Tristan looked to Wigg in horror. The wizard seemed as shocked as he. But the blood stalker had not finished taunting them.
“Please forgive me,” he said politely. “For I digress. Living underground for three centuries has a certain effect upon one, if you will. I believe you were asking about ‘followers,’ were you not? Oh, I will indeed have followers, but they are not ready just yet. Only when the time is right shall they be brought forth.” He paused, leering wickedly at the prince. “Tell me, Chosen One, can you guess who they are?”
Tristan shuddered inside. He did not dare utter his suspicion for fear that saying it might make it come true.
“Ah,” the stalker said. “I can tell that you already know. Yes, Chosen One, it is indeed so. My followers will be your very own consuls of the Redoubt.” Again he paused, savoring his statement. “And Wigg! Frankly, you surprise me!” he continued. “It was quite foolish of you and the dearly departed Directorate to send them forth from the Redoubt, searching for stalkers and harpies during such a fragile time in the history of your pompous monarchy! And then you and the Chosen One ran off to Parthalon, leaving them all here to fend for themselves in this shattered, chaotic shell of a nation! What were you thinking? But I thank you, nonetheless.” He grinned at the wizard, relishing every word. “By the way, there is no longer any point in searching for them,” he whispered vehemently. “I have them all.”
Tristan looked up at the woman called Celeste. He thought there was a hint of shininess in her sapphire eyes, as if she was fighting back tears. But then it was gone; he had probably been mistaken. Regaining his focus, he looked over to Wigg.
The wizard was psychologically beaten—both from the loss of his powers and the devastating revelations he had been forced to listen to. He raised his eyes to Ragnar.
“You’re draining the stone, aren’t you?” he asked weakly. “Its powers are somehow being transferred to the vein that runs through the walls of this place. Don’t lie to me. I know it to be true.”
“Quite right, Lead Wizard,” Ragnar said, taking another fingerful of the yellow fluid and placing it into his mouth. “I knew you would recognize the meaning of it immediately. Just think! In less than three months’ time, all that you have ever worked for, including the impending training of the Chosen One, will be of no consequence. A beautiful thing, is it not?”
Ignoring Ragnar for the moment, Tristan turned his attention to Scrounge, who was sipping from a cup of wine that had appeared in his hand.
“Why the reward for me?” Tristan shouted at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than walk atop tavern bars, handing out illicit posters? If it’s me you want, I will gladly come to you right now!” He fingered the knife in his pocket. “I won’t need another note of invitation,” he whispered viciously.
“As far as your reward goes, you will learn later why it has been offered,” Scrounge replied. “Interestingly enough, despite the hugely handsome sum, we don’t want you to be taken. Curious, isn’t it? And as to your offer of a duel, please know that I would like nothing better than to take you on right now.” He smiled, happily taking another sip of the wine as if none of this mattered.
“Rumor has it that you’re very good,” he continued. “And that you somehow even managed to slay the commander of the Minions. Even so, I doubt you’re good enough to take me. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair. Right now you couldn’t even raise your sword. And what a shameful act it is, you carrying around the same disgusting, foreign-made weapon you used to willingly murder your own father. The same blade those ignorant, winged freaks from Parthalon employ. No, Chosen One, we will not fight, at least not now. But another time, I promise you.” Scrounge mockingly raised his cup in a gesture of false courtesy.
Tristan could contain himself no longer. Despite his relative weakness, he sent his hidden dirk unerringly across the room, straight for Scrounge’s forehead.
Lazily, almost effortlessly it seemed, the assassin lifted his miniature crossbow, and a yellow-tipped arrow seared across the expanse of the room, striking Tristan’s knife in midair. Both fell noisily to the marble floor, disappearing into the ankle-deep glow still rolling in from the hallway.
“You see?” Scrounge said, clucking his tongue in condemnation. “Just as I said. Too slow.”
Tristan stood there weakly, seething at the arrogant assassin, not knowing what to do. His eyes full of hate and frustration, he looked to Wigg for guidance.
“Pick up my arrow, Chosen One,” Scrounge’s voice ordered from the other side of the room.
“What?” Tristan asked, momentarily nonplussed.
“Are you deaf as well as difficult?” Scrounge asked cattily. “Pick up my arrow and bring it to me on bended knee. Now. They’re expensive, and I wish it back. And don’t touch that crudely made piece of iron you call a throwing knife that is lying beside it.” He smiled at the prince. “I don’t have the patience to shoot one of your toys out of the air again.”
Tristan’s endowed blood began to rise in even greater anger from the insulting demand. One day this man will die before me, I swear it, he promised silently.
“I will never kneel to you,” he growled. Lowering his eyes in hate, he took an aggressive step toward the assassin. “If you want your weapon so badly, come and get it yourself. There are several ways in which I would enjoy giving it to you.”
Scrounge laughed. He stood, placing his hands on his hips. “The Chosen One’s reputation indeed proves true! Impetuous to a fault! No matter, though.” He turned to Ragnar. “I believe now is as good a time as any, don’t you agree?”
“Indeed,” Ragnar answered.
Almost immediately Tristan felt his arms being clamped to the sides of his body, his feet no longer able to step forward. Ragnar had enveloped him within a wizard’s warp. The prince could see that Wigg had been similarly affected.
“This is not necessary!” Wigg shouted at the stalker. “Why are you doing this?”
“We simply wish you both to remain quite still for a moment, while Scrounge and I take care of some long overdue business,” Ragnar said almost happily. “It is especially important for the prince to be held, for he has a famous habit of becoming unpleasantly athletic. Scrounge, you may go first.”
The assassin jumped down from the throne, looking into the azure haze that curiously covered the floor. Finally recovering his arrow, he held it in his right hand as he approached the prince.
Sweat ran into Tristan’s eyes, and his breathing came faster. He struggled desperately against the invisible bonds holding him, but it was clearly no use. If there was one thing in the world that he could not abide it was being contained or restricted. He desperately wanted the chance to circle Scrounge and actively engage him on his own terms, his dreggan slashing as he went. But locked within this unforgiving warp he had no choice but to stand frozen to the floor and let the assassin do whatever he chose. Then his eyes fixed on the yellow-tipped arrow, and his heart skipped a beat with the sudden, horrific understanding of what was about to happen. The sickening arrow was now only inches from his face.
“Ragnar!” Wigg screamed. “I beg you, do not do this! He is the one for whom we have waited so long! Kill me if you want, but let him live!”
“He will leave here alive, Wigg, of that you can be sure,” Ragnar said softly. “And, given the purported quality of his blood, he may not even feel the effects of the poison coursing within his system for as long as several days. But to let him live indefinitely is not something that we are prepared to do. The Tome states that he will lead the world forward to a new age. But we have other plans. We wish to do that job ourselves.”