Savage Messiah dobas-1 Read online

"The wonderful byproduct of the rupture in the orb is the fact that so many wounded are rushing into Tammerland," he continued. "One of the greatest tenets of the craft states that chaos is the overriding principle of the universe. The wizards of the Redoubt are now suffering more chaos than they can effectively deal with. And it will only worsen as time goes by.

  "At first, our master thought he had completely failed in his attempt to pollute the Orb of the Vigors," he said. "But when we discovered that the orb had ruptured, we immediately sent word to him. Now things have changed. While it was once our mission to destroy the orb, we must now see to it that it isn't interfered with in any way. Ironic, wouldn't you agree?"

  Satine had suddenly had quite enough talk of wizards, magic, and orbs. She wanted to be gone from this suffocating place, and begin her sanctions. There were still two places she needed to go first, and she wouldn't get there by sitting here talking politics with some fat consul in a bleak cellar. After taking a final sip of wine, she stood up.

  "Is there anything else?" she asked.

  Ivan pointed to the closed door on the other side of the room. "Exit by that passageway," he answered. "It will bring you up into an alley several blocks from here. You will have to circle back around to collect your horse. Each sanctuary has a secret tunnel out." The smile came again. "A fact you would do well to remember."

  Satine walked to the door and pried it open. A curving, brick-lined tunnel led upward. It was lit with oil sconces. She started to leave, then stopped and turned back to Ivan.

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  "Just do your job properly, woman," he answered back. "That's all the thanks we of the Vagaries require of you."

  Turning back to face the tunnel, Satine walked in and closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER X

  NIGH had fallen at the citadel, and wulfgar was alone. The hour was late. His pregnant queen and her handmaidens had long since retired. Looking out over the dark Sea of Whispers from the comfort of his throne room, the bastard brother of the Jin'Sai found himself restless, and concerned.

  While he sat and pondered, the blazing fires in the urns on either side of the twin thrones cast spectral shadows across the polished marble walls and ceilings. He heard only the distant crashing of the waves. He had grown to love this chamber, especially when Serena was by his side.

  He raised his damaged arm before his good eye. The nearly useless appendage somehow seemed even more hideous in the firelight. He lowered it and silently cursed the wizards of the Redoubt, and his half brother and sister. His jaw hardened as he gazed back out over the sea.

  His mind turned toward the professional killer he had hired. Satine had impressed him. Still, he understood that the assassin-no matter how deadly she might be-was only an oblique part of his overall plan. Satine was a form of guarantee that the Orb of the Vigors would continue to deteriorate.

  His spying consuls in Eutracia-especially his secret servant within the walls of the royal palace-were keeping him well informed of the movements of the ruptured orb.

  Nonetheless, obstacles remained, not the least of which was the considerable time involved in receiving crucial information from Eutracia. He had lied to Satine when he told her that he had only a few demonslavers remaining. There were in fact tens of thousands of them still here at the Isle of the Citadel. Those remaining slavers and the ships they manned were relaying the information back to him from his consuls in Eutracia. Still, he seethed at the slowness of it.

  What worried him above all else was that his Citadel consuls had not yet discovered the formula in the Scroll of the Vagaries that he needed most: the calculations for the single, all-important spell that would ensure his victory.

  The scroll's unexpected references to this all-important Forestallment had been discovered only days earlier, by his ceaselessly researching consuls and its suggested existence had come as a shock to them all. When Wulfgar had been informed, his heart had leapt for joy. He quickly realized that if it could be deciphered and then imbued into his blood, his victory over the Jin'Sai would be all but assured. Then, as the Lord of the Vagaries, he would reign supreme in the practice of the craft.

  Soon Wulfgar meant to invade Eutracia and make the nation his. Once he had taken Eutracia, the less sophisticated nation of Parthalon would succumb easily.

