Ragnar remained silent as he listened to the two wizards, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
“There is something else that I find interesting,” Wigg went on, his eyebrow launching upward. “Ragnar is still convulsing. That makes me think that even though Failee’s part of it is done, and the incantation is advancing rapidly, the transformation still incomplete. If that is true,” he added slowly, “we may be able to reverse it, and save him.”
Tretiak’s jaw dropped. “In the name of the Afterlife, how?”
“We already know that the stalker’s brain fluid is what makes each one unique, and perpetuates the horror he has become. If we can drain the fluid from his head while the process is still taking place, thereby taking away what it is that makes him so, we may be able to reverse its otherwise inexorable progress. The odds are slim, but I feel we at least owe it to him to try.”
“And just how do we accomplish such a thing?”
“I want you to control his limbs,” Wigg answered, “but keep him conscious. Then remove the cage. I will make an incision in his skull and try to use the craft to drain off the fluid. But we must act quickly. Are you with me?”
“Of course.”
“Then we are wasting time,” Wigg said with finality. “Begin the incantation.”
Come and try, pestilence of the craft, Ragnar seethed. I will fight you with everything I have.
Tretiak closed his eyes. Almost immediately Ragnar began to strain against the onset of Tretiak’s incantation. The two fought each other’s minds for what seemed to be an eternity. Sweat broke out upon Tretiak’s brow as he struggled against the mutated powers of the stalker. Finally Ragnar slipped to his knees and fell to the grass. He was still alert, but unable to move. The azure bars of the wizard’s warp began to fade away, finally retreating into nothingness.
“Can you hold him in that state?” Wigg asked nervously.
“I am not sure,” Tretiak responded, strain in his voice. “His ability with the gift is strong, perhaps even more so now that he is a stalker. We must hurry.”
Wigg ran to seat himself the grass next to Ragnar and carefully lifted the stalker’s head into his lap. Removing his wizard’s dagger from its scabbard, he gave Tretiak a meaningful look.
“Above all, we cannot come into contact with the fluid,” he said sternly. “To do so would mean a horrible and instantaneous death. I will make an incision in his temple, and when the fluid begins to drain I will accelerate the process with the aid of the craft, causing it to pour out upon the ground. When I am done I want you to reactivate the cage at once. Are you ready?”
Tretiak nodded.
“Very well,” Wigg said. “May the Afterlife grant us strength.”
No sooner had Wigg made the incision than the stalker started to move again, the combination of Ragnar’s innate desire to kill the wizards and the sharp, sudden pain from Wigg’s knife apparently overcoming Tretiak’s incantation. Tretiak tried to keep him under, but Ragnar finally broke partially free of Wigg’s grasp. The quickly flowing, stinking brain fluid splattered in all directions, narrowly missing the two wizards. A few drops landed on Wigg’s boots, causing them to sizzle and smoke.
Wigg still had hold of his dagger, its blade covered with the yellow fluid. He desperately tried to control the stalker and activate his incantation at the same time. “Hold him with the craft!” he screamed at Tretiak.
Wigg closed his eyes. Ragnar continued to struggle. With a surge of unexpected strength, Ragnar broke farther free, then turned his face up toward Wigg, screaming in triumph. Still trying desperately to perform his incantation, Wigg had inadvertently turned his dagger point down toward Ragnar’s face, and some of the awful substance dripped down the blade.
The fluid fell directly into Ragnar’s open mouth. The mutant would hold that pain in his memories forever.
His eyes bulging, screams of torment tearing from his lungs, Ragnar yanked himself away from Wigg and sent a bolt into Tretiak’s chest, knocking the wizard to the ground. He then instinctively reached for what he perceived to be the instrument of his torture—Wigg’s dagger. He first tore the dagger from Wigg’s grasp, and then the scabbard from the wizard’s side. Running from his former friends and jumping on Wigg’s stallion, he was gone in an instant. Perhaps knowing that they could never catch Ragnar with the two of them atop the only remaining horse, the wizards had not given chase. As soon as he dared, he had stopped to bandage the wound in his temple, but it was too late for the horse. Continuing on foot, he reflected that he had gotten away, but he would never be the same again.
His mind finally returning from his reveries, Ragnar opened his eyes.
Failee’s mistake was not realizing you were near, Wigg, he thought. Your mistake was not killing me the moment you saw me lying there on the bloody grass of that field. And the Chosen One’s mistake was to leave his seed behind in Parthalon. So many mistakes are about to intersect upon the tightly woven tapestry of time.
He smiled into the gloom.
It was you who caused my addiction, Wigg. And it is now you who shall pay. Both you and the Chosen One shall very soon know your fates, by my hand and the hand of the child. Each of us is now your enemy—the living, breathing results of your mistakes.
The blood stalker gently replaced the dagger into its golden scabbard. With a brief glance he extinguished the candles in the room, then sat alone with his hatred, his madness, and his thoughts.
18
Tristan, Shannon, and Wigg stood at the top of the small rise in the depths of the Hartwick Woods. The sun was at its zenith, and the promise of a beautiful day had been fulfilled. Shannon held the reins to all three of their horses as they watched the giant butterflies soaring colorfully in the afternoon sun.
Tristan was reminded of the day he had first encountered the fliers of the fields and the Caves of the Paragon. That single afternoon had seemed to set so much in motion, almost as if he had never been truly alive before that point in time.
Soon we shall have the Tome, and my training can begin. He could feel his endowed blood sing with the promise of it.
But his heart held no joy. His mind was filled with unanswered questions about Scrounge’s abuse of the consuls, and he found himself worrying about Geldon and Joshua. He had no real assurances that the Minions would obey his orders, much less be respectful to the two rather odd emissaries he had sent to do his bidding.
Looking down into the glade, Wigg said, “We may not be alone here. There remains a lingering presence of endowed blood. Someone was here . . .” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And they may still be present.”
To their surprise the wall of gray fieldstone in the center of the grassy bank across the clearing was missing several of its pieces. The hole that had been created did not seem sufficient for a person to pass through, but it was sizable enough to allow for the entrance and exit of the fliers. Tristan watched as they occasionally alit near the opening, then folded their wings and went through, just as he had seen them do the first time he was here.
“I thought you reactivated the warp that guarded this wall,” Tristan whispered to Wigg.
“I did,” Wigg replied. “Apparently someone powerful enough in the craft dismantled it again.” One eyebrow came up. “How convenient for us.”