"Now then," he whispered. "I ask you for the final time: Where is the other scroll?"

Clenching his jaw, Faegan shook his head again. He had already begun partitioning his mind in an attempt to keep Wulfgar from gleaning the location of the scroll. It had been hidden well, and only he and the lead wizard knew where. If he could keep Wulfgar out of his mind, he was relatively sure that the scroll would not be found. The fate of the world would soon boil down to a contest of endowed wills.

And blood.

"Very well," Wulfgar answered softly. "You leave me no other choice."

Then Wulfgar did something unexpected. Reaching through the warp he had created, he lifted the hem of Faegan's robe, exposing the crippled wizard's destroyed legs.

Twin bolts of shock and horror went through Faegan.

Sitting back in his chair, Wulfgar carefully examined Faegan's mutilated legs. "My, my," he murmured as he looked closer. "The late Coven of sorceresses did quite a skillful job on you, didn't they?"

Faegan's legs were a gruesome sight. The skin was almost completely gone, and much of the muscle mass looked as if it had been shredded away by some terrible beast attacking the legs with teeth and claws. The remaining bright red muscles throbbed visibly, and what looked to be exposed nerves and blood vessels ran up and down their lengths. For over three hundred years they had been this way, and even given his immense knowledge of the craft, Faegan had never been able to heal them. Only his wizardly self-discipline had kept him from going irretrievably mad from the pain.

The sight of his legs brought memories flooding back-the same three-hundred-year-old nightmares that he had tried so hard to forget. The Coven had tortured him for information and left him to die, only to be found later by the gnomes of Shadowood and nurtured back to health. And now the same, unspeakable torment was to begin anew. But this time there would be no one to help him, and he probably wouldn't survive.

Hoping against hope, he looked over at Celeste, but she was still unmoving. Gathering up his courage, he looked Wulfgar in the eyes. "Why not simply enter my mind?" he asked.

"I could," Wulfgar answered. "But when Krassus told me of the nature of your infirmity, I realized that this approach would prove infinitely more entertaining. And with your friends all dead, and my demonslavers in control of the palace, we have all the time in the world to amuse each other. Besides, should this prove unsuccessful, I can always walk through your thoughts later." The wicked smile came again.

Looking across the table, Wulfgar spied Faegan's violin and bow. Calling the craft, he caused them to rise. The bow stroked the strings, and the melody they produced was sorrowful and forlorn.

"Some music to help drown out the noise?" Wulfgar asked. "Personally speaking, I don't like screaming. It's so… common."

Narrowing his eyes, Wulfgar caused the violin to play louder. He leaned forward eagerly in his chair.

"Now then," he said softly. "Shall we begin?"

CHAPTER

Seventy

A s Tristan soared along in the litter, he still couldn't let go of his dread. The enemy fleet had been defeated, but he couldn't escape the feeling that Wulfgar and Krassus had not been with it, as there had been no atmospheric disturbances that would have accompanied their deaths.

It was entirely possible that Wulfgar and Krassus had been aboard one of the ships that had been farther out to sea when they sank, but in his heart the prince didn't think so. And he didn't think the lead wizard believed it, either.

Looking across the litter, the prince saw Wigg staring out of the window, lost in thought. Shailiha and Abbey gave Tristan comforting, supportive smiles, but he knew what they were all thinking.

This wasn't over.

Suddenly Traax appeared, flying beside Tristan's window. The warrior had a very concerned look on his face.

"Permission to enter?" Traax shouted out. The prince nodded.

With a single, sure motion, Traax grabbed the roof of the litter, snapped his wings closed, and hoisted himself in. Landing abruptly on the seat next to Shailiha, he looked over at Tristan. Wigg took his thoughtful gaze from the Sea of Whispers and turned his attention to the Minion second in command.

"There is news," Traax said simply. "Our scouts have sighted vessels near the mouth of the delta. They say they are demonslaver warships."

Tristan froze.

"How many?" he asked.

"Fourteen, my lord. But there are a dozen or so other ships fighting them. They carry the image of the Paragon on their sails and fly your battle standards atop their masts. That means they belong to the woman privateer, does it not?"

Tristan's breath caught in his lungs. "Take us there immediately!" he barked. "I want the warriors to fly as they have never flown before! Those who arrive first are to join the battle immediately! When the litter arrives, search out the Reprisal and take us down! Then I will issue further orders!"

With a nod of his dark head, Traax dived headfirst from the speeding litter.

Tristan stared over at Wigg, his eyes searching the ancient wizard's face for some reassurance that they might get there in time. Wigg looked down at the floor of the litter for a moment, then back up at the Jin'Sai and sadly shook his head.

H ad Scars not been watching his captain's back, Tyranny would have died immediately. As a screaming demonslaver raised his trident, Scars came up behind him and hoisted the white-skinned monster into his massive arms. With one arm wrapped around the slaver's throat and the other pushing sideways against its hairless skull, Scars viciously forced the monster's head over to one side until he heard the neck bones grate, then give way and crack apart altogether. As the light went out of its eyes, Scars hoisted the dead slaver over the nearby gunwale and tossed it into the sea.

But instead of the body sinking beneath the waves, another fate awaited it.

Wulfgar's dark red sea slitherers combed the waters around the struggling vessels, their long, smooth, scaly bodies slipping over and under each other as they sought out their next mouthfuls of warm flesh. Scars didn't know what these creatures were, or how they had come to be here. Nor did he care. All that concerned him was the survival of his captain and her crew. But the battle was not going their way, and unless the tide turned soon, he knew that they would all perish.

He grabbed another screaming slaver, viciously broke its back against the gunwale, and dropped it into the sea.

The screams and the muffled, snarling grunts of the gorging sea slitherers seemed to go on forever.

A s the moments passed torturously by, Tristan's knuckles turned white around the hilt of his dreggan. It had been more than half an hour since the Minion forces and the litter had turned toward the delta, and still there was nothing to see other than waves. But a report had come back through the Minion lines that some of the fastest warriors had finally reached the fighting and were starting down. For that much, at least, Tristan was thankful. He knew Tyranny needed them.

As the cold wind lashed his face, he searched the waves for a sign that Tyranny and her little fleet of privateers might still be in one piece.

And then, finally, there they were.

Her twelve ships were lying adrift amidst the slaver ships, their decks bloodied. The Reprisal's spars, sails, and rigging had been damaged in the fight, but she seemed to be in no danger of sinking.

As the litter went down, Tristan could see that the fighting seemed to be over. Hundreds of Tyranny's crew, Wulfgar's demonslavers, and Minion warriors all lay dead. He could not tell what the outcome had been. Body parts from both sides could be seen everywhere. A strange sense of quiet prevailed, despite the horrific nature of the scene. As the litter finally hit the deck, Tristan jumped out, his dreggan held high.