  Standing from his throne, he laid the mangled side of his face against the nearby marble column. The coolness of the stone always comforted his tortured flesh, but he granted himself this show of weakness only when he was alone. He had tried repeatedly to heal his body and face by means of the craft, but even his powers had proven inadequate. Since learning that his consuls might identify and decipher the Forestallment they sought, his hope for a recovery had been renewed.

  Lifting his face from the marble, he thought of Serena and the unborn girl-child she carried. Serena was brave, and she loved him. But in his heart he could sense both the pain and the revulsion she tried so hard to hide. In truth, who could blame her?

  She and her husband were both fervent practitioners of the Vagaries. They were also human beings who loved each other deeply. He knew that she desperately wanted to see him the way he had looked when they had first fallen in love during their early days here at the Citadel.

  Even more, Wulfgar wanted his daughter to see him as he had once been: handsome and strong, rather than the freak he had become at the hands of the wizards of the Redoubt. A deformed monster who would undoubtedly make his new daughter cry, simply by looking down into the crib in which she would soon lie.

  He heard the huge double doors at the other side of the room unexpectedly swing open. Turning, he saw one of his armed demonslavers enter.

  "What is it?" Wulfgar snapped.

  The demonslaver bowed. "Forgive me, my lord," he answered. "But Einar has come, begging an audience. He says it is most urgent."

  Wulfgar nodded. "Very well."

  The demonslaver bowed again and walked back through the doors. In a few moments the visitor entered the room and approached.

  Tall, erect, and almost ravenously lean, he had prematurely gray hair, which he kept tied behind his head, and bright blue eyes, which at the moment were calmly scanning his master's face. Einar was the most gifted of Wulfgar's Citadel consuls, and he was in charge of both their training and their day-to-day activities. He was also the overseer of the scriptorium, the great library that held the fortress' most precious texts and scrolls.

  Then Wulfgar saw that the Scroll of the Vagaries glided along by Einar's side. An azure glow surrounded it, telling Wulfgar that the consul had been recently working with it. Normally Wulfgar would be furious that the precious document had been removed from the scriptorium without his permission. But something about the fearless look on his lead consul's face told him that he should hear what the man had to say.

  Einar stopped before him, the scroll hovering just a meter or so away. Wulfgar pointed to the parchment.

  "Why did you bring the scroll here?" he demanded.

  "I wanted to bring you this news personally," Einar said. His eyes flashed with promise, and his gaze was steady.

  "We have found the Forestallment that we seek," he said. "It's true, my lord. The calculations exist."

  Wulfgar stared wide-eyed at the consul, then looked at the scroll. "Can it be true?" he asked.

  "Yes, my lord. That is why I took the liberty of bringing the scroll here to you. Knowing how anxious you have been, I wanted to prove it to you immediately, and in private."

  Wulfgar smiled. "Then by all means proceed."

  Einar raised his hands, and the scroll began to unroll itself. On and on it went, until Wulfgar thought that it might extend itself completely. Then it stopped. Narrowing his eyes, Einar caused a specific portion of the text to duplicate itself in glowing azure and rise from the body of the parchment to hang in the air. Wulfgar walked closer and began to read the Old Eutracian text. The translation read: "And it shall come to pass that the bastard sibling of the
Jin'Sai will one day wish to hear, rather than simply read, of the mysteries that make up his blood. And when that day comes, the calculations for such a Forestallment shall be provided herein for his use. Only he, the Jin'Sai, and the Jin'Saiou are capable of accepting such a gift, for the quality of their blood knows no equal. Therefore the Enseterat -or the Lord of the Vagaries, as he shall also be known-shall finally be able to commune with us, and all will be revealed."

  Inarticulate with joy, Wulfgar looked at the groups of numbers and symbols in Old Eutracian that comprised the formula for the Forestallment. The formula was both the longest and the most elegant solution of the craft he had ever seen. He looked back at Einar.

  "You have analyzed the calculations?" he asked.

