"Wulfgar," Wigg answered solemnly. Again the room became silent.

Faegan nodded. "Quite right, Lead Wizard," he agreed. "And well done. The quote I just read from the Tome mentioned not only the Two, but also their progeny, and others from the same womb. That would, of course, include both Wulfgar and Morganna." He looked over at Abbey. "For the time being you are to strictly avoid using your gifts not only on Tristan and Shailiha, but on Wulfgar and Morganna, as well," he ordered her. The herbmistress nodded her agreement.

"But still we have failed, have we not?" Celeste asked. "In addition to not finding Tristan, we have no idea where this Scroll of the Vigors may be. It could be anywhere in the world. And unless we find it soon, Krassus will be able to complete at least one portion of the mission originally begun by Nicholas-a mission that we still know virtually nothing about."

Shailiha angrily shook her head. She had been bitterly disappointed again. Her greatest goal continued to be finding her brother, and now it seemed that they were even farther away from it than ever. "I'm tired of sitting here and doing nothing while Tristan is in danger!" she cried out. "Can't you all see that?" Morganna cried a little with her mother's sudden outburst, and Shailiha kissed her cheek to soothe her. "Isn't there anything that can be done?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calmer.

"The herbs and oils we brought back were to have been our solution to that," Wigg said sadly. "However, with this sudden, unexpected appearance of the Furies, I'm afraid we are now forced to discover another way to find him. But hear me when I tell you that Tristan is a very brave and resourceful man, and if there is anyone in this world who can overcome whatever he is up against, it is he. I know that isn't much for you to hold onto right now, but it seems to be all that any of us have." Wigg looked over at Celeste to see a somewhat different, but equally concerned look cross her face.

A growing sense of defeat crept silently over the room.

CHAPTER

Fifty-one

K 'jarr soared high and fast through the fading indigo of the early-morning sky. He wore his dreggan strapped across his back and his returning wheel securely fastened to one side of his belt; a battle bugle was tied to the other side, waiting to be used. Behind him, the sun rose, bringing a welcoming warmth to his ceaselessly beating wings.

His dark eyes scoured the Sea of Whispers below, and he smiled, blessing his highly tuned senses. He would need them all today, he knew.

He banked to the left slightly, changing course, and the one hundred specially selected Minion warriors accompanying him followed suit. Officers all, they had been handpicked not only for their overall intelligence and superior flying speed, but also for their expert fighting ability. They were the Minion forces' best of the best, and their mission was clear: Find the mysterious fog bank and investigate it. Board and carefully examine the ships they found there. They were to leave no stone unturned in their search for the prince.

They could not have been far from the fog bank when K'jarr saw a line of ships heading west, running before the wind. They were still some distance away, and moving fast. Surprised by their great numbers, he counted them to find that there were just a bit more than one hundred in all. Then his eyes caught sight of a lone frigate desperately plowing her way north, while the line of ships closed in on her from the west. She was clearly trying to make a run for the gap in the northernmost points of the ships' lines. But the prevailing winds were easterly, and tacking back and forth as she was, she would never make it in time.

As he watched from afar, the battle lines were closing together, surrounding the single ship in a deadly, seaborne ring of wood and sailcloth. Sensing a looming tragedy, he flew faster, his wings straining. And there, at last, was the mysterious patch of fog he had been searching for, lying peacefully and unmoving in the blue water, blocking the single frigate's escape to the south.

K'jarr's jaw hardened with hate. Why would anyone commit so many vessels to the capture of a single ship? he wondered. It just didn't make any sense. And then it hit him.

The Chosen One might be aboard.

He watched in horror as the ring closed more tightly around the trapped vessel.

Turning, he called orders to the three officers who were to return to the Minion fleet with the exact location of the fog bank. Immediately they peeled away from the main body and soared through the air, flying hard in the direction from which they had just come.

He returned his attention to the action in the distance, hoping against hope that his sworn lord was not trapped on that lone, desperate ship. It would be many long moments before he and his warriors could reach them-moments that the ones aboard the frigate clearly could not afford. Turning to the officer nearest him, K'jarr began barking out orders.

Just then the lead vessel in the oncoming fleet rammed the lone frigate directly amidships. As he watched, K'jarr's razor-sharp eyes caught something that quickened his heart: At the top of the ship's mainmast flew the blue-and-gold battle flag of the House of Galland.

K'jarr drew his dreggan. Despite the rushing of the wind, he could hear the reassuring ring of his warriors' blades cutting through the air all around him.

He smiled grimly. This was what they had been bred for, had spent their entire lives training for. There was no greater honor for a true Minion warrior than to perish in the service of his lord. Many of them would no doubt meet their final reward here today, somewhere over the Sea of Whispers.

Suddenly snapping his wings closed behind his back, K'jarr held his sword before him and jacknifed into a dive, pointing straight down in a perfect, vertical free fall. The warriors behind him followed suit. Faster and faster they fell, plummeting toward the stricken ship as attackers swarmed over her decks.

The odds were overwhelming, K'jarr knew. But if his lord was indeed here, then there was no other duty, no other choice than the one lying before them.

Narrowing his dark eyes against the wind, he led his forces down.

I n a violent cacophony of splintering wood, the lead pirate ship had rammed The People's Revenge directly amidships. Then she had swung alongside, her raiders screaming and jumping from their vessel to swarm like ants over the decks of Tyranny's flagship.

One man leapt from the rigging with a knife between his teeth, and swung his saber broadly in an attempt to take the prince's head off.

But Tristan saw him coming. Quickly slipping to one side, he held his dreggan out with both arms and pressed the button on the hilt. The extra length of blade launched forward, catching the pirate across the belly. The pirate's face registered a moment of shock; then the light went out of his eyes. Ignoring the gushing blood, Tristan roughly pushed the corpse off his sword with the heel of one boot. But as he turned to look around, his heart fell.

Tyranny and Scars were lost among all the fighting. All around him, men were dying. Worse yet, the other raider vessels were approaching rapidly. The deck of The People's Revenge was a mass of screaming, struggling pandemonium, blades clanging noisily amid the sounds of shouting and groans of pain.

It would be over very shortly, he knew, and they would all be dead. The scrap of parchment hidden in his boot would never reach Eutracia, and Krassus would win. But before that happened, Tristan swore he would take as many of them down with him as he could.

Seeing a pirate raise his sword against one of the slaves, he instinctively reached over his right shoulder and drew one of his knives. Almost before he knew it, the dirk was twirling end over end toward its victim.