Enraged, the second of them drew his sword as surely as had the first and with a scream, he rushed at the prince. But this time Tristan had the distance he needed.
Without hesitation he tossed the heavy dreggan from his right hand over into his left. Reaching back, he gripped the handle of his first throwing knife. With a whirl of his arm, the blade twirled unerringly toward its target and buried itself in the center of the thing's forehead with a sickening thud, stopping him in midstride. Stunned, the attacker simply stood as a trail of bright red blood snaked its sure, silent way down over his damaged skullcap and onto his white face. As if trapped in some impossible dream, the creature ran his fingers through it, then blankly examined it before staring back up at the prince. His sword slipped from his fingers and clanged noisily to the floor.
The white eyes closed, and he fell over onto his back, dead.
Chest heaving, Tristan glared at the remaining three. He tossed the dreggan back into his right hand, and his fingers tightened around the hilt.
He didn't have to wait very long.
Suddenly the huge oak chandelier came crashing down in a cacophony of noise, glass, and lamp oil. It smashed directly onto the heads of the three would-be attackers. All three collapsed, as glass shattered and oil spilled as the long rope pooled atop the mess. Blood mixed strangely with the oil and ran across the floor and into the cracks between the floorboards.
Tristan hesitated in shock for an instant, then rushed in and ran each body through. Two were already dead, and the third could not have been far from it-his neck lay at an odd angle, clearly broken, and he was unable to breathe. Tristan's blade was a blessing.
Once done, Tristan turned, and his eyes went wide.
Shailiha had untied the rope holding up the chandelier.
Letting out a great sigh of relief, Tristan uncoiled. Shailiha, arms akimbo, stared intently at the beings she had just killed.
This was the first time she had ever taken a life, Tristan realized as he went to her.
The moment he put his arms around her, she dropped her defiant stance.
"Are you all right?" he asked gently as he looked into her eyes.
"Yes." Her voice was strong and calm. She looked past Tristan's shoulder at the bodies lying beneath the chandelier. Faegan had wheeled his chair over to the tangled mess to examine the creatures.
"And just what were you prepared to do while all of this was going on?" Tristan growled at the wizard, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"After you killed the first two, even I doubted you could have handled the next three all at once," Faegan said with a smile. "I was of course prepared to use the craft to help you. But then I saw the princess had other plans."
"What in the name of the Afterlife are these things?" Tristan asked. Walking over, he reached down and wiped the blade of his dreggan clean with one of the victim's black leather skirts. Satisfied, he slid the sword back into its scabbard. Then he retrieved his throwing knife and repeated the process with it.
Shailiha walked up behind him and took his hand. "I have never seen anything like them," she said quietly.
"Do you remember your question to me about the demonslavers?" Faegan asked, his eyes alight with curiosity. "Well, I think you have just found your answer."
"But where do they come from, and why did they want us?" asked Shailiha.
"They are without question some product of the Vagaries," Faegan answered seriously. "But as to how they were produced or who they may have originally been, I cannot say. They may be mutated wizards, as are the blood stalkers. Or perhaps they are something else entirely. Only time will tell. These beings may have been hunting under Krassus' orders. He did, after all, literally dare us to come here to see what was taking place." He paused, rubbing his chin. "I fear, though, that we may have only scratched the surface of our troubles."
"What do we do now?" Shailiha asked.
"First," Faegan answered, "Tristan needs to drag the bodies out back and hide them behind the shop. We have been fortunate, but I believe we have yet to see whatever it is Krassus taunted us about. We must still make our way to the docks-the roughest part of all Farpoint.
"We're within walking distance. Tristan, we leave as soon as you have finished."
CHAPTER
Eight
"A re you quite certain you should be doing this, Father?" Celeste asked nervously.
Wigg stepped over another fallen log as he made his way carefully through the forest. "Yes, my dear," he answered patiently. "I am quite all right."
Truth be known, he loved the way she looked after him. He smiled as he realized just how long it had been since anyone had taken care of him: more than three centuries.
He stopped for a moment to get his bearings. An equal number of years had passed since he had visited this section of the Hartwick Woods, and he wanted to be sure of his way.
Walking up beside him, Celeste took her father's hand. "Just the same, let's rest for a moment," she suggested softly.
Looking around, Wigg saw a small clearing and headed for it. They sat in the shade of a hibernium tree. As was the old wizard's custom, he picked a blade of grass and began shredding it with his long, elegant fingers.
The day was still young, the sun just rising above the tops of the trees as they swayed gently back and forth in the wind. The dark green grass was soft and fresh, as were so many of the living things now bursting forth from the Season of New Life. The songs of the birds made a comforting, familiar background refrain.
Wigg turned to look at his daughter-the daughter he had only so recently found. He loved her more than his life, and would do anything to protect her. Although she seemed outwardly normal, Celeste was just beginning to come to grips with all that she had been forced to endure. He had spent hours discussing the matter with Faegan, who had sadly agreed that no matter how intelligent or how high the quality of her endowed blood, Celeste would need a great deal of care and guidance to set things right, if indeed they ever could be.
Both Wigg and Faegan had a great deal of collective knowledge regarding such psychosexual trauma, for they had witnessed firsthand the various abuses of the Coven during the Sorceresses' War of three centuries earlier. But this was different. This time the victim had been the lead wizard's only child, and his stake in her healing was acutely personal.
Lying down in the soft grass, Celeste closed her eyes. Shawna the Short had wisely seen to it that her gown and slippers were replaced with attire more suitable for walking through the forest: a brown leather jerkin over a close-fitting blouse of black silk with sleeves that gathered at the wrists. Trunk hose rose to just above her knees, and she wore soft, brown knee boots. Her dark red hair spread out upon the ground like a luxurious fan. Looking at her, Wigg could easily pick out the fine features she had inherited from her mother, Failee.
No matter what she wore or how distressed she became, her beauty always shone through, the old one thought. In that way, she was much like Shailiha. Yet, in so many ways, she was also very different. Suddenly forced to wipe away a tear, he continued to contemplate the various psychological stages of healing the young woman would be forced to endure.
She was in denial, he knew, and this very uncertain mental stage would presumably be followed by others. Eventually would come her anger, then her eventual acceptance of what had been done to her. And finally, if she was lucky, a form of personal resolution would befall her, truly allowing her to lead a relatively normal life out in the world.
His thoughts floated back to three days earlier, when Krassus had so suddenly appeared. The rogue wizard had said many things that stunned Wigg that day, but none so much as his reference to the partial adept living here in these woods, and his mention of having visited her. Wigg had no doubt that Krassus' motives for doing so could certainly not have been harmless.