Savage Messiah dobas-1 Read online

  Had the casualty lying before her been Minion, there would be no need for the straps, and the surgery would be over by now. Minion warriors were far stronger and more stoic than most humans. Their harsh martial philosophy dictated that the use of luxuries such as sleep-herbs or painkillers was a mark of personal weakness. But the victim suffering before her was human, and Duvessa knew that according to human culture what she was about to do was savage, albeit absolutely necessary.

  She looked grimly to a third warrior standing nearby. With an understanding nod, he grasped one of the torches from a nearby stand and held it toward her. Duvessa took up one of her serrated bone saws and placed its edge into the flame.

  The fellow's right hand was gone at the wrist and bled still, despite the leather strap she had so tightly twisted around his upper arm. The ragged, throbbing wound had to be cleanly severed a bit higher, and that meant sawing through the bones. Then the wound's naked end would have to be cauterized. She wished she could spare the time to ply her craft upon the injuries to his face, but there were many others in even worse straits and they would have to come first.

  As her saw began to glow, the man continued to bleed. Several more irretrievable seconds passed.

  Seeing the hot blade above him, the terrified man screamed again. At a nod from Duvessa, the warriors tightened their grip on the patient and she began her work. later, as she walked through the palace, the sad scene before her seemed like something out of a living nightmare. Night had fallen, and makeshift healing tables had sprung up in nearly every room. Some held living victims who lay waiting to be tended. Others were still occupied by the dead who had yet to be carried away. Blood was everywhere. She thought about the man she had just worked on, the one with the severed hand. He would live, but like the other poor souls who had come seeking succor, he would never be the same.

  As she walked, the nauseating stench of death permeated the palace halls. In every room, torches burned brightly, pointing up macabre shadows that mimicked the necessary horrors still going on.

  She lowered her head and walked on, trying to avoid stepping in blood as she searched for Shailiha and Faegan.

  Born in one of the Coven's birthing houses in Parthalon, Duvessa had been raised in one of the many Minion compounds that still dotted the nation across the sea. When she grew older, she was ordered to choose a traditional Minion occupation. Many of the boys chose to become warriors. To this day, that path was forbidden to the girls, despite Tristan's new orders insisting on equality for Minion females.

  Showing a natural talent for healing, she entered the healer cadres, took her training, and rose quickly through the ranks. Recently she had been promoted to the rank of premier healer. Not only was she now in charge of all the Minion healers-both male and female-but she was the first female to have ever held so lofty a station. Many males in the warrior ranks still outranked her, but given her great talent, coupled with her frequent inclination to speak her mind, they genuinely respected her.

  Thousands of Minion healers served under her now, and it was quite impossible for her to know them all. Most she recognized only by the sign of their craft-a pure white feather emblazoned upon the chest of their black leather body armor. But they all knew her.

  As the new premier healer, she had accompanied her fellow troops to Eutracia from Parthalon, when Tristan led the Minion forces into battle against Nicholas' hatchlings. Brin fought in that battle. Duvessa had first noticed him when his wounded wing had caught her attention. Already a fighter of some note, he was several years her junior, but he looked older. After seeing each other for a time, they married in accordance with the new freedoms granted by the prince. But their happiness was not to last.

  Brin had been killed while helping his troops fight off Wulfgar's demonslaver fleet. His body had been lost at sea and was never returned to Duvessa for the traditional immolation. There had been no offspring.

  Her grief at the loss of her husband was immense-at first far more than she thought she could bear. But as premier healer she had an important job to do, and there was no time for self-pity.

  There had been many wounded to tend to as a result of Tristan's struggles with his half brother, and she had thrown herself into her work with abandon. By the nature of her position in the Minion hierarchy, she soon came to know Tristan, Shailiha, Celeste, Wigg, and Faegan. She had also met Adrian and Abbey, and she thought very highly of them. It was when she had joined this inner circle that she had first come to Traax's attention.

