The Book of Deacon

by Joseph Lallo

  "Where could she be?" she asked to no one in particular.

  The answer came in a swift and sudden manner. Myn's head appeared, peering down through the window from above. Myranda, startled by the unexpected appearance of her friend, stumbled backward. The dragon darted behind her, using her head to prop up the faltering girl.

  "Thank you, Myn. I suppose I've not quite recovered yet. I feel quite a bit better, though," she said, feeling her way to the bed. She sat, the dragon leaping up to the bed beside her.

  "So what have you been up to? Not only hunting, I hope. If you spend so much time hunting each day, the forest will be emptied by the time we leave," she said.

  The dragon, enthralled by the sound of her voice, moved to Myranda's right side. When she had finished talking, Myn glanced at her right arm, sniffing at the injury. A look of confusion or curiosity came to her face as she took another smell and gave Myranda a questioning look.

  "Oh, my arm. Yes. I learned to cast a spell, and now it is healing properly. Thank you for noticing," she said.

  Myn seemed pleased, as though the smell of the tainted injury had been a source for concern for her, and its disappearance was a great relief. She gave her little reptilian version of a smile and lowered her head for the standard reward for a job well done. Myranda gave her the pat on the head she was hoping for with her vastly improved arm.

  "I'll be right back. You've eaten your meal, but I've yet to have mine," she said.

  Myn coiled herself up on the bed, watching Myranda open the door and carefully descend the stairs. If the stairs had been tricky before, navigating them in near darkness and while lightheaded was an entirely new experience. She made it to the base, thankfully in one piece, and found Wolloff reading by the firelight. On the table was a plate featuring the last of the roast and a few boiled vegetables. She sat down and ate quietly.

  "It held up well," Wolloff said.

  Myranda nodded in agreement.

  "Perhaps you would like to take some up to your dragon," he said.

  Myranda nodded again before realizing what had been said.

  "What?" she said.

  "That is who you were talking to, was it not?" he asked.

  "You heard that?" she said.

  "No, but now I know that I was right," he said.

  Myranda sighed and swallowed hard. "How long did you know?" she asked.

  "If you recall, I was there the first morning she showed up. Did you really think I wouldn't check to see if it had happened again?" he said. "You will find it very difficult to fool a wizard, lass."

  "I am very sorry, but we have been together every day since she was born. I cannot keep her away. I assure you, she is very well-behaved. She has only breathed fire once and it was only because she was cold. If she--" Myranda hurriedly explained.

  "Relax, lass, I would not be so foolish as to put the fate of my collection in the hands of an apprentice. You couldn't ignite a single page if you tried. The moment I saw that beast, I put a series of spells into effect. You can't even light a lamp up there without a word or two from me," he said.

  "Why didn't you say something earlier?" she asked.

  "It is just my way," he said, getting up and placing his book on the table. "So, do you feel up to learning a bit more tonight?"

  "Not quite," she said.

  "What a shame, because that is precisely what we are going to do," he said.

  #

  The following weeks brought much knowledge and little rest. Wolloff felt that, since she was gifted with a unique strength of mind, she ought to be pushed harder than his other students. In weeks she learned spells that had taken the other apprentices months to perfect. She could soon heal everything from a bruise to a broken limb to any number of diseases. He would see to it that she practiced nonstop until the spell was casting just as it should be.

  Surprisingly, Wolloff more often than not provided the meals. He seemed to believe that her education was of the highest priority. Each morning would see a new spell taught and rest would not come until it had been cast. Each day followed the same routine--until one morning more than a month later. On that morning, Myn was acting strangely.

  The dragon had continued to leave with the approach of morning, usually waking Myranda in the process. Something was different, though. When Myn jumped to the floor, she sniffed at the air, clearly worried. She then climbed to the north window to gain a better sample of whatever scent it was that bothered her so. The little dragon was so distracted she did not even leave her station at the window when Wolloff entered.

