Savage Messiah Read online

  Savage Messiah is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Robert Newcomb

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Maps by Russ Charpentier

  www.delreybooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-345-49101-5

  v3.0_r1

  CONTENTS

  ______

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Map

  Prologue

  PART I Death

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  PART II Deceit

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  PART III Desecration

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Chapter XLIX

  Chapter L

  Chapter LI

  Chapter LII

  Chapter LIII

  Chapter LIV

  Chapter LV

  Chapter LVI

  Chapter LVII

  Chapter LVIII

  Chapter LIX

  Chapter LX

  Chapter LXI

  Chapter LXII

  PART IV Deliverance

  Chapter LXIII

  Chapter LXIV

  Chapter LXV

  Chapter LXVI

  Chapter LXVII

  Chapter LXVIII

  Chapter LXIX

  Chapter LXX

  Chapter LXXI

  Chapter LXXII

  Chapter LXXIII

  Chapter LXXIV

  Chapter LXXV

  Chapter LXXVI

  Chapter LXXVII

  Chapter LXXVIII

  Chapter LXXIX

  Chapter LXXX

  Chapter LXXXI

  Chapter LXXXII

  Chapter LXXXIII

  Chapter LXXXIV

  Chapter LXXXV

  Chapter LXXXVI

  Chapter LXXXVII

  Chapter LXXXVIII

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Other Books by Robert Newcomb

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  ______

  “It is often said that it is impossible to place a value on a human life. The value of a human death, however, can be easily negotiated.”

  —SATINE

  FROM HER PLACE AT THE PORT GUNWALE, SATINE OF THE House of Kinton watched as the demonslaver crew worked to dock the great warship at the underground pier. Tall and sinewy, with unnaturally alabaster skin and totally bald heads, the demonslavers looked more like monsters than men. They wore nothing but silver skullcaps and long black leather skirts split down the center for walking, and they looked all too ready to use the swords and tridents they kept close to hand. During the journey across the Sea of Whispers, Satine had almost grown used to the sight of them—almost, but not quite. Still, she refused to flinch under their gazes, or reveal any distaste she might feel. This sanction was too important, regardless of its unusual beginnings and intriguing development.

  While several of the crew—demonslavers all—busily lowered the gangplank onto the stone pier, Satine glanced at the man standing beside her. This was the same blue-robed fellow who had approached her on behalf of his still unidentified master and who had told her not to fear his macabre crew. He had said little since they had left Eutracia. She knew only two things about him for certain: his name was Bratach, and he was of the craft of magic.

  She guessed him to be about forty Seasons of New Life. He had piercing brown eyes and an aqualine nose. His closed-cropped hair was dark, his mouth firm and unforgiving. He was clearly in command of both the Sojourner and its strange crew. Satine suspected that the small uses of the craft that he had displayed during the voyage were but a glimpse of far greater gifts. Having little understanding of magic, she could not be sure.

  She followed him down the gangplank, up a series of steps, and out into the welcoming midday sunshine. Birds sang happily in the island fortress’ highly manicured inner ward. Majestic fountains danced and burbled. Silently, Bratach led the way along a covered portico, into one of many magnificent buildings, and down numerous hallways, each more sumptuous than the last. Other men in dark blue robes could be seen coming and going, as well as the occasional, white-skinned demonslaver.

  Finally Bratach stopped before a portal of variegated marble. Two heavily armed demonslaver guards came to swift attention. At a nod from Bratach, they swung open the massive double doors.

  Although Satine was no stranger to luxury, she was stunned. The room was huge. Its entire western side lay open from floor to ceiling to reveal the sky above and the earth and the sea below. The rest of the chamber was fashioned of dark green marble shot through with swirls of the palest gray. A series of black columns rose from the floor to support the rather low ceiling. Suddenly, she was distracted by the sound of twittering laughter.

  When she turned to look, she saw a group of women about her own age. They wore nothing but the flowers in their hair, and happily bathed and lounged in a descending series of ornate marble pools, where scented water splashed down from a curved trough in the wall above. Satine guessed that the women were handmaidens. But who was their mistress?

  Before she could ask the question, Bratach beckoned to her. Obediently, she followed him toward the backs of two black marble thrones that sat serenely overlooking the sea below. On either side of the thrones stood a freestanding column of dark red marble, each encircled from top to bottom with garlands of Eutracian gingerlily. At the top of each column was a shallow black urn in which burned a dancing flame. The room smelled pleasantly of both the garland blossoms and the sea salt wafting in on the afternoon breeze.