  She was taken with him immediately, and he was equally interested. After the traditionally brief Minion mourning period, they began to see each other, and then finally took to sharing a bed. She knew that Traax had departed with Wigg and Tristan, and she worried about him. Although it was not uncommon for a Minion female to lose several mates during the course of her lifetime, she had no desire to experience this herself.

  As she walked through the shadowy palace, she saw many red-robed Acolytes of the Redoubt. As she passed, they exchanged courteous bows with her.

  During the course of the night she had seen many of the acolytes deftly employ the craft to help relieve the suffering. She still knew little about them, but she had to admit that their abilities were impressive. Sometimes she had witnessed her healers and the endowed acolytes standing shoulder to shoulder at the tables, working together. Seeing this had made her proud. Together they had finally been able to stem the massive tide of suffering. But none of them knew what terrible, unseen enemy had caused all of this, or what the future might bring.

  Turning a corner and starting down another hall, she heard Faegan's voice. A door stood slightly ajar, and a soft shaft of light poured from its opening. She walked over and knocked softly. The wizard bid her enter; she swung the door wider and walked in.

  Faegan was addressing a roomful of people. His black robe was stained with blood, and he looked beyond exhaustion. The Paragon hung from a gold chain around his neck. As always, he sat in his wooden chair on wheels. Nicodemus, a dark blue cat with a silver collar, lay patiently in his master's lap. On a nearby table sat the ancient violin that Faegan often played.

  A fire danced merrily in the hearth, its inviting warmth belying the horrors of the grisly world that lay just outside the door. A small table at the back of the room was laden with wine, bread, and cheese-no doubt supplied by the ever-industrious gnomes, Duvessa thought.

  Princess Shailiha, Celeste, and Abbey sat on a sofa along one wall. Still clad in their bloodstained dresses, they all looked exhausted. Duvessa could see that though they had tried to wash the blood from their hands, it still showed beneath their nails and in the folds of their skin. Caprice-Shailiha's giant butterfly-sat perched upon a bookcase, slowly opening and closing her yellow and violet wings. Adrian, Ox, and Geldon sat at a table nearby.

  As Duvessa entered and crossed the room to pour herself a welcome goblet of wine, Faegan stopped speaking and looked at her, obviously eager to hear her report.

  A dense stillness crept over the chamber as the Minion premier healer went to a chair and sat down heavily, goblet in hand. It was only after taking the weight off her feet that she fully realized just how exhausted she was. She took a long draft of the rich red wine, then removed her bloody smock and dropped it to the floor.

  "How goes it outside?" Faegan asked.

  "It has slowed," Duvessa answered. "Most of the major cutting has been done, and the acolytes are enacting spells of accelerated healing and pain relief over as many of the victims as they can. The Minion healers are doing all they can to help. Just the same, the loss of life has been great."

  Leaning forward on her elbows, she looked straight at the wizard. She wanted answers-just as everyone else here did.

  Taking a deep breath, Faegan returned her gaze. She was one of the most handsome Minion women he had ever seen. Like Traax, she had green eyes. Her thick, dark hair was tied into a pair of braids that fell down behind her. The single, stark white feather stood out proudly on t
he chest of her black body armor. Her strong, sensual face stared back at him with candor, and for the hundredth time he wondered whether there was anything in the world that truly frightened her. A fitting mate for Traax, he thought.

  Duvessa turned to Adrian. "Thank you for all that you and your sisters did," she said with genuine admiration. "Before we came to Eutracia, all we Minions ever saw of the craft was what the Coven allowed us to see. I used to distrust all magic, as most of my people do. Tonight I saw it used for good, and it was a welcome change."

  "Thank you," Adrian said. "We did all that we could."

  The acolyte had gentle brown eyes and curly, sand-colored hair. Her dark red robe, tied around the middle with a black tasseled cord, looked worn and stained. Several times that evening she and Duvessa had stood side by side, using all their gifts to try to save the same victim. Sometimes they had succeeded; sometimes they had not. Whatever had been the individual outcome, a mutual sense of respect had grown up between the two healers. Though Adrian's healing gifts were enhanced by her facility with the craft, she and her sisters still wrestled with their new lives in Tammerland, the palace, and the Redoubt. This uncertainty put her on an even footing with Duvessa.

