CHAPTER

Sixty-eight

A s Tristan paced back and forth across the deck of his flagship, his mind was overcome with concerns both new and old. The scout ships had gone farther east into the Sea of Whispers days earlier, but still their patrolling warriors had little to tell. There was nothing to see but water, they kept on reporting as they tiredly returned to their vessels.

Have I ordered us all out here for nothing? he found himself wondering. Had the herbmistress Grizelda lied to them, simply to throw them off track? And if she had, then where was Wulfgar? Were Wigg and Faegan even correct in their assumption that his bastard brother was out to destroy the Orb of the Vigors?

The prince had gone to join the fleet as soon as he had learned that two of his warriors had gone missing. Although their disappearances proved nothing, he could sense that Wulfgar was out there somewhere. Soon, very soon now, things would come to a head.

It felt good to be at sea again. His newly acquired love of sailing was truly a part of him now-a part he hoped he would never have to give up completely. As the brisk westerlies moved through his hair, he casually grasped a line of rigging and leaned against the gunwale, his mind lost in thought.

Wigg, Shailiha, Traax, Abbey, and the warrior K'jarr were all here aboard the Savage Scar with him. Two days had passed since Wigg had accepted the acolytes into the Redoubt. Geldon had been left in charge, to greet any others of the sisterhood who might also make their way to the palace. Shawna the Short and a Minion warrior continued to watch over Marcus, Rebecca, and Morganna, while Ox and the remainder of the Minion forces had also been left behind as a palace guard. Faegan and Celeste, too, remained at the palace, in case their gifts were needed to protect the Scroll of the Vigors. These measures gave Tristan a modicum of comfort. But as he continued to look out over the deep blue sea, the prince was both anxious and worried.

Traax came to stand next to Tristan. The Minion second in command laced his fingers and leaned his muscular forearms on the gunwale. As the Savage Scar cut through the waves, for several long moments neither of them spoke.

"Where in the name of the Afterlife are they?" Tristan finally breathed, his gaze still locked on the waves. "Are Wulfgar and his fleet of slavers really on the way, or is this all just some kind of elaborate ruse designed to draw the bulk of our forces away from the palace? Could they have already gotten by us?"

Looking for answers, he finally turned and searched the warrior's face. He valued Traax's opinion greatly, and he needed to know his thoughts.

"I do not know, my lord," Traax answered solemnly. "All I can say is that if the roles had been reversed, I would be doing exactly what you are now. Only time will tell. As Wigg said, we have no choice but to believe what the dead herbmistress told us, because it is far too dangerous not to."

"Yes, yes, I know," the prince replied. "But I just can't escape the feeling that-"

He stopped short as he realized that his breath was streaming out of his mouth in the form of a short, white, vapor trail. The temperature had dropped so quickly that neither he nor Traax had noticed at first, but now it was so bitterly cold that both of them had begun to shiver. Then the Savage Scar lost all of her forward momentum.

Fearing the worst, Tristan looked up to the sails. They had all gone completely limp, their lower hems nearly touching the decks. Turning, he desperately looked out over the sea and was horrified to find that its surface had become as smooth as glass. His flagship and every other vessel in the Minion fleet were dead in the water.

By now Shailiha, Abbey, and Wigg had come running, and the decks were awash with sword-wielding warriors, all shouting to one another and wanting desperately to help, but not knowing what to do.

From out of nowhere, Tristan was suddenly reminded of something Tyranny had said to him during their first meeting together, that day in her private quarters aboard The People's Revenge. As he replayed it in his mind, his blood ran cold.

Speed is the one thing that keeps us alive out here.

Tristan turned to Traax. The expression on the warrior's face had become as hard as granite.

"What is it?" the prince breathed. "What is happening?"

"It is the Necrophagians, my lord," Traax answered sternly. "The Eaters of the Dead. They have somehow found us. And nothing I know of can stop them."

Then another cold realization shot through the prince-the Necrophagians had never been known to venture this far west! Wasting no time, he reached out and grabbed Traax by both shoulders. As he did, he could see that a strange, dark gray fog had already begun to form. It was snaking its way up from the sea to surround his fleet. Soon the enemy would be here, he realized. And they would be more than just the Eaters of the Dead.

"Order all of the sails furled!" he shouted. "And signal all of the other ships in the fleet to do the same!"

"But my lord!" Traax exclaimed in a rare display of protest. "That will do no good! It would be a waste of precious time! With no wind, it does not matter!"

"Don't argue with me!" Tristan shouted angrily. "Just do it! And have K'jarr found and brought to me immediately!"

Traax snapped to attention. After going to bark out the orders, he returned to stand resolutely at his master's side, his dreggan drawn.

"What is it?" Wigg called urgently. "What's going on?"

But before Tristan could answer, the fog began to coalesce into hundreds of pairs of huge, gnarled hands that came rising up out of the sea. As he watched in horror, they began to cut their way silently through the smooth, still ocean, positioning themselves in pairs near each of the Minion vessels. Then the hands reached out and grasped the bows and sterns of the ships, holding them helplessly in place. Sections of gunwale and railing began to crack apart under the immense pressure.

Tristan felt his heart sink. He looked up urgently to the masts and spars to see the Minion crewmen trying to furl the sails as fast as they could. Some were done already.

Suddenly, the sea all around them seemed to come alive. As it began to burble and roil, he looked over the side and saw the horrible faces of the Eaters of the Dead surfacing. Then he saw the first of the maelstroms.

From beyond the Eaters of the Dead, dozens of glowing waterspouts rose from the sea, turning with a speed so fast he found it dizzying. Their great heights soon dwarfed his ships. The maelstroms flattened out at their tops, then dissolved into thousands of individual, flying creatures. There could be no mistaking them.

Screechlings.

And then Tristan gasped as he saw the first of Wulfgar's demonslavers. The white-skinned monsters had seemingly materialized out of thin air to land crouching on the decks of his ships, their swords and tridents at the ready. Screaming wildly, they began hacking into the surprised Minion warriors with suicidal fury.

Tristan tried to shout orders out to Wigg and Traax, but each of them was already locked in individual combat. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, Tristan raised it just in time to ward off a blow from a demonslaver that appeared from nowhere. Then he slipped to the right and slashed his dreggan low, tearing the flesh of the monster's left thigh with the point of his double-edged blade. As the slaver bent over in agony, Tristan raised his blade again and took the thing's head off with a single blow.

Using a few precious seconds, Tristan turned desperately to look for Shailiha. When his eyes finally fell on her, he saw that she had drawn her sword and was fighting off a slaver. But the monster was gaining ground on her, pushing her backward across the already bloody deck. Reaching behind his shoulder, Tristan grasped the first of his throwing knives and sent it spinning end over end. The dirk buried itself into the slaver's neck and the monster fell over.