at this table first approached us, they secretly brought Xanthus with them, and a plan was born,” she said. “Before sending him on his mission we drastically changed his blood signature rightward. This way we might convince him to doour bidding, rather than follow his original orders. Moreover, the atrocities he committed would be less extreme, yet also satisfy the Heretics’ expectations. Our idea worked.” Pausing for a moment, Hoskiko again looked at the Darkling.
“The Heretics would be closely watching his progress after he entered Eutracia, so he had to do exactly as they expected to maintain our charade,” she added. “Although the Heretics still believe that Xanthus is following their orders, he serves us. But as he went about his atrocities, the guilt consuming his human half became overpowering. Therefore he started flagellating his back. This was his doing, not ours. His reasons were twofold- he wished to pay a deeply felt penitence for the terrible things he was doing, and to trick the Heretics into believing that his self-torture was an act of ritual devotion to the Vagaries. Such rites of self-mutilation are not unheard of in the Heretic culture. It all had to be real, because the Heretics were watching his every move.”
Tristan looked across the table into Xanthus’ eyes. “You agreed to bring me here,” he whispered, “even when you knew that your original masters would likely put you to death?”
Bending forward a bit, Xanthus placed his hands flat atop the table. “Yes,” he answered. “The Vigors’ cause is too dear to allow one life to endanger it. I have done my part; now I have but to return to the Heretics and meet my fate. You will soon learn your role in this great undertaking. It will be far more difficult and dangerous than mine ever was. I humbly ask that you accept it and fulfill your destiny. Please do not let my death-and the deaths of those innocent Eutracians I was forced to kill-be in vain.”
As he realized how wrong he had been about Xanthus, Tristan turned to Faxon. “Must he be returned to the Heretics?” he asked. “Isn’t there some way that we can save him?”
Faxon shook his head. “Not and maintain our charade,” he answered. “As it is he must return soon, or his tardiness will arouse added suspicions. When he arrives without you at his side, the Imperial Order will be suspicious enough.”
“But if they enter his mind, won’t they learn everything anyway?” Tristan asked. “In the end, what purpose will all this subterfuge have served?”
“You forget that I am a high-ranking officer of the Imperial Order,” Faxon answered. “They trust me implicitly. When I was told by my superiors about their wish to bring you to them, Xanthus’ conversion became my idea. From the beginning, it was my plan to secretly bring him to Crysenium. When I take him back, I can help with his fate, but not much. Nor by then will I probably wish to do so. He will be their servant again, and a danger to our cause.”
“I don’t understand,” Tristan said. He turned quickly to look at Hoskiko then back to Faxon again. “Don’t you feel any guilt about creating him, only to use him then watch him die some horrible death?”
“We do,” Faxon answered. “But to ensure that our gambit works we must do even more to seal Xanthus’ fate. Before we allow Xanthus to return to the Heretics we will change his blood signature back to what it once was, then wipe his memory clean of everything we do not want the Heretics to learn. In their place we will provide him with an entirely new host of memories-those that support our subterfuge. In this the Borderlands’ appearance, although unexpected, will serve us well. Not only will your unfortunate wandering in the Borderlands explain his being overdue, but they will also provide a plausible explanation for your supposed death. Xanthus will tell them that you fell prey to a great sinkhole, and that your body was unrecoverable. At first they will believe that despite his best efforts, Xanthus simply failed. It wasn’t he who activated the Borderlands, after all. Wiping his memory clean will also protect Crysenium’s existence.”
“And when the Heretics see that I have returned to Eutracia?” Tristan asked. “What then? Won’t they know that they have been duped?”
“Yes,” someone said from across the table.
Tristan looked to see Mitsu staring at him. She was younger than the others, with an attractive face and a pleasant smile.
“But by then you will be home, and about the mission we shall entrust to you,” she added. “When they realize that they have been misled, Xanthus’ masters will likely kill him. If all goes as we hope, Xanthus will die believing that he was truly a failure to his Heretic masters. He will never remember the other side of the story-our side, to be precise. We know it’s unfortunate, but it’s how things must be if we are to succeed.”
