Ragnar had been here before, but this time something was different, and standing at the entrance to the room at last, the stalker stopped short, amazed at what he saw before him. From all around the room came the glow of the craft. A vein of glowing azure rippled through the living rock walls as if it were part of the very chamber itself. Many feet wide in most places, it completely encircled the chamber like a glowing, undulating snake. It was like looking at the purest vein of Eutracian gold as it lay there, waiting to be mined. But this vein glowed, and he knew instinctively that it was infinitely more valuable than gold.
This vein is endowed, Ragnar thought as he stood speechless before its beauty. He shook his head, fully understanding that this was undoubtedly the work of the young master, and astounded at the breadth of the power the child now apparently possessed.
“Beautiful, is it not?” came the young, controlled voice from somewhere behind him.
Ragnar and Scrounge turned around to see the boy hovering before them, the amazing glow about him as always. Immediately they went to their knees.
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar said. “I have never seen anything like it.”
“And once it is gone, you will never see its equal again,” the youth responded quietly as he watched the undulating vein throb within the living rock. He stretched out his arm to pass one hand lovingly over the glowing ribbon.
“Please, my lord, will you tell us how it has so suddenly come?” Ragnar asked, then wondered if he had overstepped his bounds. “And, if it also pleases you, for what purpose is it intended?” He raised his face to look up at the boy, taking in the dark, upturned eyes; the long, black, silky hair; the bright white robe.
“You have many questions,” the boy said quietly, sending a shiver up the spines of both the stalker and the assassin. “The vein is a subject best left for another time. Besides, you are here for different reasons.”
The young adept began to glide toward the door at the far side of the chamber. “Follow me,” he said simply. Then, only a short distance away, he stopped. Suddenly turning, he smiled briefly, showing perfect, white teeth. “For your purposes, you may call me Nicholas,” he said calmly, turning around as he made for the door.
Nicholas, Ragnar thought, looking knowingly at Scrounge. How appropriate.
Nicholas led them into another room, so large that it literally dwarfed the one from which they had just come.
Hewn out of living rock, it was over twenty stories and measured several hundred meters across in both directions. The flickering, orange flames of dozens of wall torches, enchanted by Nicholas to continue burning forever, cast sinuous shadows across the walls and floor, creating an imposing sense of dread. A door led out of the room at the far side. And carved into all four walls were row upon row of open, azure-glowing crypts. There were several thousand of them, and over half were occupied by male bodies, lying head outward, into the room.
Nicholas looked up, carefully examining the crypts.
Very soon now, my father, the child thought. Very soon you, your twin sister, and the pestilence that is the two wizards who practice the Vigors shall all know of my coming.
He glanced down to Ragnar. Softly, he said, “Come with me.” With that he began to ascend toward the highest of the rows of occupied crypts, his white robe billowing gently as he went.
Leaving Scrounge standing on the floor, Ragnar levitated himself to Nicholas’ side. From here the blood stalker could see the true size of this massive place. He estimated that with a little more than half of the crypts filled, there were at least two thousand bodies already here.
But the child would not be content with those numbers, Ragnar realized. Nicholas would not rest until he had them all . . .
Ragnar hovered closer to one of the crypts for a better look. The glow seemed brighter to him from this proximity. And although the face of the man inside was unknown to him, he recognized what the man was: a consul of the Redoubt.
Lying as if asleep, the consul was still wearing his dark blue robe. The blood stalker did not have to examine him further to know that the tattoo, the representation of the Paragon, had already been removed from the man’s right shoulder. This particular consul had a great, gray beard, and was rather mature. He had probably been a consul for some time, Ragnar reflected, perhaps even holding a station of some prominence within the secret organization of the endowed. He may even have known Wigg personally.
Ragnar reached up to feel the never-healing wound in the side of his head. He was to be awarded the honor of punishing the lead wizard—the child had promised him that. He smiled, relishing his eagerness for revenge. And it would be his assassin who would destroy the Chosen One. But he had no idea what Nicholas was doing with all these consuls.
The youth glided closer to the stalker, his head tilted back, his long, dark hair hanging toward the ground below, his upturned eyes mere slits. He seemed to be lost in the rapture of some private thought. Finally he looked into Ragnar’s gray, bloodshot eyes with a newfound intensity.
“I bring you here to show you how many consuls we now have,” he added. “It is my understanding that there are now fewer consuls left in the countryside than there are interred here. I wish them all to be delivered to the catacombs quickly, before any of them can return to the Redoubt. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar answered obediently.
“And the lone consul?” Nicholas asked. “Has he been delivered to the Redoubt as I ordered?”
“Yes, with a message from Scrounge. I approved it myself. It is sure to acquire the attention of the prince.”
“Good,” Nicholas said. “My father, he of the azure blood, is soon to know the sting of your particular alchemy—that which was inadvertently created by Wigg himself. It has a certain poetic quality, don’t you agree?”
For the first time ever, Ragnar smiled in the presence of the amazing child. “Yes, my lord,” he responded.
“Just so,” Nicholas said. With a gesture beckoning the blood stalker to return to the ground to collect Scrounge, he led his servants toward the large, ornate portal at the far side of the room.
Each chamber seemed to be more immense than the last. This one was not carved of rock, but constructed of light green marble, shot through with streaks and swirls of black. It shone beneath the light of hundreds of enchanted sconces and chandeliers lining the seemingly never-ending walls. But despite the great size of the room, the air was stifling and oppressive. The temperature was warm, bordering on hot, and smelled somehow of both old and new life.
The glowing vein Ragnar had seen in the first room ran completely around the walls, undulating and coursing mightily, as if it were trying to break free of the stone in which it was imprisoned. But even more impressive were the contents of the room: The floor was covered with thousands of azure, glowing, slime-ridden eggs.
Nicholas’ hatchlings, Ragnar realized, awed. But why does he need so many?
“The answer is simple,” Nicholas said, as if reading the stalker’s thoughts. “Despite the fact that he is now hunted by his own countrymen, the allies of the Chosen One will be many in the coming struggle. We shall therefore have need of all you see before you. In addition, there are others maturing outside of the Caves, in the trees of the countryside—something that will make the capturing of the consuls go just that much quicker.”
The glowing, translucent eggs were arranged in rows upon the floor, their lines stretching out of sight to the farthest corners of the chamber. Each of the eggs dripped a thin, runny, azure fluid down the outside of its shell. The stinking fluid from the many eggs eventually joined, pooling upon the floor, adding to the earthy, fetid odor in the room. Inside each of the translucent eggs could be seen a hatchling—grotesque, curled up, growing.