The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Thirty-three

T ristan sat looking with worry at Tyranny as she lay on the sofa in her quarters. The ever-present Scars stood by her side with an equally concerned expression on his face. She had fought bravely and survived, but she had been wounded and had passed out from loss of blood. Tristan and Scars had tended to her as best they could before cleaning and bandaging Tristan's shoulders. Then they had waited.

It had taken some time for her to come around. Like any good captain, her first concern had been for how many of her crew she had lost. Then she inquired about the general condition of The People's Revenge and the other two ships sailing with them.

Their little fleet was in bad shape, Scars reported. Nearly a quarter of The People's Revenge crew had been lost. A large number had been wounded but were still alive. Many of the sails had been ripped beyond repair, along with much of the rigging. And more than half of the ship's spars were completely destroyed.

The other two vessels had fared no better. Each of them was also dead in the water, drifting at the mercy of the elements. Even Tristan was by now sailor enough to know that if they were struck by a sea storm or a fleet of demonslaver ships while in this condition, they would be finished.

Scars had ordered repairs to begin, but it would be a difficult, incomplete job at best. They needed help. But out here, this far into the Sea of Whispers, Tristan knew there could be none.

Tyranny sat up groggily and took a sip of the wine Tristan held out to her. Then she stabbed one of her rolled tubes of leaves between her lips and lit it from the flame offered up by Scars. Taking a deep draught of bluish smoke, she slowly blew it upward, toward the roof of the cabin.

"What in the name of the Afterlife were those things that attacked us?" Tristan asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. "I have never seen anything like them."

Tyranny took another sip of wine, then gingerly adjusted her position on the sofa. "We call the creatures screechlings," she told him. She took in another lungful of smoke and blew it out. "This was only the second time we have fought them. Scars named them for the horrible noise they make just before they attack. They began to prowl these waters only recently, about the same time the demonslavers started taking their captives from Farpoint. I think the screechlings must have originated at the Citadel, but no one knows for sure. Did you see how they glowed, just before they began attacking us? That tells me they come from magic. But who of the craft would be so cruel as to create such monsters and loose them on the sea?"

Krassus, Tristan thought. It had to be. He would have wanted something that would protect his slave ships and attack any enemies. No doubt the ability had been provided by yet another Forestallment placed in his blood by Nicholas. Tristan lowered his head and closed his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Tyranny asked softly.

He raised his head and looked into her eyes. "No," he answered. "But I will be." He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to the problem at hand.

"I saw many of the screechlings purposely destroying the sails, as well as the spars and the yardarms," he said. "Why would they do that, when they could have been attacking the crew?"

"It seems they are both highly intelligent and well organized," Scars answered for his captain as she took another sip of wine. "They know that if we are sufficiently crippled, they can return at their leisure and finish us off. And unless we can get these three vessels moving again, that is exactly what will happen."

Tyranny looked up at her first mate. "How much undamaged sail did we liberate from the slavers?" she asked hopefully.

"Not nearly enough to do a proper job," Scars answered. "Especially considering the fact that we have three vessels to repair. I have taken the liberty of ordering all three ships lashed together, so that we might share resources and not drift apart on the nighttime sea. Dawn will rise soon, and we can work faster then. But even when we are finished, the best we will be able to do is to limp along. If the screechlings find us again, we shall be easy prey." He remained silent for a moment as he considered his next words.

"Our best bet is to make for the Isle of Sanctuary and hope that we reach it before they return," he suggested. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but we are already wounded, Captain. Unless we reach the isle in time, the deathblow may not be far off."

Tyranny scowled. Then she looked up at her gigantic first mate. "Please leave us now," she said. "I have issues to discuss with our new friend here. In the meantime, make all the repairs you can with what we have available, and then set course for the Isle of Sanctuary. Even limping along, as you put it, is better than sitting dead in the water as live bait for the screechlings."

After nodding to his captain and casting a questioning glance at the prince, Scars left the cabin, closing the door behind him. A combination of anger and confusion crossed Tristan's face.

"What is this Isle of Sanctuary you are taking us to, eh?" he protested. "I, for one, have never heard of it!"

