“But why?” he whispered, his voice cracking with fear. “You said as a reward for my loyalty I was to serve you always, even with the coming of the Heretics!” His breathing was heavily labored; his knees had begun to shake.
Nicholas smiled slightly as a sudden gust of wind blew through his long, dark hair. “The answer is simple, stalker,” he whispered. “I lied.”
“But why?” Ragnar repeated even more desperately.
“Your blood is tainted by your own brain fluid, don’t you see?” Nicholas answered, gliding closer. “This makes you clearly inferior, and unworthy of life in what shall soon be our fearless, uncompromising new world. The wizard Wigg has finally succeeded, however obliquely, in releasing you from your torment after all.” The young adept shook his head, contemplating the unique, centuries-old maze that lay before him.
“Ragnar,” he said softly. “Once a respected wizard—one who would have surely become a member of the Directorate. Partially turned to a stalker by the same woman who was once Wigg’s wife, you went on to become addicted to your own fluids due solely to Wigg’s actions. The onetime wife of Wigg, now controlling you, left their child with you for safekeeping. Later, believing the mother to be banished forever, you abused the sorceress’ progeny for centuries in order not only to satisfy your sick desires, but also to take silent revenge on the wizard who had been the sorceress’ husband. And then you finally die at the hands of the one left behind in Parthalon by the Chosen One himself—an act made possible due to the ministrations of Failee, that same sorceress.” Nicholas paused for a moment, his dark gaze boring its way into the back of the stalker’s brain. “It seems that Failee, by way of the Chosen One’s seed, is about to take her revenge upon you after all,” he added quietly. “How fitting, wouldn’t you agree? The circle is about to become complete.”
As the stalker’s desperate breathing ignited the cold air into puffs of vapor, a trail of urine emptied from his body, running down the inside of one of his legs to join with the odorous brain fluid already on the ground. The two vile substances of similar color snaked their way down the embankment, melting the snow before them.
“But Scrounge!” Ragnar countered. “He will surely know that you have killed me, and will perhaps even refuse to follow you!”
“How will he possibly know?” Nicholas answered, gliding closer. “I have sent him into seclusion at Fledgling House, ordering him not to depart until he leads the hatchlings against the Chosen One on the morrow’s dawn. And by the time he notices your prolonged absence, he too shall be dead. Even the hatchlings and the carrion scarabs shall be disposed of after they have rid the world of everyone but myself, my parents of above, and the consuls who have chosen to serve us.” Nicholas leveled his eyes at the stalker, sending another shiver of terror through him.
“So you see,” the adept finished quietly. “None of my servants were ever meant to live, much less serve me for eternity.”
Without further discussion Nicholas pointed a slender, white finger toward the stalker. Almost immediately Ragnar’s robes, jacket, and boots began to rip apart. Wigg’s ceremonial dagger fell to the ground with the tatters of clothing. Ragnar stood naked and exposed in the snow.
A thin, scarlet line appeared down the entire length of his torso, from his larynx to his exposed groin. It quickly became a ribbon of bright red blood.
With a wet ripping sound, the stalker’s abdomen and breastbone split wide open, exposing the still-living organs within. As his endowed blood rushed out, his organs were pulled from his body, collecting into a hideous pile of offal in the snow just before him.
Stunned, Ragnar looked for the last time into the eyes of Nicholas. He then fell forward, dead.
With a twist of his outstretched hand, Nicholas sent the steaming organs and dead body directly into the midst of the carrion scarabs. The shiny black beetles immediately clambered over them, rendering the stalker’s body virtually indistinguishable from the other corpses lying there. The females started to burrow their way into the freshly steaming body cavity to lay yet more of their eggs, while others of their kind began to feed on the bloody viscera.
Smiling, the adept took flight toward Fledgling House.
49
Throbbing wracked Tristan’s every limb and joint. He tried to raise himself up, but strong hands eased him firmly back down into the luxurious depths of a bed. He could see little, his vision blurry and off-center. Unable to fight his way out of the gloom, he allowed the blackness to overcome him again.
Pain still greeted him when he finally came around again, but his vision was better. Looking up, he saw the faces of Traax, Shailiha, and Celeste. Each of them smiled hesitantly down at him.
“You were gone a long time,” Shailiha said, her voice cracking. “Almost twelve hours. We thought that we might have lost you for good this time.” A tear crowded its way into her right eye, and she brushed it from her cheek.
He tried painfully to sit up, but his right arm wouldn’t move.
Shailiha turned her eyes away, then forced them back to him. “The veins have blackened up the length of your neck, little brother, and they cover your arm and hand.”
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said quietly. “There was no need for you to see this.”
Traax took a step closer to the bed, his dark green eyes looking intently down at his stricken master. “Forgive me, my lord,” he asked. “But now that you are conscious, there is a question I must ask you. The wizards claim you promised them litters, and a host of warriors to do their bidding. I wished to confirm these facts with you before granting their requests.”
Tristan smiled weakly. “Give them whatever they desire,” he said softly. “And any other aid they may need. I shall join you later.” He paused. “But first tell me, given the fact that you have now seen the effects of my illness, do you still accept me as your lord?” He held his breath for a moment, wondering if he had done the right thing. Above all, he must continue to command the loyalty and respect of the warrior standing before him.
Traax’s answer was both immediate and unequivocal. “I continue to serve you, and only you,” he said. “And as for your illness, it only makes me want to destroy the ones responsible for inflicting it upon you even more.” His hand tightened on his dreggan. “But I must also tell you that I am very glad the entire body of warriors did not see this. In truth, I cannot be sure how they would have reacted.” And then an unexpected smile spread across his face. “I shall now go to the wizards. They stand just outside the castle entrance, bickering at each other. Get well quickly, my lord, for we have some well-deserved killing to do.” Clicking his heels together, he turned and walked from the room, leaving Tristan alone with the women.
Tristan couldn’t remember ever having been so tired in his life. “Where is Ox?” he asked his sister.
“Just outside your door,” Shailiha answered. “I know of nothing in this world that could move him from his post.”
Then Celeste leaned over the bed, placing an affectionate hand on one of his cheeks. As she did so, her dark red hair fell down over one shoulder. He could smell the myrrh in it, just as he had that first night when he had saved her from diving off the cliff.
“I shall leave the two of you alone,” Shailiha said quietly. “When Celeste is done saying good-bye, I will return.” With that his twin sister quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.
Celeste picked up Tristan’s stricken right hand, holding it gently.
“I want to thank you,” she said, her voice dark and husky. She reached out with her free hand and smoothed back the usual, dark comma of hair from his forehead.
“For what?” he asked.
She smiled. “For saving my life, thereby making it possible for me to find my new one. Despite the fact that we may never see each other again, I shall never forget what you did for me.”