  From the left throne’s outer edge, a bare arm appeared, red, deformed, and lacking in muscle mass. The hand was little more than a wrinkled claw, only three fingers remaining, the skin ragged and scarred. A burn perhaps, Satine thou
ght. Then the repulsive hand crooked one of its talonlike fingers, beckoning her around to the front of the throne. After shooting a skeptical glance at Bratach, she did as she was asked.

  So this was her new benefactor. She forced her revulsion aside and calmly regarded the man seated in the throne. He would have been handsome had it not been for the drastic insult to his face. His long sandy hair was pulled back from the hairline and tied behind his shoulders. His left eye was covered with a black leather patch. The rest of that side of his face was a mass of pink scar tissue, punctuated here and there by facial bones that protruded hideously through the thin membrane covering them. His right eye was hazel, and with it he stared back at her with a controlled sense of intelligence and power.

  He appeared to be tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular. He wore a sleeveless, emerald-green silk jacket, matching trousers, and black leather sandals. Taken as a whole, he was, Satine was quite sure, a man to be reckoned with.

  Then she looked at the woman seated by his side. She was as beautiful as the man was repulsive. Shiny brunette ringlets that hung nearly to her breasts framed the strong yet feminine face. Her eyes were level and bright blue. Like the man beside her, she radiated an undeniable sense of self-discipline. Her magnificent black, floor-length silk gown flowed over her body in an undulating river, its embroidered hem gently lapping over a pair of matching slippers. Looking more closely, Satine guessed that she was nearing the end of her pregnancy.

  The man finally broke the silence.

  “Welcome, Satine,” he said. “My name is Wulfgar, and I am the ruler of this place—this Citadel—as we call it. I am also a fully empowered wizard.” His voice was deep and commanding. “I trust your voyage was agreeable?”

  “Yes,” Satine answered. “Your demonslavers are most interesting.”

  Wulfgar smiled, and the pink scar tissue on the left side of his face moved strangely, as if it had long since ceased to be a natural part of his body. Satine found the effect both intriguing and disturbing.

  “They are interesting, aren’t they?” he answered. “Unfortunately, their numbers are now few: only enough remain to man my flagship and guard this island. But in the end, that will not matter.”

  He used his good hand to point to the woman seated on his right. “This is Serena, my queen. Anything you would say to me, you may also say before her.”

  Satine gave Wulfgar’s queen a short bow.

  Wulfgar regarded the woman standing before him. He had taken great pains to find her, and he needed to be sure that he had made the right choice. If for any reason she did not live up to his expectations, he would kill her and begin his search anew. But time was short, and he hoped that disposing of her would not be necessary. So far, she did not disappoint.

  Tall, lean, and muscular, Satine appeared to be approximately thirty-five Seasons of New Life. She stood confidently, her legs spread a bit wide in a blatant stance of power. When she had first walked before him, he had immediately noticed her smooth, almost effortless economy of movement. Someone had trained this woman well.

  She was dressed in a form-fitting, no-nonsense outfit of dull black leather. Dull, Wulfgar suddenly realized, so that it would not shine in the sun. Her black hair was pulled severely back. Her face was attractive, yet not what he might have called classically beautiful. Piercing blue eyes complemented full, red lips and a rather short nose. Her knee boots were of scuffed black leather and had seen considerable use. She wore no jewelry of any kind.

  Black leather belts crisscrossed her hips, ending in double sheaths that were tied down to her thighs. Each sheath held two daggers. A soft, dark gray, hooded cloak was pushed back from her shoulders and tied loosely across her neck with a black knotted cord. The fletching of arrows and the top of a short bow peeked out just above the upper edge of the cloak; the bowstring angled down tightly between her breasts. Her hands rested casually on the dagger handles at either hip. Her face remained expressionless.

  Wulfgar raised an eyebrow. Taken as a whole, Satine seemed a formidable creature indeed. He also knew that appearances meant nothing. It was her skill, stealth, and discretion that he needed most, and they would be well-tested before he could allow her to leave the Citadel alive. The stakes he was about to play for were the highest imaginable, and he had to be sure of her.

  “First things first,” he said. “We have been informed that your blood is not endowed. Is that so?”

  “I have no idea,” Satine answered. Her brow furrowed. “What possible difference could that make? No prospective employer has ever asked me that before. And over the course of my career I have had many satisfied clients, I assure you.”

  “No doubt,” Wulfgar replied calmly. “Nonetheless, I believe I shall be like none of your other patrons. I have valid reasons for being curious about your blood.”

  He snapped his fingers toward Bratach. The consul walked over to Satine and reached for her arm.