  "Oh, I see, we do not even do the old man the courtesy of pretending to follow the rules anymore, eh?" he said.

  "Something is wrong. I think she smells something," she said, growing more and more concerned at the dragon's strange behavior.

  "Do you have any idea how strong that snout of hers is? She always smells something," he assured her.

  "Even so," Myranda said, straining her eyes on the horizon.

  A sound, silent to the others, visibly shook Myn. She launched herself out of the window and ran to the north with a speed Myranda had never seen the little creature muster. There was something more than hunger driving her as she streaked through the snow. Myranda called out to her, but the dragon did not even turn.

  "It is about time . . ." Wolloff said.

  "This is not normal. Something is definitely wrong," she said.

  "Oh, aye, but keeping a pet dragon in your bed with you every night is the very picture of normality," Wolloff said.

  Soon Myn disappeared between the trees. Myranda turned to the wizard, who was about to begin the day's studies.

  "I am serious. Something out there has got her attention like nothing else I've seen before. We've got to see where she's gone, and what she's gone after," she insisted.

  "I do not see why--" he began.

  "Please! You are a wizard. Surely you can do something to find out," she begged.

  Wolloff looked at the desperate apprentice. Normally, he would be infuriated by the gall of a student interrupting her teacher, but looking into her eyes he saw naught but fear and worry. He heaved a frustrated sigh.

  "I can see we are not likely to get anything done while this mystery stands," he said.

  He gripped the amulet and spoke some arcane words. The crystal within began to glow.

  "There is someone . . . a human . . ." he said, mumbling a few more words. "Aye, quite a few."

  "Who are they? What do they look like?" she pleaded.

  "I cannot actually see them. That would require a distance-seeing spell, and I have not cast such a spell in years. I am merely detecting their minds," he said, his next few comments scattered among lengthy pauses. "I can tell you that they are quite strong-willed. Not on the level of a wizard, or even you for that matter, though . . . I sense that they are looking for something. No, no they have found it. There is anger. Perhaps a . . . yes, a battle . . . There are fewer of them now . . . fewer still. Whatever they found is putting up quite a struggle."

  "It could be Myn!" she said.

  "Aye, it could be." He nodded. "I've focused the spell on the discovery of human minds. Whatever they have found, it is not human."

  "Well, search for her! Search for Myn!" she demanded.

  Wolloff clenched his eyes tighter to maintain concentration.

  "This may come as a surprise to you, but seeking out a dragon's mind has not been of tremendous usefulness to me over the years. I would have to do a bit of research to discover that particular inflection," he said. "At any rate, it does not matter. The ill-intentioned invaders--or, at least, those that remain--are leaving. Right, back to work then."

  Myranda reluctantly turned her mind to the task of learning again. She tried to imagine that Myn had just gone off for the day as she had for weeks before. It was no use, though. She could not pull her mind from the worry she felt. Her spells fizzled and failed. Even spells she had mastered in her first days of learning were beyond her ability. Final
ly, Wolloff grew frustrated.

  "Right. That is all for today then," he said.

  "I am sorry. I am just . . . I can't stop thinking about Myn. She could be in trouble," she said.

  "Aye, could be, and probably is. She is probably flayed open on the side of a road, but that is of little consequence. You are to be a white wizard. The tragedies of the world must cease matter to you," he said.

  "How dare you! My friend could be hurt. That will always matter to me. A healer should have compassion," she said.

  "Caya sent you so that you could learn to heal the injured. To that end, you've shown tremendous potential, but mere potential means nothing. What matters is performance. Life would be wonderful if we were only asked to perform in the most pleasant of conditions, but the truth is that it in those places a healer is useless. If you are to be helpful at all, you will need to be treating men and women torn apart at the seams. Soldiers screaming in pain. Faces you may recognize shrouded in a crimson mask of blood--or, worse, faded white as a ghost with death's claws about them. At times you will not have the opportunity or resources to give help to all who need it. You will have to decide who must die and who can live. What good will you be if the imagined fate of a blasted meaningless creature renders you helpless? You are useless!" he proclaimed.

