The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Twenty-one

"G et up! Now, you Talis pigs! Time to get back to work!"

The chorus of harsh voices, shouting the same thing over and over again, rang in his ears. He just wanted them to be quiet, so he could go back to sleep. Didn't they know they were being rude, shouting like that? He would have to remember to speak to the lead wizard about it, after he got up and had his breakfast. Determined to sleep, he started to turn over on his side, but something tugged at him, preventing him from doing so.

Suddenly the searing pain in his back returned, bringing him fully awake. His nostrils were immediately assaulted by the stench of his surroundings.

He opened his eyes to darkness. Then faint light began to push away the shadows, and he saw that demonslavers were moving about, hanging flaming oil lanterns on the columns supporting the deck above. Other demonslavers were starting to unchain their captives from the floor. As the light in the hold increased, Tristan's situation slowly came into focus.

He didn't remember being brought here, or being chained. All he could recall was passing out, just after one of the slavers had poured saltwater on his wounds.

He looked down the length of his body. His hands and feet were still bound together by the same shackles he had worn while rowing. Additional chains lay across his chest and lower legs, securing him to the deck. Raising his head as best he could, he saw row after row of his fellow slaves, all male, also chained down like animals. It seemed their numbers took up every inch of the filthy deck. As they were unchained one by one, they stood awkwardly, blinking their eyes against the light.

The pain in his back was excruciating. His vest had been put back on him, its laces retied in the front. His wounds must have begun to scab over, because they now itched, as well as hurt.

One of the slavers sauntered over to him and looked down with lifeless, opaque eyes. Without warning the monster kicked Tristan in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Pain burned in his side. Then the slaver raised his trident high over Tristan's face. Wondering if he was about to die, Tristan made a last promise to himself not to flinch. He kept it, even as the trident came down at him with unbelievable speed.

The three silver points of the trident buried themselves loudly into the deck, just inches from Tristan's head. Then the slaver let out a laugh.

"If you give us any more trouble, I have permission from Krassus to add to the artwork on your back," he sneered. "And I beg you to try, dear prince. For I would love another such excuse."

Tristan looked defiantly up into the white eyes. As he did, he noticed the ring of keys hanging from the slaver's side. Then he remembered: This was the same one who had whipped him; he was sure of it.

The monster unchained him from the floor. Still shackled hand and foot, Tristan was pulled roughly to his feet and shoved into the line of slaves waiting their turn to climb the stairway to the deck above.

After being chained to his seat, Tristan looked out his oar slit and decided it was early morning. He then turned to watch as the rest of the slaves were chained down. The slaver who had beaten him was using one of his keys to close the massive padlock that secured the single chain running through all of the slaves' shackles. The key that fit it was the largest of them, and lay in the center of the ring normally hooked on his belt. Tristan filed this information away in his head, even though he realized that, given the tight security of the slavers' system, such knowledge would be unlikely to help him.

One by one, the exhausted, weak-kneed men they were replacing were herded to the trapdoor between the rows and forced down the stairway. Several slavers followed them down, to chain them to the floor in the same filthy spots the fresh rowers had just vacated. Then the pacemaster started pounding out the mind-numbing beat, and Tristan and the others began to pull on their oars.

Despite the searing pain, he rowed as best he could. He had no other choice: He wasn't sure he could survive another savage beating from the slaver. As he rowed he felt his wounds rip open, the pain cutting through his back like hot knives.

He looked up to see the slaver who had beaten him staring coldly at him, as if waiting for him to make another mistake. Pulling determinedly at his oar, Tristan drew comfort from the thought of the brain hook hidden in his right boot.

As all of the unfortunates pulled on their oars, the Wayfarer began to plow faster through the Sea of Whispers.

T he demonslaver manning the crow's nest aboard the Sojourner twisted the third cylinder of his spyglass as he tried to confirm what he had seen with his naked eyes. He had no wish to suffer the consequences of making a false report to Krassus. Peering across the sea, he scoured the horizon.

There they were: Three frigates, sailing as a group and making a direct line from the north. They were running quickly before the wind, while Sojourner and her two sister ships were wearing out their rowers to stay on their easterly heading.

He ran his glass over them carefully. They were not part of Krassus' fleet, judging by the way their spars and masts had been lengthened to carry more sail. They were a fast lot-of that there was no doubt. Faster than the Sojourner could be even if she weren't loaded down with slaves. And at their present course they would soon be upon the three slower, heavier slavers. But who were they, and what did they want?

Searching for an identifying flag, he turned his glass to the lead frigate's rigging. Finally he found what he was looking for. It was high atop the mainmast, fluttering back and forth proudly. Turning the cylinder on the spyglass again, he brought it into focus.

At first he thought he must be seeing things. Taking his eye from the glass for a moment, the slaver stared across the ocean and drew a quick breath. He put the device back to his eye. So it was true, after all. The blue-and-gold banner carried both the lion and the broadsword, and every man, woman, and child in Eutracia knew what it represented.