  Before he could touch her, Satine spun on her heels and came up alongside him. Taking his outstretched wrist, she twirled again. Using Bratach’s momentum against him, she launched him up off his feet. He turned over once in midair and landed hard on his back on the unforgiving marble floor.

  With a groan, he raised one arm to retaliate with some use of the craft. Satine’s boot heel immediately went to his exposed throat, and her hand moved like lightning toward one of her hip daggers. The entire thing happened in the twinkle of an eye, and her emotionless expression never changed.

  “Enough!” Wulfgar called. His grotesque smile surfaced again.

  “I only wish to test your blood, my dear,” he said. “We mean you no harm. My sincerest apologies for not informing you sooner.”

  Wulfgar looked at the consul lying on the floor. Bratach could have killed her with the craft, he knew. But considering Satine’s amazing speed, he found himself wondering whether the consul would have even gotten the chance. He looked back at her.

  “Well done, however,” he added.

  Narrowing her eyes, Satine raised her boot. Bratach gingerly rose from the floor.

  “Now then,” Wulfgar said, “please give him your hand.”

  Satine held out one palm.

  After giving her a hard look, Bratach narrowed his eyes. A small, painless incision formed in the underside of Satine’s wrist. A single drop of her blood liberated itself, and the incision closed again. The blood drop hovered in the air.

  Bratach produced a vial from a pocket in his robes. Opening its top, he employed the craft to cause a single drop of red water to rise from the vial and join with Satine’s blood.

  Nothing happened. Releasing the hovering mixture from his powers, Bratach watched it splatter harmlessly onto the floor.

  “We were informed correctly, my lord,” he said. “Her blood is common.”

  Satine looked hard at Wulfgar. “What is all this about?” she demanded. “Do you wish to employ my services or not? Frankly, this feels like a waste of my time.”

  “Oh, it was no waste of time, I assure you,” Wulfgar answered. “You see, some of your future targets may be able to detect endowed blood. Let’s just say that given the mission you are about to undertake, that would not be in your best interests.”

  Thinking, Wulfgar stood from his throne and walked to the edge of the floor. A series of curved marble steps led downward, spilling out upon a terrace that overlooked the ocean. Columns lined both sides of the steps, each holding a flaming urn.

  Wulfgar turned back to Satine and examined the crisscrossed belts she wore. Another test was in order, he decided.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re ambidextrous.”

  Satine nodded.

  “A great advantage in your line of work,” he mused. “Still, you will need to prove it to me.”

  “Very well,” she answered cautiously. “What do you suggest?”

  Looking over at t
he handmaidens, Wulfgar raised his good hand and pointed at them. Almost at once, they stopped what they were doing and came to stand in a neat row. Ten of them, their glistening bodies still dripping water. Lowering his hand, Wulfgar turned to his queen.

  “You don’t mind, do you, my dear?” he asked her.

  With a smile, Serena shook her head. “There are more where they came from,” she said.

  Wulfgar looked back at Satine. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly.

  Satine didn’t approve of what Wulfgar was asking her to do. But she had come a long way, and she badly needed another sanction. If this was what it took to convince him of her abilities, so be it.

  “Very well,” she answered. She turned to face the row of naked women. Widening her stance, she tossed the folds of her cloak over either shoulder. To Wulfgar’s surprise, she closed her eyes.

  “The ones on either end,” she said. She took a breath and let it out slowly, calming her heart.

  Crossing her arms before her, she reached for opposite thighs and grasped two of the daggers. With underhand throws, she sent the weapons spinning across the room. Her speed was so unexpected that Wulfgar scarcely saw her hands move.

  With a sickening thud, the blades buried themselves in the women’s foreheads. The handmaidens collapsed, dead.

  Satine opened her eyes. She did not look at the results of her handiwork. She didn’t need to. She turned back to Wulfgar.

  “Satisfied?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” Wulfgar answered. With a wave of his good hand, he ordered the remaining handmaidens from the room.

  “The daggers and the bow I see; surely you must have other means of assassination at your disposal,” he observed. “The persons I will be sending you after will prove to be amazingly resourceful.”

  “I have an herbmaster in my employ,” Satine replied shortly. “That’s all you need to know.”

  Wulfgar scowled slightly, but merely turned and walked back to his throne. Satine decided that it was time for a few questions of her own.

  “Just how did you find me? I have never traveled so far to consider a sanction.”

  Raising his mutilated arm, Wulfgar regarded his three clawlike fingers in the light of the urns. A sudden darkness came over his face; Satine found his expression unsettling. This was about much more than just politics or who controlled the craft, she realized. This was about revenge.