  Across the room, Shailiha looked over at Celeste, who nodded back at her. Both Wigg's daughter and the princess were eager to know where Tristan and Wigg had gone.

  Her gaze hardening with determination, Shailiha folded her arms and stared at Faegan. "We all want some answers, and we want them now," she demanded. "In the space of a single night, not only have hundreds of severely burned and maimed victims come crashing through the palace gates, but both Tristan and Wigg have disappeared along with Traax and an entire phalanx of warriors!

  "Where did you send them? What is it that has so suddenly attacked us?" She sat back, a look of determined expectation on her face.

  Faegan knew that there would be no use in putting off the inevitable. Taking a breath, he looked down at his hands. Shailiha wasn't sure she had ever seen the old wizard so upset.

  "First things first," Faegan said. He turned to face Ox.

  The giant Minion shot to his feet. "I live to serve," he said quickly.

  "If I know the prince at all, the first thing he will do when he arrives home will be to call an emergency meeting of the Conclave of the Vigors," the wizard said. "To have all ten members present, we must call Tyranny home. I want you to take a squadron of warriors and fly directly to the Minion outpost nearest the coast. Find out Tyranny's last position and heading, and then go after her. Tell her what has happened, and bring her here at once. Leave Scars in charge of the fleet, pending further orders. Do you understand?"

  "Ox understand," the warrior said. "Everything be as wizard Faegan say."

  "Good," Faegan answered. "Go now, and may the Afterlife watch over you."

  After a quick click of his heels, Ox left.

  "A good man…" Faegan said, his voice fading away as he became lost in his thoughts.

  "Faegan!" Celeste called. "We're waiting!"

  "Uh, er, yes-yes, of course," the wizard said. He turned his chair back to face the room. His grim look returned.

  "Very well," he began. "I will start by telling you what I have already expressed to Wigg, just before he and Tristan left." He paused for a moment, as if not really knowing where to begin.

  "If what Wigg and I believe is true, then we are facing a calamity of epic proportions," he said. "What we witnessed tonight may be just the beginning…"

  In measured tones, the wizard began to explain his theories. As he did, the people before him turned to one another, aghast. Several of those with endowed blood wept openly. Those without did the best they could to comfort the others.

  The wizard's talk lasted hours.

  CHAPTER VI

  By the time Tristan, Wigg, and the minion phalanx saw the cause of the terrible destruction, the village of Brook Hollow was already in flames. Wigg ordered the Minions to take the litter as close as they dared.

  The terrible noise shot like daggers through Tristan's ears, a plaintive screeching howl. He watched, dumbstruck, as the thing continued on its path of annihilation across the land. Then he lowered his head, as if by doing so he might somehow make the whole scene disappear.

  All the death and chaos originated from the same revered phenomenon that sustained the benevolent side of the craft: the Orb of the Vigors.

  Night had fallen, and the golden sphere lit up the land and heavens for leagues in every direction as it soared above the earth. So huge that it seemed to take up the entire sky, it was a wondrous, terrifying sight. Although the prince had seen the orb only a few times in his life, he was sure that it was now spinning faster on its axis than ever before. It was almost as if some form of madness had overtaken it.

  Its mate-the dark, ominous Orb of the Vagaries-was nowhere to be seen. Pale white spears radiated from its center and darted off into nothingness. From a jagged tear in its lower half, the orb dripped pure, living energy. Whatever the gold stuff fell upon either vaporized instantly or was severely burned.

  White-knuckled, Tristan gripped the sides of the litter. Suddenly, he understood. Wulfgar, he thought. This damage was a result of that night on the roof of the palace, when his half brother had tried to pollute the orb.

