The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Fifty-seven

A s Tristan sat atop Pilgrim at the edge of the Plaza of Fallen Heroes, a sense of foreboding crept over him. Finding the scroll was going to be difficult at best, and for all he knew Krassus might also be here. Searching the sky he finally found Caprice as she soared gracefully above, all of her senses on alert. Ordering any of the fliers this close to ordinary citizens was always a risk, but Faegan obviously thought the stakes were too high not to employ her talents.

On the way to the plaza, Faegan had shouted out his orders. Tristan, Wigg, Celeste, and Faegan would approach the square from different directions, then wait quietly on horseback at its outer edges. Shailiha would walk calmly to the center and wait. From above, Caprice would have an excellent view of the scene and, it was hoped, would silently inform Shailiha when she spotted the scroll. When Shailiha moved, the rest of them would quickly follow her, and converge on the scroll from different directions.

Assuming it was still here, Tristan thought.

He could just make out Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste as they waited nervously atop their horses at different spots on the plaza's outer edges. They were wearing dark blue consuls' robes to help hide their identities. To the wizards' great consternation, Tristan had refused to wear one, claiming it would interfere with quick access to his weapons.

He glanced back at Faegan, and one corner of his mouth came up in admiration. Since their battle with the demonslavers at the docks, Tristan had learned that it was very painful for the crippled wizard to sit a horse. But somehow Faegan was able to partition his mind and control the pain. And the prince knew that the inquisitive wizard wouldn't have missed being here for the world.

As he stared out across the plaza, his jaw hardened. This wasn't much of a plan, he thought. Then again, there hadn't been much time to formulate one.

Reaching behind his right shoulder, he grasped the hilt of his dreggan and gave it a short tug, making sure its blade would not stick if called upon. Then he did the same with the first three of his throwing knives. As Pilgrim shifted his weight beneath him, Tristan leaned one arm down on the pommel of his saddle and glued his dark eyes on his sister.

A re you ready, piglet?" Marcus asked Rebecca encouragingly. He could see that she was very afraid.

In truth, Rebecca wished that Marcus would just forget about the silly old scroll. But she also knew that this was the day he had worked so hard for, and when his mind was made up, it was made up.

Leaning against the brick wall of the alley, she took the weight off her clubfoot and looked down at the old wheelbarrow. In it lay the scroll, wrapped once again in the rug that Marcus had stolen. Maybe this was for the best, she finally thought. At least after today she wouldn't have to watch it glow anymore. She looked tentatively up into her brother's hopeful green eyes.

"I guess I'm ready," she said softly. "What do you want me to do?"

Marcus smiled. "That's my girl," he said. He pointed out into the plaza, to the booth where he had purchased the bird for her to release.

"Do you remember that stand?" he asked her. "And the bird I bought for you?"

Biting her lip, she nodded.

"Very soon now, a man will lead a horse over next to it. He's big and fat, and has a white mustache. There will be several bags tied to the saddle. Once I think he is alone, I will walk out with the wheelbarrow, speak with him for a little bit, and then exchange the horse for the wheelbarrow. That will be all there is to it. But when I leave the plaza with the horse, you must do something for me. From where you will be standing, you must watch and see if anyone is following me. If you're sure they are, I want you to run to me straight away. I'll hoist you up on the horse, and we'll make a run for it. But if no one is behind me, then we'll meet later, in our usual spot. Do you understand?"

Rebecca nodded. Her foot ached, and she just wanted all of this to be over. "Where do you want me to stand?" she asked quietly.

"Do you remember the place I showed you earlier this morning? The one by the corner?"

"Yes."

"Stand there. From that spot you should be able to see everything."

Marcus glanced out into the plaza. Time was getting short, and if the artifacts dealer was truly coming, he would be here soon. Only within the last hour the scroll had glowed again, and Marcus found himself as anxious to be rid of it as 'Becca was.

Bending down a bit, Marcus took 'Becca by the shoulders and looked into her frightened brown eyes.

"You can do this for me, can't you, piglet?" he asked as he searched her face. "Your part is awfully important. I couldn't do it without you, you know."

Looking up at her brother, Rebecca did her best to smile.

Marcus looked nervously out into the plaza again. "I think you should go now," he said. "And try to remember everything I told you. Very soon this will all be over, and we'll be free."

Taking a deep breath, Rebecca stood away from the wall and limped out into the sunlight. After taking only a few steps, she turned and looked back at her brother for a moment. As she did, Marcus held his breath.

Then she turned back to the teeming plaza and kept on going. He watched the back of her tattered plaid dress for as long as he could, until it finally melted away into the crowd.