It was the royal battle flag of the House of Galland.

He rang the alarm bell. Almost before it had finished pealing, another slaver had climbed up the rigging to a spot just below him. Pointing out to sea with one arm, the spotter relayed the message. The other slaver climbed back down and ran to find Krassus.

He found him standing on the stern deck by the ship's wheel, looking over some charts. His herbmistress was there with him. The slaver came to attention.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," he said urgently. "But the crow's nest has spied three ships, frigate class, on a direct course to intercept us from the north. Their speed is great. They run the blue-and-gold battle flag of the House of Galland."

Krassus froze. Snatching up his spyglass from the table before him, he turned to look north. There he saw the three ships plowing directly toward them, running before the wind with unusually large sails. He moved the lens up to the enemy ship's rigging and saw the blue-and-gold flag. His mind racing, he slowly lowered the spyglass. They were clearly after him, but who could they be? The wizards of the Redoubt, perhaps? But the Redoubt had no standing navy. Still, who else but the wizards would have the gall to run the royal battle flag?

Then it hit him. These could be vessels of the Minion fleet, under the assumed command of the wizards. But those vessels were rumored anchored off the coast of Parthalon, at a port far to the north of his present position. How could Wigg and Faegan have gotten word to them, supplied the ships, and had them catch up to his present position in so short a time? The logistics simply didn't work. And if it was indeed the Minions, then why were there only three ships?

Still, there they were. And he knew he had to take action quickly, or all might be lost.

Lost in thought, he stared out over the sea. He would have preferred to stand and fight, throwing bolts at the three enemy ships and blowing them out of the water. But he could do that only by letting them come much closer, and thereby losing his precious lead. And if Wigg and Faegan were aboard them, they could presumably throw twice the number of bolts at him as he could at them. Then there was the problem of whether the Minions were aboard the enemy ships. If so, they could board him at any moment simply by flying to him.

No, the distance between the Sojourner and the enemy frigates had to be maintained. The only way to do that was to sacrifice the other two slavers sailing with him, to buy him time. True, one of them could be carrying Wulfgar. But they were transporting countless slaves in many sea crossings; the odds of Wulfgar currently being aboard either of his two sister ships was not great. He would just have to risk it. Besides, for all he knew Wulfgar might well be in custody already. And he could allow nothing to stand in the way of getting the scroll to the Citadel. He turned to the waiting demonslaver.

"Hear me well, for our lives depend on the next few moments," he ordered. "Call for my first mate. And tell him to bring my lantern. He'll know the one. Have every Talis slave, except those currently manning the galley and one equal-sized number to relieve them, brought topside. They are to be immediately killed and thrown overboard to lighten our load. The R'talis captives are not to be touched. And order the slaves to stop rowing-they'll only slow us down. Go now! And be quick about it!"

Immediately, the slaver was gone. Soon the first mate appeared holding a lantern.

"You are familiar with the situation?" Krassus asked abruptly. The slaver nodded.

"Good," Krassus said. Taking the lamp, he closed his eyes. The lamp began to glow with the blue of the craft. He handed it back to his first mate.

"Take this to the stern gunwale and signal our situation to the Wayfarer and the Stalwart. They are to come about and intercept the three frigates while we sail on. They are to stop the enemy at all costs, and kill everyone aboard. Do you understand?"

The first mate nodded.

"Very well," Krassus said. "Go now."

Looking astern, Krassus saw the Wayfarer and the Stalwart following in their wake, saw the alternating beams of azure light shooting toward them from the lantern, giving them their orders. He turned to Grizelda.

"Now we shall see what we shall see," he said quietly.

The herbmistress' face showed concern. "Surely my lord has not forgotten that the Chosen One is still aboard the Wayfarer," she said questioningly. "He could be killed."

Before answering, Krassus turned to see the additional sails being raised, and the first of the Talis slaves coming topside, blinking their eyes in the sunlight. A gang of slavers stood waiting, swords drawn. As the slaves appeared up the stairway one by one, the slavers stepped up behind them quietly, cut their throats, then tossed the bodies over the gunwales and into the sea.

Sharks swarmed, snaking through the increasingly bloody water. Krassus turned his dark eyes back to the three enemy frigates, ignoring the screams of the dying slaves as if they weren't there.

"Of course I haven't forgotten," he said quietly. "If he dies, he dies. In the end it doesn't really matter. As I have already told you, for what I have planned, his blood signature is of no use to me. But if he should be rescued, I have arranged a little surprise for him and his wizards-one that could be very much to our advantage. So you see, there is no need to worry about him."

He watched intently as the Wayfarer and the Stalwart began to alter course, heeling hard to port, to take on the three advancing frigates. Hundreds of demonslavers could be seen on their decks, swords waving in the air.

As the Sojourner's extra sails snapped open she began to pick up speed, distancing herself from the impending calamity.

