother had found the object in the midst of the rubble, she had begged him to leave it behind. Having it always with them made her so nervous. But Marcus had remained adamant about keeping it, telling her that he thought it had to do with magic. It might be valuable, he'd said. And so they had kept it, and secretly brought it to the only place they knew where such a thing might be coveted.

She just wanted the rays of light to stop. She began clawing at the earth, trying to gather up more dirt in the hope of covering up the frightening, invasive light. But the more she tried, the more the glow just kept coming, seeping up through the ground like a silent, neverending ghost. Frustrated and frightened, she began banging her fists on the ground as the tears ran down her cheeks. Finally she gave up and fell to the dirt beside the cot.

It was just then that she heard the rusty hinges on the door creak, and she turned around. Sitting up and wiping her dirty, tear-streaked face with one hand, Rebecca looked up hopefully.

Marcus stood there with a bag in his hand. He looked like he had just been through a war. He appeared distraught and tired, and parts of his clothes were splattered with what looked like dried blood. Closing the door quietly, he walked into the room and placed the bag on the table.

Getting up on her good foot, she limped to him and held him tightly. They stood like that for some time, saying nothing. The azure rays of light mixed oddly with the yellow flickering of the solitary table lamp.

Finally he let her go and looked meaningfully over to the cot. "How long has it been this time?" he asked tiredly.

"Not long," she answered. "It started just before you came in. I was terribly afraid… I'm so glad you're back."

Studying him more closely, she saw that his hands were bloody. "What happened?" she asked nervously. "Are you hurt?"

"I had some trouble, but I'm all right," he answered as casually as he could manage.

He took a moment to look at her. At seven Seasons of New Life, 'Becca was tall for her age, with a bright smile, long dark hair, and deep brown eyes. But she had been born with a clubfoot-something that she had always managed to shoulder with grace and dignity, despite her awkward, halting gait. She had a lot of strength, and he loved her for it.

It had always been her dream that their parents might one day save enough kisa to make the pilgrimage to Tammerland and seek help for her at the royal palace. Once there they would gladly have waited for as long as it might take to gain an audience with the king and his wizards in the royal chamber of supplication. Then, if she was lucky, the king might order one of his wizards-perhaps even the lead wizard himself-to heal her. But the money for the trip had never come. Now the king was dead, and it was widely rumored that all the wizards of the Directorate had been slain, along with the entire Royal Guard.

As Marcus looked down at 'Becca's tattered plaid dress, grimy face, and clubfoot, his heart ached. Their parents were dead; all they had was each other. He did not enjoy stealing, but they had no money, and the way to Tammerland had been hard. That was why he was so determined to hold on to the amazing thing they had found. If there was any place in Eutracia where it might have value, he reasoned, it would be where the wizards had once lived, and where the craft was said to flourish. Even if he found no buyers for the object itself, he could at least sell off the gold.

They had actually found two of the things, but had been forced to leave one behind. 'Becca had not been strong enough to carry off the other by herself, and he had not possessed the stamina to handle both at the same time. They had returned later to try to take the twin, but by then it was already gone.

At first he had stolen it just for the gold. But when it had started glowing, he had immediately become convinced of its potentially greater value. As for what purpose of the craft it supposedly served, he had absolutely no idea. But if he could find someone who would pay enough for it, he might be able to secure a healer to help with 'Becca's foot. And perhaps even have enough left over to help them start a new life here, in the capital.

But they were strangers in Tammerland, and in the absence of the royal guard, the city had become a very dangerous place. That lesson had been abundantly proven today, when he had wandered into the wrong part of town. Being no fool, he understood all too well that he needed to be supremely careful, for what they had buried beneath the cot could just as easily get them killed as set them free.

"Is there food in the bag?" Rebecca suddenly asked, taking him away from his thoughts.

"Yes," he answered. "This time I was able to get enough to last us for two days. Chicken stolen from a store, and bread taken from a windowsill."

"Can we eat now?" she asked eagerly. "I'm so hungry, Marcus!"

He smiled. "You go ahead. I have something to do first. Just be sure you leave me some! I know what a piglet you can be!" Then his eyes turned again to the blue light beneath the cot.