His breath coming quickly now, Marcus leaned against the wall, closed his eyes tight, and desperately hoped that he had just done the right thing. Turning back to the bird booth, he fingered the spring-loaded knife in his pocket and waited.

G rabbing Mr. Worth by his expensive, sweaty collar, Janus slammed him up against the nearest wall of the empty artifact shop. Worth shook with fear. Grizelda smiled.

Then the painted freak looked down at the three heavy canvas bags lying nearby on the otherwise barren floor.

"It's time," he whispered nastily. "Time for me to obtain what I came all this way for." As he smiled, his red mask crinkled up at the edges.

Reaching down to his belt, he removed the twin iron spheres and held them up before Worth's frightened eyes.

"I am deadly accurate with these," he hissed. "Emphasis on the word 'dead.' And my friend and I won't be far away. So don't get any bright ideas about double-crossing me, or your head will soon be lying all by itself on the bricks of the plaza." He smiled. "You could then be called one of the Fallen Heroes! How deliciously ironic! Do you understand my instructions, you fat bastard?"

Sweat running down his face, Worth nodded.

Janus let Worth go, and he and the shopkeeper wrestled the heavy moneybags outside and onto the waiting horse.

M arcus looked out from the darkness of the alleyway. Right on time, Worth was leading a bay mare over toward the bird booth. Three bulging bags were tied to the saddle.

Marcus forced himself to wait for a few moments before going out with the wheelbarrow. Let the artifacts dealer sweat a bit, he thought. Might make him easier to deal with, should he have suddenly acquired any new ideas.

Slowly, carefully, Marcus picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it out into the light.

As Marcus approached, the shopkeeper seemed almost overjoyed to see him. Marcus carefully put down the wheelbarrow and looked around. Then he trained his skeptical eyes on Worth. "Is it all there?" he asked simply.

"Uh, er, yes-yes, of course," Worth stammered, as if he didn't know what else to say. "All thirteen thousand."

Reluctantly leaving the scroll for a moment, Marcus walked over to the mare. Uncinching the first of the three bags, he pulled it open and worked one hand all the way to the bottom to pull out a coin at random.

After carefully examining it in the sun, he bit down into it, testing its worth. Then he repeated the procedure with the other two bags. Finally satisfied, he tied them back up and looked at the sweaty shopkeeper.

"Now it's your turn," he said quietly.

No one had to tell Worth what the young man meant. Walking to the wheelbarrow, he unrolled part of the rug to expose a large section of the magnificent scroll. As he did, Marcus winced. Whether out of greed, stupidity, or some other foolish reason, the idiot was exposing far too much of his newly acquired treasure to the world. But that wasn't Marcus' problem any more.

Sensing victory, he looked back into Worth's eyes.

I t is here, Mistress. Where?

In the center of the plaza, near the booth with the captive birds. It is hidden in a wheelbarrow. You must hurry.

Well done.

Gathering up her robes, Shailiha quickly looked around. Then she started to make her way toward the booth.

At the same time, a strangely dressed man with a painted face, and a grizzled old woman in rags began moving in the same direction.

T ristan didn't hesitate. As soon as he saw his sister move, he walked Pilgrim out into the busy plaza. Looking around, he saw that Faegan, Wigg, and Celeste were already converging on her. Tristan saw Shailiha come to a stop near a wooden vendor's stand, and watched as she looked around, searching for the scroll.

Then the prince finally saw it. The scroll seemed to be partially wrapped in something-a rug, perhaps-and it was lying in an old, dilapidated wheelbarrow. A fat, red-faced man was bending over and about to make off with the scroll, barrow and all. Knowing he had to hurry, Tristan spurred Pilgrim into a gallop across the cobblestoned yard.

That was when everything started to unravel.

Faegan had also seen the scroll and was quickly nearing the man with the wheelbarrow. As he did, the fellow seemed to suspect something and began to run, pushing the barrow as fast as he could. Raising one arm, Faegan sent a bolt of the craft toward him, forcing him to drop the barrow. Amazed, all Worth could do was to look up with horror as the prize he so coveted literally floated away on the air.

Citizens standing nearby began to scream and point. Then they began to scatter, running away from the frightening azure bolts of the craft.

As he charged toward the center of the plaza, something else suddenly caught Tristan's attention. He saw a young man, eyes wide with terror, mounting a bay horse. His saddle was loaded down with what looked to be heavy canvas bags. The boy whipped his mount in an attempt to get away.

Turning Pilgrim hard, Tristan raced to catch the boy, who was just passing a wooden booth laden with birdcages.