  Wolloff rose from his seat and opened the door to leave. He slammed it angrily behind him as Myranda turned back to the window. She was shaken by his words. Their truth had struck her to the core. Casting the spell with nothing on the line was difficult enough, but to attain the necessary state of mind while a life hangs in the balance? Impossible. The emotions could not be pushed aside.

  Perhaps the true test of a wizard was the art of detachment. Whenever tales of a wizard were told to her, they were cold and unfeeling, minds set solely to task. A part of her yearned to be free of the burden of her emotion--but in her heart, she recoiled at the thought. The image of herself showing anger and disdain in place of compassion and concern turned her stomach. Such a fate was worse than death. To deny her heart now would be to turn a deaf ear to it forever, and right now it was telling her that her friend needed help.

  She marched down the stairs, her course of action clear.

  "And what are you up to?" Wolloff asked mockingly.

  "I am going to help Myn," she declared.

  "And how do you suppose you will find her?" he asked.

  "I don't know," she said, donning her worn cloak and tattered boots.

  "Well, off with you, then. I have taught you the basics, and it was that which I was paid to do. My conscience is clear. You, however, ought to bear one thing in mind. Caya has invested a tidy sum and she is expecting a healer in return. How will she feel when I tell her that her new mascot and only healer has frozen to death seeking to rescue a beast from a danger that is not even certain?" he said.

  Myranda gave him a long, hard stare, considering his words. Finally, she opened the door and set off into the cold. A single look at the sky and whiff of the air assured her that she could not have chosen a worse time to venture into the woods alone. As was the curse of the north, snow had come at least once a week for the whole of her time in Wolloff's tower. Most were light flurries, but some brought with them wind and cold sufficient to endanger any creature that could not find shelter. Today would be such a day. A stiff breeze foreshadowed the harsh winds that would be tearing at her face within the hour.

  The sharp slicing of Myn's claws into the snow left a clear path to follow, but the rising wind was quickly wiping them away. Racing against time, Myranda trudged through the snow, knee-deep at times, as quickly as her legs could manage. She ignored the savage burning of the wind in her eyes, knowing that if she lost sight of the trail for even a moment, she might never find it again. All the while, she kept her left hand clenched angrily about the front of her cloak, holding it closed and squeezing at the mark that had brought her such misfortune, as though if she punished it enough it would release her from its accursed grasp.

  The shadows lengthened as she trudged onward. Long ago, the prints had been wiped away. She moved now on hope alone. For once, luck did not fail her. Ahead, she found a patch of snow stained red by the blood beneath it. The patch stood out against the stark white that surrounded it. The snow, blown about by the savage wind, had faded but not erased the remains of the battle that Wolloff had described. It must have been a terrible one. Though she could not be certain, the half-hidden footfalls scattered about the clearing seemed to have belonged to a half-dozen or so men.

  Four did not live to see the end of the battle. The bodies must have been taken; in their places, helmets had been left, hung atop swords stuck into the earth in the center of the bloody spill that marked their end. The helms were elaborate, iron with dark blue enamel covering the whole surface, save a few areas that bore gold detailing. Rising from the peak was a white plume that looked to be horse hair.

  "So they were soldiers," she said through wind-burned lips.

  She searched the ground with her eyes, but there was no sign of Myn having even been there. The telltale dimples in the snow left by the soldiers' horses all led almost directly to the north. Myranda, with nowhere else to go, followed them. If Myn had not reached them before the battle had ended, then she might have met them further on.

  It was not long before she found the site of a different battle. More blood spilled, and a single helmet, left seemingly out of carelessness rather than memorial. Beside the blood-spattered helmet was a deep furrow left by the spirited movements of a creature's claws. Further on, there was a deep pit in the snow, almost to the ground, that bore its own stain, though this blood was of a thicker, darker variety. Precisely the kind that was left in the wake of the elder dragon's rampage. There was no doubt. It was Myn's.