T ristan pulled hard on his oar while trying both to keep one eye on the commotion coming from the deck above, and to ignore the searing pain in his back. They had been rowing at battle speed for the last quarter of an hour, ever since the Wayfarer had made a sharp, unexplained course change. Looking out his oar slit, he was sure they were now headed north. As the pacemaster continued to pound out the impossible beat, slaves began groaning and collapsing at their stations, and the lone guard-all the other slavers had been ordered topside-was using his nine-tails with abandon, trying to force them back to work.

For the first time, Tristan noticed a hint of concern in the faces of the two remaining slavers. Then the Wayfarer lurched to port, leaning over hard. As she did, one of the oarsmen on the other side of the ship suddenly dropped his oar, pointed out the slit in the hull, and began babbling wildly.

"Ships!" he screamed, his eyes alight with hope. "Three Eutracian ships! And they fly the war banner of the monarchy!"

Picking up his trident, the demonslaver mercilessly stabbed the man through the abdomen. Then he pulled the prongs out viciously, twisting them to maximize the damage. The man was dead before he hit the deck.

But he hadn't died in vain.

Almost every slave in the galley let go of his oar and craned his neck to look outside. Shouting and pandemonium reigned as the slaver tried in vain to whip them back into submission. Tristan could see nothing on his side of the ship but empty sea. Nonetheless, he was stunned by the slave's words. There was only one answer.

They had finally come for him.

Part of the Minion fleet had arrived, and Wigg and Faegan might even be aboard. His heart sang with the promise of escape. And of killing Krassus and his herbmistress, and taking as many of his horrific captors to their graves as he could. They might even be able to recover the Scroll of the Vagaries. There were debts to repay, and he meant to have his revenge.

While the slaver who had beaten him was preoccupied with trying to whip the excited oarsmen back into submission, Tristan reached into his right boot and slid out the brain hook. Cupping it in his hand, he laid the blade up along the underside of his forearm, then placed his arm down by his side. The blade felt sharp and comforting against his skin.

He knew this would have to be a very closely run thing, for his chains did not allow much freedom of movement. He would only get one chance, and it had to be right.

Hungrily he eyed the ring of keys hanging from the slaver's belt. The large one in the center was still there. Amid the screaming and confusion, Tristan willed the slaver to come to him.

Almost as if he had heard Tristan's silent pleading, the slaver turned, glared at the prince hatefully, and began walking to the front of the ship. Summoning up all the saliva he could muster, Tristan spat toward him and then smiled.

The slaver took another step. Then another. Finally he was directly alongside Tristan. With a smile, he raised his trident.

But suddenly the Wayfarer collided with something. A massive blow struck hard against the port side, and the hull tipped hard to starboard. Losing his balance, the slaver slipped to the right.

As the prongs of the trident came down, Tristan slid toward the bow and grabbed the handle of the trident, using the ship's momentum to pull the surprised slaver down into his lap. In one smooth motion he grabbed the slaver by the throat and shoved the point of the brain hook into the thing's ear.

The slaver screamed and began to struggle. With a vicious twist, Tristan yanked out the hook. The slaver was dead, blood pouring from his ear.

Tristan shoved the brain hook back into his boot. Then he snatched the key ring from the slaver's belt and pushed the corpse off him, into the aisle.

The gigantic pacemaster was already on his feet, waving a hammer and coming toward Tristan. Finding the large key in the center of the ring, Tristan shoved it into the padlock lying on the deck and turned it.

Nothing happened.

A quick glance told him that the pacemaster was nearly upon him. Again he turned the key in the rusty lock. The lock sprung open.

As fast as he could Tristan pulled his chain free, which allowed him to move his feet. But his wrists and ankles were still shackled together, and there was no time to pick up a weapon. The pacemaster, hammer raised, was looming over him.

As the great hammer came down, Tristan slipped to the right, dodging the heavy blow. Then he slid back in, placed his hands together, and swung them around, slamming his wrist shackles into the slaver's right cheek and eye. Blood sprayed, and the slaver crashed to the deck atop the other one's body.

Praying that the same key would unlock his shackles, Tristan shoved it into the lock binding his feet together and turned it. This time the lock sprang open immediately. The same proved true for his wrist shackles. Smiling, he turned and passed the key to the man seated behind him. There were tears in the fellow's eyes. Tristan started to speak, but suddenly realized that words were not necessary.

Reaching beneath the body of the first slaver, Tristan recovered the thing's short sword. He darted for the stairway, then stopped and purposely slowed his breathing.

Picking up the gold medallion that hung around his neck, he gazed at it for a precious, dangerous moment and thought of all his loved ones. Then he dropped the medallion back to his chest, raised the cool blade of the sword vertically to his forehead, and closed his eyes.

From the way the hull of the ship had been impacted and the sounds of battle coming from the deck above, no one had to tell him that they were being boarded.

Holding his sword before him, Tristan ran up the stairway and into the light.