Savage Messiah

As the new limbs exited the K'tons' bodies, Wulfgar smiled. The freshly formed appendages were wings. Dark and leathery, they looked very strong. The K'tons quickly snapped their new, wet wings into place behind them.

At last, Wulfgar realized, the Minion advantage of flight is ours as well!

The winged K'tons now covered the slopes of the mountains for as far as he could see. The azure glow slowly faded away, and the breach in the wall closed. The K'tons waited in the torchlight, their weapons at the ready.

Wulfgar walked up to the first of them and pointed at the Black Ship lying on the field below.

"Walk to the ship," he ordered.

Its teeth curling back in a vicious grimace, the K'ton raised its head and gave a cry that was half scream, half snarl. Its red gaze held Wulfgar's for a moment. Wulfgar glared back. Then the K'ton turned and lumbered down the slope; thousands of others followed his lead. Their dark numbers were so vast that as they walked it seemed the entire hillside was moving. But as the first of the K'tons neared the recent battle scene, they slowed. Wulfgar tensed.

The K'tons at the edge of the field raised their heads. Their sensitive noses began testing the night air.

They've detected the blood of the fallen, Wulfgar realized.

The K'tons charged down into the killing field, roaring with delight as they grabbed up corpses.

Wulfgar smiled. He looked over at Cathmore; his captain smiled back at him.

"How marvelous," Wulfgar said softly. "Frankly, I was wondering how we were going to feed them all. Now I know."

Cathmore turned his glowing eyes back to the grisly scene. "Indeed," he answered.

When the feeding frenzy was finally over, Wulfgar and Cathmore walked down the slope to stand among the K'tons.

Not a shred of once-living tissue remained. Blood colored the ground. Minion body armor and weapons lay scattered over a wide area, as did the clothing and weapons of the fallen demonslavers who had vanquished them. The K'tons stood quietly, blood staining their hands and mouths. Even now they seemed unsatisfied.

Cathmore turned to look at his lord. "There wasn't enough for them to eat," he observed casually. "Such a pity."

Wulfgar nodded. "We'll just have to get to Tammerland faster. There will be lots of soft-bellied citizens for them to feast upon in the city."

Cathmore smiled.

"Even so, we must first deal with the orb," Wulfgar reminded his captain. "And it needs to be done on the plains, far away from the azure wall. Then we can join the rest of the Black Ships and take Tammerland."

Wulfgar walked over to the demonslavers. "Get aboard!" he yelled at them. "We leave at once!"

He turned to face the K'tons.

"Half of your number are to follow my ship by air," he ordered in a craft-enhanced shout. "The rest are to fly to Tammerland to join the other Black Ships. When you find them, follow the orders of Captain Merriwhether. Stragglers will be killed. We will join you there. In the capital there will be plenty of food for all!"

The K'tons in the front ranks snarled and beat their bloody fists upon their chests. Soon all of them followed suit in a massive display of power.

Wulfgar raised one hand. Calling upon the craft, he caused a blank parchment to appear. He pointed at it and writing appeared upon its surface. When he was done, the parchment rolled itself up.

Wulfgar took the scroll from the air and walked it over to one of the K'tons. The drooling monster simply looked at it for a moment. Then it took the scroll from its master.

"Give that to Captain Merriwhether," Wulfgar ordered the K'ton. "Fail to do so and you will pay with your life. Do you understand?"

Raising the parchment high, the K'ton gave a fierce battle cry.

Satisfied, Wulfgar levitated himself to the foredeck of the ship. Cathmore followed. The last of the demonslavers entered the open stern of the ship's hull, and the door slowly rose up. The ship lifted into the air.

As the Black Ship sailed away, the K'ton throngs snapped open their wings and lifted into the night.

CHAPTER LXXIX

Tristan awoke to find he was standing up, the young Scroll Master beside him. As his vision cleared, the Jin'Sai looked around in awe. He had long believed that he would never see a room larger than the Hall of Blood Records, but what he saw here made even that great place seem small by comparison.

Like the others before it, this chamber was also constructed of glowing azure glass. The ceiling had to be at least one hundred meters high. Massive columns rose to meet it.

A seductive cross between the finest of choir voices and the gentle tinkling of glass wind chimes teased his hearing. Saying nothing, the young Scroll Master watched and waited as Tristan took in the scene.

Row upon row of glowing azure bookcases stood in neat ranks, filling the hall from one side to the other. They seemed to stretch into infinity.

"What is this place?" Tristan asked with wonder and respect.

The Scroll Master turned to him. "Your wizards and sorceresses are wrong," he said, "about so many things. They always have been. But even without the direct guidance of the Ones, and with only the Tome and the Scroll of the Vigors to guide them, their advancement has been exemplary."

It was not lost on Tristan that the Scroll Master hadn't actually answered his question. "I don't understand," he said. "What have they been wrong about?"

"A great many things, I'm afraid," the boy answered. "Perhaps their greatest mistake of late has been their misguided theories regarding the art of Forestallments. But that is understandable. Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay are little more than three centuries old. That length of time is but a single heartbeat in the life of the craft. They remain infants in the ways of magic."

Tristan was becoming impatient. "You haven't answered my first question," he said. "What is this place?"

"We are standing in the presence of one of the greatest achievements of the Ones," the boy said. "The Well of Forestallments. Come with me."

The boy floated toward one line of shelves. As Tristan followed along, his boot heels rang out against the floor, mingling with the comforting sounds that came from everywhere at once. They traveled a long way before stopping. Pointing to one of the bookcases, the boy indicated that Tristan should walk around to face it.

"Do not be threatened by what you see," the boy said. "Although it will be unexpected, it ca

Tristan was devastated by what lay before him. Taking a quick breath, he stepped back. He couldn't believe his eyes.

It was the face of Failee.

Failee-the mad First Mistress of the Coven and onetime wife to Wigg. The woman who had ordered the deaths of his parents and the Directorate of Wizards, absconded with both the Paragon and his twin sister Shailiha, and one of the Coven of Sorceresses he had killed with his first and only use of the craft. Memories flooded his mind as he stood there looking at the face of the woman he had hated for so long.

He finally realized that he was looking at only a death mask. He relaxed a bit. Taking a deep breath, he walked closer.

From the depths of the shelf, Failee's face hovered behind what seemed to be a curved pane of clear glass. Her eyes were closed. Azure light highlighted the contours of her face, and words in Old Eutracian were inscribed into the area just below the mask. He looked down.

The cubicle below the one holding Failee's likeness was also encased in glass, but what it contained fascinated Tristan even more.

Like tributaries snaking away from a river, dozens of azure Forestallments twinkled there. Many more words in Old Eutracian were inscribed below them. The Forestallments hovered vertically in space; amazingly beautiful, they sent out shimmering waves of azure as they rotated side by side.