“You can do that to people’s minds?” Tristan asked.
“Yes, Jin’Sai, ” Mitsu answered. “One day you and Shailiha will also command such gifts.”
Tristan shook his head with wonderment-not only at what Mitsu had just said about him and Shailiha, but also at the Envoys’ intricate plan. It was foolproof and elegant, he realized. And for some reason it centered on him.
“All right,” he said. “I understandhow you brought me here. What I haven’t learned iswhy. ”
“This is why,” Hoskiko answered simply. “Observe.”
Waving one arm, she called the craft. Tiny azure particles soon formed in the air. Waving her hand again, she caused them to start whirling. They formed a mini-tornado that hovered and swirled, then moved to the room’s other side. Then the glowing cyclone coalesced to form a staggering panorama. A dozen meters across by several meters high, the colorful image was life-sized and terrifying. Soon sound arose from it to fill the room.
What Tristan was seeing and hearing was so all-encompassing that for several moments he had to close his eyes. When he opened them again, to his dismay he found the scene unchanged.
Across a wide field not unlike those of Farplain, two vast armies charged toward one another. Tristan realized that he was witnessing a battle in the ongoing War of Attrition. He could only imagine the numbers of troops involved-hundreds of thousands in each camp, he guessed.
Some rode towering beasts across the land and through the sky, the likes of which he couldn’t start to describe. Entire regiments could be seen doing something even the best Eutracian wizards had always found impossible-they were literally flying through the air toward the enemy. Carrying odd weapons and screaming maniacally, other soldiers ran across the ground at amazing speed. Everything was happening with such frantic quickness that Tristan could hardly take it all in. As the thundering ranks neared, he didn’t want to watch, but he found it impossible to tear his eyes away. Then the brave warriors started dying.
The first strikes came from each army’s rear lines, as the opposing archers loosed their shafts against one another; the converging arrow clouds were so dense that they literally darkened the sky. Amazingly, every arrow seemed to find an enemy body into which to tear. Screaming and writhing, tens of thousands died on the spot. As the mayhem grew louder, blood ran across the emerald-green battleground.
At first he couldn’t believe that such unerring accuracy was possible. But then he realized something more. Many of the warriors must command the craft.
This was no ordinary war among mortals. The War of Attrition was a war among adepts from both sides. Tristan knew that this was what Xanthus had meant when he said that after seeing this world, his perspectives on war and death would be forever changed. The Envoys were right. Compared to what went on here, the war between the Directorate and the Coven was a mere skirmish between light and dark.
As the two armies neared, azure bolts flew through the air. Thousands died on either side; thousands more quickly took up their comrades’ abandoned ranks. Amid more explosions, smoke, and carnage, the two great armies finally collided, their forces swarming over each other in a terrible display of wanton death-dealing.
Deciding that Tristan had seen enough, Hoskiko caused the battle scene to vanish. Everyone around the meeting table stayed respectfully silent for a time. Tristan finally looked over at Hoskiko. He shook his head.
“So this is what it is like in your world?” he asked. “I have never witnessed such death and destruction.”
Hoskiko nodded. “That was but some of the ongoing struggle. Battles continually rage, and sometimes a siege can last for decades. That scene is being carried out more than two thousand leagues away. Other conflicts go on in the sky and on the water. At this moment, over fifty such battles are occurring. Many are far larger than what you just saw.”
Tristan simply sat there for a moment, trying to imagine the war’s vast scope. “Your losses are staggering,” he breathed. “How can your people continually suffer such decimation yet survive as a race? It doesn’t seem possible.”
Hoskiko was about to speak when a Heretical Envoy answered for her. “It’s all relative,” Balsius said. He was a short man, with a long, hooked nose and a kind face. Like Wigg, when speaking he used his hands for emphasis.