  "No!" Myranda cried out.

  She threw herself into the snow, digging her fingers into the windblown flakes just as the first crystals of the long impending storm began to fall. Myranda stood. The pit was empty. Squinting, she made out a tiny speck of red, followed by another, and another. She followed the trail of drops to its end. There she found the prone, motionless form of the little dragon. She was cold to the touch, nearly as cold as the snow that half buried her. Two vicious injuries marred her hide, clearly the cause of her collapse. Myranda dropped to her knees and placed her ear to the dragon's chest. There was the weakest thump of a struggling heart to be heard. The tiniest whisper of life, the smallest glimmer of hope.

  Myranda analyzed the wounds. There was a horrid gash running along her neck and down her side, cleaving whole scales and clotted with sticky, near-black blood. The second injury was smaller, a notch cut into her crown scale. The thick protective piece of armor had done its work. Only a trickle of blood escaped the wound left by a blow that would have killed a lesser creature.

  The novice healer prepared to make use of her fresh knowledge. Suddenly her heart dropped as she realized her carelessness. A crystal! She'd forgotten to take one! She had never been able to cast a spell without one. There was no time to lose though. If she delayed for even a moment, she could lose her friend forever. She placed her hands on the dragon's neck. The creature's unique blood burned at her fingers, but she ignored it. Her mind needed silence for the spell to work. Every thought had to be washed away to provide a trance deep enough to allow her words to reach the ears of those forces that could put them to reality. The lack of a crystal made it difficult, but the high emotions made it near impossible.

  She tried, and tried, but she couldn't manage to ignore the fear and sorrow she felt for the only creature that cared for her. Tears flowed from her eyes and stung her cheeks as the flood of powerful emotions fought back. The harder she tried to focus, the more she thought of the danger her friend was in. Her mind swirled, but she could not relent. The feelings intensified until she could not bear it. Finally, she spoke the arcane words. If she could not draw the strength from calm focus, then she had no choice to try to draw it from the maelstrom in her min
d.

  The words began to do their work, though weakly. Slowly she felt the gash begin to close beneath her fingers, but not completely. She spoke the words again, and again. Each speaking brought the wound closer to disappearing, and brought Myranda closer to collapse. The last trickle of the blood escaped the wound as the apprentice wizard finally passed the breaking point, falling forward. Large, icy flakes of snow began to fall with all of the force of a blizzard as the world faded from her view.

  #

  In the city of Nidel, General Trigorah pored over her notes of the weeks gone by. Progress had been slow, painfully slow. Her duties had required her to track the path of the sword and those who may have contacted it. To that end, she'd been quite successful. Indeed, in front of her was a description of the very weapon she sought, provided by an elderly weapon shop owner who had agreed to buy it. The last of the prospective witnesses had been identified, and their current whereabouts noted.

  Every last story that there was to hear had been heard, and the last of the truth was being gleaned from them. There was the strong indication, though not the certainty, that Myranda . . . that the target had been in possession of the weapon when she left the weapon shop, but not when she had arrived in the town of Nidel, and certainly not when she had been captured.

  It was here that things had ceased to fit together. There was the church. Trigorah knew her target to visit places of worship when seeking shelter. There had been a church, burned, and four soldiers killed. That didn't make sense. Why burn the church? To hide evidence? Perhaps, but the remains of the soldiers, some of Demont's men, were left for all to find, when they could easily have been thrown among the flames. If evidence was being destroyed, it was evidence of some other crime.

  From the descriptions of her target, it seemed highly unlikely that she would have been capable of defeating four soldiers. And then there was the fact of her escape. The carriage was burned. More fire . . . but this time well-used. Aside from requiring that the girl be captured as well as the sword, the escape made it clear that she could not have been working alone. No, there was another hand at work here.