Tristan looked at Traax. "Before we leave here, select a contingent of warriors to stay behind and deal with these abominations," he ordered.
Traax came to attention and snapped his boot heels together. "It shall be done," he replied quickly.
Tristan had an important question for Tyranny. But before he could ask her, Scars reappeared by her side. There was a strange look on the giant's face.
"Begging your pardon, Captain, but during their searches of the demonslaver ships, our crew made an unexpected discovery."
"What is it?" she asked.
Turning, Scars pointed one of his huge paws toward the bow deck. "More slaves," he said quietly.
Tyranny snapped her head around. Forty filthy, emaciated slaves, men and women alike, had appeared before them on the deck. Shackled together by hand and foot, many of them could no longer stand. Some were on their knees, while others simply lay on the bloody deck, slowly dying. A few stood, looking at their saviors as though they had just descended from some long-forgotten dream.
Tyranny took a slow step toward them, then another and another, her eyes on a male slave. His hands were crippled and his face and body were covered with soot, as if he had just come from some kind of forge. Dressed in only a tattered loincloth, he had a long, filthy beard and hair that nearly reached his shoulders.
Then the wine bottle dropped from Tyranny's hand, and she began to walk faster, then faster still. Finally she was running for all she was worth across the bloody deck.
"Jacob?" she breathed, not daring to believe. "Jacob… Jacob!"
As if locked within some kind of dream, Twenty-Nine simply stared at her as she came running toward him. With tears in his eyes, he fell to his knees sobbing. As she reached out her arms, Tyranny's face reflected exultant joy.
Dropping to her knees, she placed a hand on either side of Twenty-Nine's face and looked into his eyes. Tears cascaded freely down his cheeks, and he wrapped his shaking arms around her and held her close, as though he never wanted to let go. Pulling him to her, she closed her eyes and began gently rocking him back and forth as she ran one hand down over his long, dirty hair. After what seemed forever, he looked back into her face.
"Mother and Father?" he asked, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
Tyranny shook her head. "No," she whispered back.
Hearing boot heels, Tyranny looked up to see Tristan standing beside them. "Your brother?" he asked softly.
Tyranny nodded. "Jacob," she said, turning her eyes back to him. "I had almost given up hope."
Tristan was about to speak again when a quick, dark shadow passed over the deck. Looking up, he saw a Minion warrior half flying, half tumbling down out of the sky. His chest and arms were covered with blood, and one of his wings seemed to be injured.
He was flying from the direction of the palace.
Traax and two others immediately took off, reaching their wounded comrade just as he was about to give up and come crashing to the deck. Holding him in their arms, they landed gently and laid him down. Everyone crowded around.
The warrior's wounds were grave. Wigg immediately knelt down and placed one palm on the Minion's forehead. The wizard closed his eyes. Upon opening them again he stood up and, looking sadly over at Tristan, shook his head.
Kneeling down, Tristan looked into the warrior's face. His eyelids were heavy, and his breathing was labored. Blood ran from his wounds to mingle with that already on the deck. Tristan lifted the warrior's head up.
"Can you hear me?" the prince asked gently.
The warrior nodded weakly. "Yes, my lord."
"Did you come from the palace?"
Another nod.
"What happened?"
Reaching out to grasp Tristan's forearm, the Minion tried to bring his face closer. Tristan leaned farther down-so close that he could hear the death rattle starting to build in the warrior's lungs. The Minion's body was shaking; a trickle of blood ran from one corner of his mouth.
"Demonslavers," he whispered. "Too many of them… so many of us dead…" His face constricted with pain, he looked up into Tristan's eyes. "You must hurry, my lord… Celeste and the wizard Faegan… They're…" With a final, wheezing rattle, the last breath escaped from the warrior's lungs, and his eyes closed.
Gravely, Tristan laid the warrior's head down on the deck of the Reprisal. Standing, he stared for a moment into Traax's eyes.
Then he ran toward the litter. Shailiha, Abbey, and Wigg followed him. He helped the others safely inside, then was about to get in himself when Tyranny brushed by him and began to climb in.
Grabbing her by the arm, Tristan gave her a hard look. "What about Jacob?" he asked.
Stopping, she turned and looked at him. "I'm coming with you," she said flatly, as the wind moved through her hair. "I owe you this. If you hadn't seen to it that I had been given these ships, my brother would still be out there, somewhere. And as for Jacob, he couldn't be in safer hands. Scars will care for him as he would care for me."
"Besides," she added, "I have a feeling that you're going to need all the swords you can muster."
As she started to climb in again, Tristan pulled her back. "There's something I have to know," he asked her urgently. "Did you see any humans during your fight with the demonslavers? Anyone of the craft?" When Tyranny shook her head, Tristan's heart sank.
Quickly the two joined the others in the litter. As the litter rose from the decks of the Reprisal, the sky around it became dark with Minion warriors. Like a strange cloud, it turned to the southwest and sped across the sky. Soon the rich, green grasses of the Cavalon Delta appeared below them.
As Tristan looked out of the litter, a single, burning thought kept crowding out all his other fears.
Celeste.
CHAPTER
Seventy-one
W ith a wave of one hand, Wulfgar caused the hovering violin and bow to change the tune they were playing. Listening to the new haunting melody, he closed his eyes and leaned back luxuriously in his chair. When he finally opened his hazel eyes again, he began to speak in an even, measured tone; just as a father might speak to a son whom he had decided needed to be punished.
"You're making this far more difficult on yourself than need be," he said quietly, almost compassionately. "Simply tell me where the Scroll of the Vigors is, and I will grant you a quick, painless death. And the woman, as well, should she still be alive. Doesn't that sound wonderful? Just think of it-no more agony in your legs, and no more misplaced loyalty to a group of so-called friends who seem to have foolishly left you here in my care. Just a perfect, forgiving, and peaceful sleep that will last forever."
Faegan slumped over in his chair, his head lolling to one side. Drool dripped from one corner of his mouth, and his robe was folded up over his lap, exposing his crippled legs. He was soaked with sweat, and his entire body shook uncontrollably from time to time like a marionette dancing at the ends of some unseen master's strings.
The torture had been going on for more than two hours now, and twice Wulfgar had been forced to use the craft to bring his subject back to consciousness after the wizard had fainted.
And Wulfgar's patience was wearing thin.
The Enseterat turned to look at the still-inert body of Celeste, lying facedown like a broken doll beneath the pile of records drawers. He gave a short laugh. He had not bothered to determine whether she was still alive, but he really didn't care. Who was she, he thought, to think that she might challenge his powers?
He turned back to regard the azure, serrated knife that hovered in the air near the wizard's right calf. He had chosen to conjure this particular instrument not only because it could yield its results slowly and with great precision, but also because the simplicity of the concept amused him.