  Tristan was about to shout his suspicions to the wizard, but Wigg was already calling new orders to the Minions, telling them to take the litter even closer to the deadly orb. The warriors obeyed, and as they neared, the orb illuminated the litter and the straining Minions flying alongside it, turning them into surreal specters in the sky. Tristan could feel the orb's intense heat.

  Then the orb's shock waves struck. The litter swung wildly, and the warriors carrying it nearly lost their hold. Twice it listed so badly that Tristan and Wigg almost fell. Finally righting the litter again, the warriors did their best to inch forward in the sky. Tristan watched in awe as they fought against the blasts that whipped at their bodies and wings.

  The orb's awful energy threatened to set the litter ablaze. If that happened, Tristan thought, he and the wizard were done for.

  Suddenly two of the warriors carrying the litter burst into flames. Screaming wildly, they plummeted to the scorched earth below. Warriors fell all around them now, bodies and wings ablaze as they tumbled. Tristan could only watch, horrified, and hope they died before they hit the ground.

  The wizard stood up in the litter. His arms outstretched, he braced himself precariously against the bludgeoning force of the orb. The wind and heat tore wildly at his hair and robes. Tristan knew that were it not for the First Wizard's powers in the craft, he would have been blown from the litter. At first Tristan didn't understand what Wigg was doing, but then he realized that the wizard was trying to save Brook Hollow.

  Tristan had seen the wizard call forth the orb several times before. But he had no idea whether the First Wizard could summon enough power to actually change the thing's course.

  Just as twin azure bolts shot from Wigg's hands, a massive spray of the orb's golden energy tore into the litter and its bearers. The last thing Tristan saw before tumbling from the burning litter toward the earth was Wigg's robes catching fire.

  Then he heard the wizard scream.

  CHAPTER VII

  Perched on the windowsill in the captain's quarters of her flagship, Teresa of the House of Welborne-known to friend and foe alike as Tyranny-calmly regarded the Sea of Whispers. It was nearly dawn. The winds were steady, and the three Eutracian moons were high, bathing the ever-shifting ocean in their magenta glow.

  Tyranny stretched her back against the window frame and ran one hand through her short, dark hair. She had never bothered preparing for bed: She still wore the high-waisted brown-and-tan striped pants and worn leather jacket that she'd put on the previous morning. Her short sword hung from her left hip and her pearl-handled dagger sat in its sheath, tied down to her right thigh. Lost in thought, as she had been most of the night, she fiddled with the single gold
hoop that dangled from her earlobe.

  Too often, of late, she was eschewing sleep for a night of thinking. She still could not believe her good fortune-a full fleet under her command; and official letters of marque, a pirate's dream; and the fact that she had been made a permanent member of the newly formed Conclave of the Vigors. The latter was an honor she'd never dreamed of, and she wondered how she could both fulfill her duties to the Conclave and continue to ply the waters in search of any possible surviving demonslaver ships of the late Wulfgar's fleet.

  Her jaw hardened at the thought of the demonslavers. She had reasons aplenty to hate those monsters, the greatest of those reasons personal: The demonslavers had murdered her parents and captured her beloved brother, Jason. Although she had rescued him and returned him home, he would never be the same. Jason had been an expert swordsmith. After the torture by the demonslavers, his hands were ruined: He would never practice his chosen art again.

  Most of her allies who had participated in the destruction of the demonslaver fleet assumed them all to be dead. Tyranny had her doubts. And as long as there was a single demonslaver still alive in these waters, she would search out and kill him.

  Shrugging off her thoughts, she rose from the windowsill and crossed the cabin to her ornate desk. She took up a carved wooden box, opened the lid, and removed one of her small, dark cigarillos. Placing it between her lips, she reached for a common match, which she struck against the sole of one of her scuffed knee boots. Cupping her hands around the flame, she lit the rolled tube of dried leaves and inhaled deeply.

  As she breathed out a long stream of smoke, she pulled out her desk chair and sat down. Then she reached for the open bottle of red wine atop her desk and took a long swallow straight from the lip. Leaning back in her chair, she gave herself to the seductive rocking of the Reprise as it plowed through the waves.