Then the boy's overloaded mount slipped on the cobblestones and went down hard, sliding directly into the side of the wooden booth. With a great noise the spindly booth shattered, sending pieces of wood flying everywhere. Many of the birdcages were destroyed, and the larks inside them flew out in every direction in a maelstrom of fluttering wings.

Surprised by the birds, Pilgrim reared. As he had done so many times before, Tristan automatically shifted his weight forward in his saddle and confidently rose with his horse. But he hadn't seen the spinning orbs that were already flashing their way across the plaza. Nor did he realize that the stallion he loved so much was about to save his life.

The orbs Janus had thrown were meant to take the prince's head from his shoulders, and if Pilgrim had not reared up at the last moment that is exactly what would have happened. Instead of the orbs finding the prince, they found the stallion.

Winding their connecting cord around Pilgrim's raised forelegs, the orbs viciously drew them together and cracked them in two as if they had been matchsticks. As he came back down to land on his front legs again, the sharply fractured bones ruptured the skin. Screaming insanely, Pilgrim went down hard on his left side, trapping Tristan's leg beneath him.

Still unsure of what had just happened, Tristan tried desperately to free himself but couldn't. He instinctively reached back for his weapons, but to his horror he found them gone. With his fall they had all scattered and lay just beyond his reach.

That was when he first saw the painted face leering down at him.

The man was dressed like a bizarre harlequin, and he held a shiny dagger in one hand. Saying nothing, he calmly walked around Pilgrim to come and stand over the helpless prince. He smiled as he raised his dagger, its blade twinkling in the midday sun.

The wizards would later say that the azure bolt that tore across the plaza was among the brightest they had ever seen. It tore into Janus' back and exploded with a force so great that it nearly killed Tristan, as well. Janus literally blew apart, organs and bones flying for meters in every direction. Then what was left of him dropped sloppily to the ground next to the prince.

Opening his eyes, Tristan found himself littered with blood and offal. The dagger that had nearly killed him lay nearby, still clutched in the harlequin's severed hand.

Then he felt a strong pair of hands beneath his arms, pulling him free. Finally rising up on shaky legs and still dazed, Tristan steadied himself and looked around.

The plaza was almost completely deserted. Celeste stood a short distance away. The fingertips of her right hand were scorched and red, and smoke rose from them softly, curling its way into the sky. Next to her stood Shailiha, who wore a tragic look on her face. On her outstretched arm sat Caprice, the giant butterfly gently opening and closing her wide, diaphanous wings.

Wigg stood near Tristan. In his craft-strengthened grip the wizard held the collar of the young man Tristan had seen trying to escape on horseback. The three canvas bags floated beside him in the air. A young clubfooted girl was also with him, desperately clutching the young man Wigg held and sobbing hysterically.

Next to Shailiha stood Grizelda, Krassus' herbmistress. Held prisoner inside a wizard's warp, she was angrily waving her arms and shouting vile curses at them. With a wave of one hand, Wigg promptly took away her powers of speech.

Looking further, Tristan saw that the fat man who had tried to make off with the scroll lay dead, facedown on the cobblestones, a knife sticking out of his back. Then the prince felt a comforting hand on the back of his shoulder.

He looked up to see Faegan. The wizard was still atop his horse. In his arms he cradled the Scroll of the Vigors. But, like everyone else, the wizard looked upset, not triumphant.

"What is it?" Tristan asked softly, sensing that something was very wrong.

One simple, awful word came down to him: "Pilgrim."

Tristan's daze evaporated, and he whirled around to find the stallion still lying on the ground, an unfamilar weapon tangled around his legs. Tristan felt his heart tear in two.

Both the stallion's forelegs were smashed and bleeding. In horrific pain, Pilgrim whinnied weakly as he saw the prince look at him. Dropping to the ground, Tristan gently cradled the horse's head in his lap.

His face stern, Wigg gave the care of the young man and the crying girl over to Faegan. Then he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe and came to stand next to the prince.

Tears flooding his eyes, Tristan looked beseechingly up at his old friend and mentor. But deep in his heart, he already knew the answer.

With a tear in one eye, Wigg slowly shook his head.

Crying freely now, his body shaking with grief, Tristan held Pilgrim closer. "Can you make it painless?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Coming nearer, the lead wizard placed a hand on Tristan's shoulder. "Of course," he answered softly.

For what he knew would be the last time, Tristan gently stroked Pilgrim's velvety muzzle.

"I will never forget you," he whispered. As if somehow understanding, Pilgrim whinnied back to him softly.

Without looking up, Tristan nodded. Wigg raised his right arm.

The dappled stallion closed his eyes.

Uncontrollably, shamelessly, Tristan raised his tear-streaked face to the sky and cried like a child.