Rebecca's face fell. He was going to dig it up again. He did so every time it glowed, to make sure nothing had happened to it. And every time he did-which seemed to be happening more and more frequently-it made her nervous. But her hunger was greater than her anxiety, and the lure of the bag on the table was too great, so she turned her back on her brother and went to eat.

Marcus knelt and peered under the cot at the narrow rays of light shooting up and out of the loose dirt. This was the seventh time it had glowed since he had stolen it, and each time its illumination had increased in strength. That was a large part of why he had decided to bury it, but clearly that was no longer working.

Even before uncovering it, he could tell that this time would be the brightest yet. Narrowing his eyes against the azure light, he began slowly moving the dirt aside. Soon their treasure was exposed, filling the room with its brilliance.

He did not touch it, but instead examined the scroll as it lay there. About a meter long and half a meter wide, it was secured in the middle with a gold band. The rod running through it was gold as well, as were each of the fluted end knobs. The writing on the parchment was in a beautiful script that looked utterly unfamiliar to him, which added to the mystery. The scroll appeared to be unharmed. He sat back on his heels, thinking.

One thing was certain. He needed to find a buyer soon, for the glow was becoming too difficult to hide. He had no money to purchase any kind of container for it, and he'd buried it as deep as possible before hitting bedrock beneath the shack. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he turned it into kisa, the better.

Quickly, he covered the scroll back up. As he did the glow began to extinguish itself of its own accord, just as it always did. He did not know why the glow came and went, but was glad to see it die for the time being. When it was completely covered, he stood and walked to the table.

Her mouth and fingers covered with chicken grease, 'Becca beamed up at him and handed him a piece of bread.

S tanding on the mizzen deck of the Sojourner, behind Grizelda, Krassus was greatly encouraged by what he was seeing. It was a clear, starry night; and the three moons were out, bathing the ship and the sea in their familiar, rose-colored light. Though there was little wind, the Sojourner continued to make good time as she plowed her way east through the restless waves. The lights of the other two ships running alongside them twinkled in the night. Thinking of the Chosen One pulling on an oar, Krassus smiled.

Grizelda selected some herbs from her bag and tossed them into the gazing flame. Hissing, the fire shot higher, and the viewing window in its center grew just a bit clearer. In his desperation to find the other scroll, Krassus had been forcing her to perform the ritual often, and by now both Grizelda's stores of herbs and her own energy were running very low. But finally this time she had been more successful.

The view was cloudy, but for the first time she actually had something to look at. Holding up a small piece of vellum taken from the Scroll of the Vagaries, she tried to make the scene unfolding before her clearer.

The Scroll of the Vigors came into view. It was glowing with azure light, and a pair of hands were starting to cover it over with dirt. Then the hands pulled away, and all that remained in the viewing window was a dirt floor that could have been anywhere. She dropped her arms to her sides, and the flame lowered accordingly.

"We have done it, my lord," she said with a smile. The sea wind snatched at her long, gray hair, and she hooked a portion of it behind one ear.

"I now know why we have had such trouble trying to view the scroll," she went on. "Whoever took it is hiding it, burying it in the dirt. Only when it is exposed may we view it-which may not be often. Whoever is in possession of the scroll knows nothing of the craft-of that much I am certain. If it were with the wizards of the Redoubt, they would be busy trying to decipher its secrets, rather than burying it."

For a moment she looked perturbed, but then she smiled again. "When the herbs and oils you promised me arrive at the Citadel, I will be able to do much better-even from that far away."

Krassus looked down at her. "You may retire now," he said simply. With a short bow, Grizelda picked up her bag and started for her cabin.

Turning, the wizard in the gray-and-blue robe walked to the gunwale and leaned his forearms on it as he looked out to the ever-shifting sea. The wind had picked up a bit more, and the waves were frothy and whitecapped.

Soon, he assured himself. Soon he would have the Scroll of the Vigors, and there would be nothing the wizards in the Redoubt could do to stop him. And once he had Wulfgar, the world would see wonders of the craft that had not been witnessed for eons.