“During the transformation, the brain matter always turned yellow and became acidic,” he said. “When his skull parted, the odor was released. Early on, we tried to retrieve them from their transformations to return them back to human form. But we always failed. Before the discovery of the Paragon, the sorceresses were just too strong for us. Many wizards, some more capable than myself, died in the attempts to reverse the process. It took us time, but sadly all we really learned was that the fastest way to kill one was to crush the skull. But the sorceresses knew that, too, and were able to use even that technique against us.” He picked a blade of grass and idly began to shred it between his fingers.
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, the yellow brain matter is acidic. That’s why you saw the foggy steam. It was burning into the grass as he lay there. If it touches human skin, even the smallest amount, it is instantaneously fatal.” He paused. “Another gift from the sorceresses.”
She had more questions, and she could have asked them all day. If nothing else, Princess Shailiha was known for being inquisitive.
“What about the thunder and lightning? The sky remained clear. What I saw was impossible.”
Wigg smiled and placed the tip of a long, ancient index finger squarely on the end of the princess’ nose.
“Too many questions, Shailiha,” he lectured. His left eyebrow came up again. “Have you forgotten why we came out here in the first place?” Her cheeks flushed. Of course she had not forgotten about her brother! She tossed her long blond hair over one shoulder. “Please, just tell me about the thunder and lightning,” she begged. She was too curious to stop now. “And, oh, why did you put your hands on your poor horse’s face? Last questions, I promise.”
For several moments he simply looked at her without speaking. She had been through a great deal already today, and Tristan was still missing. There was much yet to do. He noticed there were still bits of blood in her hair, and reminded himself that they must do something about that before they returned to the palace.
“It’s a bargain,” he said finally. He looked slowly up at the sky as he thought about his reply.
“Every time a blood stalker is killed, there is the same strange atmospheric event. Massive thunder and lightning of a highly unusual type, without dark clouds or rain. During the war, we could only surmise that it served to inform the sorceresses of the death of one of their own. Sadly, I have seen it myself too many times.” But there is another, darker reason, he thought. One I cannot yet share with you.
He couldn’t blame the princess for her curiosity. Those of endowed blood always had an insatiable desire to learn the craft, and she was no different. But since the Sorceresses’ War, the teaching of the craft to females had been strictly forbidden.
“As for the horse, I was trying to sense from the poor animal the reason, the danger, that was preventing them both from going any farther.” He frowned. “I got my answer.”
He promptly stood up. Without explanation he walked to the center of the field and stood near the corpse. He examined the handle of the battle ax and finally found a spot clear of the awful acid, by which he could hold it. He methodically wiped the weapon in the grass and laid it to one side of the clearing. Then he pulled the hood of his simple gray robe down over his head, partially hiding his face. Walking back to stand before the remains of his one-time friend, he clasped his hands before him and bowed his head. Immediately, the corpse burst into bright azure flames that rose high into the air, and the stench became much worse. He then went to the remains of the murdered gelding and repeated the process. On his way back to Shailiha, he beckoned her to stand, then picked up the blanket, basket, and tack, and began to saddle the mare. Leaving her horse tied to the tree, he helped the young woman into her sidesaddle. Then, to her surprise, he turned and walked away without saying a word, passing the burning, stinking corpse and disappearing into the smoke.
If I am not upwind of the dead, I shall never sense the blood of the living, he thought to himself.
Stepping out of the smoke on the other side, Wigg stopped, holding his hands out before him, his eyes closed. He could sense Tristan’s presence. But it was much weaker than before, as if being blocked by something. Worry began to crowd into the corners of his mind.
Returning to Shailiha, he untied the mare and began to lead it across the field in the direction of Tristan’s presence. There was much more that he could have told her, but he chose to remain silent. He would have to swear both her and her brother to secrecy about the blood stalker before they returned to Tammerland. But the presence of the gruesome thing had unnerved him. Despite the Directorate’s hopes that all of the blood stalkers had perished, Phillius had somehow prevailed for over three centuries.
He suddenly stopped short, wondering. It could be even worse. He had recently heard of the unexplained disappearances of several of the lesser rural wizards. Phillius might not have simply survived in hiding all of those years. A cold shudder shot through him, as the unwanted thoughts surprised his mind.
Phillius might actually have been dead, and suddenly recalled, he thought.
Turning back for one last glimpse of the burning corpse, he raised his free hand, palm open. Shailiha watched, her mouth agape, as the bloody battle ax rose into the air, flying in a straight line this time, its long black handle slapping directly into Wigg’s palm. They turned and walked on through the smoke.
When Tristan awoke, the first sensations that came to him were those of pain and noise. Pain throughout his entire body—and a noise he could not identify. Both crashed in upon his still-groggy mind like dual awakening explosions. He opened his eyes to find only blackness. The combination was at once both intolerable and terrifying.
I pray to the Afterlife, please do not let me be blind, Tristan prayed.
His face felt wet, and some kind of liquid was running down into his eyes. Realizing he was on his back, he began to raise himself up. It took three tries before his swimming head finally allowed him to sit upright. There was pain in every part of his body, and still he could not see. Dazed and disoriented, he had no memory of how he got here. Wherever here is, he wondered.
Running his hand across his forehead, he felt the fluid between his fingertips. It was thick enough to be blood, and it was warm to the touch like blood—but he could feel no wound. He hurt everywhere. Blindly, he used his hands to wipe his face off as best he could.
The ever-present noise was overwhelming. A great and terrible rushing noise, he finally decided. But in the pitch-black void, he could not quite place the sound. It was at this point that his eyes began to adjust to the small amount of light. Joyously, he began to pick out odd shapes in the gloom.
I can see. Thank the Afterlife, I can see.
Turning his head, he was now able to begin to make out the weak shaft of light as it cast dimly downward from the hole in the wall above. It gave off only enough light for him to determine that there was a set of broken stone steps beneath it, leading down toward the blackness near where he sat. They looked to be about forty feet high. And then it came back to him. The chase for Pilgrim. The butterflies on the wall. And falling through into the black nothingness.
Standing slowly, he was able to determine that nothing was broken. But the pain in his joints and muscles was almost debilitating. Looking up at the dimly lit hole high in the wall he could see that he had fallen a long way, probably hitting the steps several times on the way down.
He seemed to be in an underground cavern. A deep one. At the bottom. For safety’s sake, he got down on his hands and knees and began crawling toward the spot where he estimated the stone steps would touch the ground. Upon reaching them there was enough light to see that the steps were indeed at least a hundred feet tall, and stopped at the top where he had fallen in. He didn’t know whether he trusted them to hold his weight, but any fool could see he had little choice.