  "Yes, my lord. I believe that the end result shall be as the scroll promises. I have never seen so involved a formula. As such, the risk of error is great. For that reason, I suggest that if my lord still wishes to go ahead, that only I perform the transferal. And that it be done here in the throne room, in the strictest of privacy. Gifting you with this Forestallment will be arduous for both of us. I do not wish the demonslavers and the other consuls to hear you, should you cry out. This is why I brought the scroll to you, rather than requesting that you come to it."

  Lost in thought, Wulfgar walked the short distance over to the open wall of the throne room. He looked to the sea. The winds had risen and the froth-tipped waves were restless and angry, much like the building conflict in his heart.

  Given the length and complexity of the calculations, Wulfgar understood the risk. The installation of so powerful a Forestallment in his blood would be the single most painful experience of his life-probably even more excruciating than the injuries he had suffered at the hands of the wizards of the Redoubt. Once the process began there could be no reprieve, no turning back. Even considering the unusual strength of his blood, he couldn't be sure he would survive it.

  But these were risks he would simply have to take. He looked back over at the waiting consul.

  "Very well," Wulfgar said. He walked to his throne and sat down.

  "You don't wish to lie down, sire?" Einar asked, sounding concerned.

  "Where? On the floor?" Wulfgar shook his head. "No. My throne will do."

  As the consul walked to his master's side, the hovering text followed him. Narrowing his eyes, Einar caused the glowing numbers and symbols to rise to a place just above his master's head. He placed one palm upon Wulfgar's brow.

  "Are you ready, sire?"

  Taking a deep breath, Wulfgar closed his eyes.

  "Proceed," he answered. "And may the Afterlife watch over all of your gifts this night."

  CHAPTER XI

  AS satine walked her gelding down the nearly deserted streets of Tammerland, the city seemed gray and mournful. Dead bodies littered the gutters. Rain had recently fallen. It had soaked through her cloak, and the dampness caused her to shiver. Pulling the garment closer, she rode on.

  She had been navigating the streets for the last three hours. Dawn would soon arrive. With so few people out and about, it sometimes seemed that she had the entire city to herself, a sensation that she did not mind.

  After leaving Ivan, she had followed the winding tunnel to a cramped, windowless shed that opened onto an abandoned alleyway. From there she had made her way to the adjoining street and back to the still-closed archery shop, where she had reclaimed her horse.

  Satine had two more stops to make before commencing her sanctions, and she was on her way to the first of them-a personal job, not professional, but one she meant to see through, despite the delay it would cause.

  Satine rode the twisting, dilapidated streets until she reached the dead-end alley she had been searching for. She stopped her horse and jumped down. The place was deserted. Deciding to leave the gelding in the street, she tied him to a nearby rail. Then she unfastened the worn leather satchel from the back of her saddle and quickly entered the alley. After another look around, she slipped behind a pile of trash. She hurriedly began changing her clothes in the forgiving darkness.

  The woman who emerged looked far different. Her usual leather clothing was gone. Instead she wore a close-fitting outfit of black cloth. On her feet were supple black slippers. Her black scarf was wound completely around her head and face, leaving only her watchful eyes showing. Black gloves covered her hands; her long braid she neatly tucked beneath her clothing. Cloak, bow, and quiver were left behind. Her only weapons were her sword, her four daggers, and her skill. If she was lucky, they would be all she would need. If she were unlucky she would soon be dead, and it wouldn't matter.

  She searched the length of the alleyway again. She was still alone. Hurrying to the other side, she flattened herself against the slick wall.

  Praying it would hold, she grasped the rusty downspout with both hands and, like a spider, quickly climbed to the roof.

  She took a few precious moments to look around again. Still, she saw no one. Turning north, she ran and jumped across the rooftops toward her target.

  Satine knew the rooftop terrain well. She had been raised in this area of Tammerland and had played upon these roofs as a child. This night she was a child no more, and her task was deadly serious.