"You can still trust me, I swear it," Tyranny assured him. "Our bargain remains intact. The reason you have never heard of the Isle of Sanctuary is because it is a secret, known only to a very few."

"Enlighten me," he said shortly.

Tyranny took another sip of wine. "Please go to my desk and bring me back my charts."

Tristan skeptically did as she asked, placing the parchments on her lap. Rifling through them, she finally selected one and spread it out.

"We are here," she said, pointing to a section of the chart displaying open sea. "Or at least that's where we were when we were attacked. Dead on course for the delta, just as I had agreed. Our current position has no doubt changed a bit since we have been adrift. But not by much, since the winds have remained light. Anyway, the Isle of Sanctuary is not far off our direct course to the delta. Look."

Running one finger west toward the Cavalon Delta, she stopped it near a small island shaped like a long, crooked finger. According to the scale it was about four leagues long by two wide. Several natural harbors indented its coast. It was drawn in a darker ink, as if it had recently been added to her map.

"I give you the little-known Isle of Sanctuary," she said. "Scars added it from memory."

"But how is that possible?" Tristan asked. "And why must we go there?"

Sitting back, she looked him in the eyes. "You say that two of your wizards still live?" she asked.

"Yes. Wigg, the onetime lead wizard of the Directorate. And his friend Faegan, from Shadowood. What of it?"

"Because your Directorate, or should I say what's left of it, is supposedly responsible for the isle's existence," she answered cautiously. "Or so the legend goes."

Tristan sat back in his chair. "Even if what you say is true, why must we go there?" he asked. "Why can't we just set a course straight for the delta?"

Tyranny took another puff of smoke and let it out slowly. "There is still a great deal of sea between us and home," she answered. "Much of it is known to be infested with screechlings, as well as slaver ships. Provided we can pay the price, we should be able to procure both spars and sailcloth on the isle. Like it or not, we need those to get to the delta in one piece. Even with our layover, and taking into consideration the time it will take to make our final repairs, we will still arrive at the delta faster than if we simply continued to plow along in our current state. You must trust me on this. I know what I'm talking about."

Her face grew dark again, and she reached out, taking his hands into hers. It was the first time she had ever done so. "I don't like the idea of taking us there, either. I would never have given such an order unless it was absolutely necessary. Nor would Scars have suggested it, brave as he is. It's a very dangerous place. During previous visits there I have always lost good people-crew who chose to stay on the isle, rather than return to the sea with me. I wouldn't like to lose any more of them to that place, but those here with me are here of their own free will. What will be will be." She looked away for a moment. "But there is also a personal reason why I avoid visiting the isle…"

Seemingly resigned to her decision, she looked back at him. The commanding eyes of the daring privateer had somehow transformed into those of a lovely, desirable woman who suddenly seemed quite vulnerable in his presence.

"You must believe me," she said, gently but insistently. "At this point, everyone on The People's Revenge wants to get home as quickly as you do. But we must have the necessary sails to speed our ship, or we may never make it at all." A small smile crossed her lips. "Unless you'd like to row again, of course."

Tristan found his mood softening. Nonetheless, his mind was still full of unanswered questions. "But why do you say that this place has to do with the wizards?" he asked. "How could you possibly know that? Why is it so dangerous? Why did some of your men choose to stay there?"

She gave a short laugh. "You sound like a schoolboy!"

Tristan felt his face flush with embarrassment.

Suddenly the commanding, calculating expression returned to her blue eyes, and she let go of his hands. "No more questions now," she said. "The Isle of Sanctuary is but one day's sail from here, even in our current condition. You will have all of your answers soon enough. Now please help me up. I'm still dizzy, but I must get topside and look over my ships." The wry smile came again. "The crewmembers need to know their captain is still able to pull her own weight."

Standing, Tristan reached down to help her. As she rose to meet him, she winced at a pain in her left thigh and stumbled against him. For a long, uncomfortable moment, they stared into each other's eyes. Then he turned and helped her up the stairway to go look over her crippled ships.

It would be a depressing sight.