  She knew that the sun would soon rise, chasing away her cover of darkness. If she did not reach her target in time, her chance would be lost. Once her sanctions had begun in earnest, there might never be another opportunity like this one.

  Finally seeing the familiar roof up ahead, she took a flying leap between buildings and landed surely on all fours. Just as she had hoped, the nearby skylight emitted a soft glow through its frosted glass. Someone in the house beneath her had already risen, and she knew who it would be.

  Moving silently to the skylight, she removed one of her daggers from its sheath and began to pry open the window. As it gave way its hinges creaked, and she winced. She replaced the dagger in its sheath, raised the window, and surveyed the room. Then she grasped the edge of the skylight, curled her supple body over it, performing a perfect forward somersault down into the waiting room below, dropping silently onto a table that stood against the near wall.

  Before taking her first step down, she looked carefully around the room. Translucent paper filled the wood-framed panes that made up the four walls. The wall opposite her perch held a sliding door.

  The foyer she had entered was small and unassuming. A single oil lamp glowed softly across the highly polished hardwood floor. Each of the interlocking floorboards looked perfect and smooth, just as she remembered them. But this floor held a secret.

  She looked at the boards, trying to remember which of them were safe to step upon. They were each only the width of an average person's foot. Only eight of them could be traversed without emitting a squeaking sound-an unobtrusive yet effective intruder alert.

  Desperately hoping that the path of the boards had not been altered since she had last visited, Satine sat down upon the table and dangled her long legs over the side. She stretched forth a slippered foot and gingerly placed it upon what she remembered to be one of the safe boards. She stayed that way for a moment, wondering whether to put her full weight upon it. Finally, she did. Nothing happened.

  With a sigh of relief, she made her way across the room. Blessedly, each of the boards she chose proved to be the correct one. The final board lay just before the sliding door. That was when she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall on the other side.

  Satine froze. What mattered now was whether the person in the hallway would stop to slide open the door. Satine could move out of view to one side, but if she did, the boards would sound. If she remained where she was and the door opened, there would be no escape.

  Holding her breath, she listened intently as the footsteps slowed to a stop directly opposite her on the other side of the paper door. As she stood there, she imagined that she could hear the other person's heart beating. Steeling herself for what might follow, she curled and separated the finger
s of her right hand. It would have to be done quickly, and without hesitation.

  Silently, the door began to slide open.

  Satine leaped into the hallway. Raising her arm, she used the claw of her readied fingers to take him by the throat. He instinctively tried to cry out, but no sound could come. She kneed him in the groin, doubling him over and eradicating his will to fight. She recognized his face, but she refused to let that deter her. Slipping quickly around him, she laced one arm under his throat and choked him unconscious. As she cradled him silently to the floor his eyes fluttered shut. The entire process had been silent, and had taken no more than a few seconds.

  Satine placed the tips of her first two fingers to the side of the man's throat. His heartbeat was weak but regular. He would soon regain consciousness and, no doubt, do his best to send out an alarm. From here on she would have to move quickly.

  It had not been her intention to kill the man. If it had, he would already be dead. Stepping over him, she silently made her way down the narrow hall toward the next paper door.

  She removed one of her daggers from its sheath, and used it to make a short, vertical incision in one of the wall's paper panels. Holding the slit open with the blade of her knife, she peered into the chamber just beyond.

  In the center of the room, Satine's true target sat cross-legged, his back to the door, upon a long, green mat. His shiny, shaved head reflected the light of the oil lamps. He wore a short white robe covered by a pleated black cloth skirt. Its ties wound around his waist and ended in a distinctive knot. He was barefoot and still, save for an occasional movement of his hands. A familiar scent drifted to Satine's nostrils, and she realized that he was taking his morning tea. She moved away from the slit.

  The most difficult part would be gaining entrance to the room without him hearing her do it. The door before her was the only way in. She slid it open just enough for her body to slip sideways through the opening. Reaching behind her back, she soundlessly unsheathed her sword.