The Book of Deacon

by Joseph Lallo

  "At this rate, you will be offered the final test of fire before the week is out," Deacon said, having appeared while she was entranced.

  "Thank you," she said, using her staff to get to her feet.

  "I understand you and Lain have started your training. I am sorry I missed it. Have you shown the same skill in battle as you have in magic?" he asked.

  "Not nearly," Myranda answered. "You called him Lain, as did Solomon. I thought that was just a title."

  "It is. In the absence of a real name, it seems only fitting to refer to him by the title he earned," he said.

  "I suppose I may as well do so," Myranda said.

  "How is your head? Is the magic still taking its toll as severely?" he asked.

  "I've still got most of my wits about me," she said.

  "Splendid. Your endurance is improving. You will need that for the final test," he said.

  "What is the final test?" she asked.

  "Well, you see--" he began.

  "Wait, I haven't eaten yet. Tell me on the way," she said.

  As the trio continued on, they spoke.

  "When any of our Masters are satisfied that you have learned enough, they will administer a test to be sure of your understanding. Each comes in two parts. The first is an endurance trial that will assure that you have the strength to perform the spells that are expected of a Master. The second is the dexterity trial that will assure you have the skill of mind to perform the most complex of spells. Both take place in the same day," he explained.

  "Wait. You mean to tell me that the complex test will be immediately following the taxing one?" Myranda said.

  "Indeed. I think you will agree that is a fine method for determining whether one ought to be considered a Master," he said.

  They spoke while each finished their meal. When they were through, Deacon remarked that Myranda seemed a bit more physically weary today than she had in the past. Myranda assured him that such would be the case from now on, thanks to Lain's lessons. He escorted her to her hut and bid her goodnight.

  The next day passed in much the same way. She arose before sundown, trained with Lain until night, trained with Solomon until dawn, enjoyed a meal with Deacon, and collapsed into sleep again.

  In many ways, it was a far more difficult life than the one that she'd lived before she found the sword. The only trial then was finding enough food and shelter to live comfortably. Here, she was constantly being tested in both mind and body. Yet, she could not say that she was unhappy. As trying as it was to be here, it was a home--her first real one since the days when Kenvard still stood. She had a very real friend in Deacon, and she was learning things. Not simply magic or combat, either. In those times when she was too weary to undergo any of her training, she would sit among the others of the village. Slowly, she was finding that she understood more and more of what they said. By the end of the first month, she found that she could at least follow conversations in nine different languages and make herself understood in a half-dozen.

  One thing burned at her. In Solomon's training, she was progressing, though perhaps not as quickly as Deacon had theorized. Such was not the case with Lain. Her understanding of staff combat was manifold what it had been when she began. She knew that her abilities had expanded vastly, but she had yet to lay a single blow on Lain. Not once did her attack even approach success. It frustrated her to no end that she could try so hard, and he could stop her so easily.

  What bothered her more was how powerful her emotions became when she was attacking. She felt an intense anger that grew with every failed attempt. Lain could sense it and she knew it. There was no outward indication of it, but the warrior could feel the change in her, and he enjoyed it. She truly was sacrificing a part of herself for even a chance to learn what he knew.

  Something changed one day. She had finished yet another infuriating session with Lain and approached Solomon. He had, the day before, taught her how to create different types of flame by "feeding" the fire different types of energy. The results were remarkable, ranging from a black flame that only consumed, shedding no light, to a whitish blue flame that burned cold. She was looking forward to more of the same, but it was not to be. There was a crowd again, awaiting her arrival, and the dragon had some equipment in place.

  "Today, Myranda, you will be tested. Ready your staff and follow my instructions," he said.

  She clutched the crystal and began to ready her mind. In the past week or so, she had found that the trance came easily enough that she could now cast spells while still remaining aware of her surroundings. She did so now, gathering her mind while looking nervously about at the onlookers. Solomon lowered a large, twisted stone into a clay stand with a hole in it. Below it was another block of clay with a hole in the top, aligned with one in the stand.

  "You will focus as hot a flame as you can manage onto this piece of ore for as long as it takes to melt it entirely into the mold below," he said.

  No more instructions followed. Myranda took a deep breath and began to conjure heat. She was already beginning to tire before the metal had even begun to glow. She found that she needed to double her efforts and double them again before the stone began to soften. The draw on her power, even after all of the improvement she'd had, was unbearable. She could feel the heat she was generating on her face despite the fact that she was a fair distance from the ore. Crackles and snaps emanated from the stone as it began to lose its form. By the time the first fat orange drop of molten metal flowed into the mold, she could no longer focus her eyes.

  Myranda started to relent, trying to gather her mind for a renewed effort, but as soon as she did she felt the heat fade and the stone began to harden again. She couldn't rest, or she would lose ground. It had to be done all at once. Myranda poured all that she had into making the heat as intense as possible.

  The second drop fell, followed by a third. Soon, a steady flow had formed, but she knew she couldn't last much longer. The stone had settled into a thick pool of bright orange glowing fluid with a ribbon of the stuff leading from the stand to the mold. A dizziness was swirling in her head that threatened to rob her of her consciousness, but she was too close to fail now.

  As she turned to look at the crowd, they seemed to be moving in slow motion. She could barely muster the strength to grip the crystal. The pool of metal was now receding into the center of the stand. Just a few more drops.

  After countless eternities, it seemed, the last drop fell and she released her mind's grip. The world rushed back in a dizzying swirl of awed whispers and enthralled faces. Solomon took away the stand and the mold. Had anything but a dragon done so, they would have been horribly burned. Myranda fought to remain awake as dry leaves were scattered on the ground before her. Atop the leaves there was placed a piece of parchment, and atop that more leaves were spread.

  "To complete your test and prove to all that you have a masterful knowledge of this discipline, you must prove the dexterity of your mind by burning the paper without touching the leaves," Solomon said.

  Knowing if she did not act quickly, she would lapse into deep and involuntary sleep, Myranda drew her mind as tightly as she could to the task. It was impossible to see where the leaves were below the paper, so keeping her eyes open was of no use. She closed them and instead looked through her mind's eye.

  Slowly, she conjured a precise flame and guided its spread. Simultaneously, she kept the leaves near the flame cool. Spreading her mind in so many directions at once would have been difficult enough with a fresh start, but now it was as though she was attempting to juggle with her hands tied. The paper was steadily devoured by the flames, and as it fluttered off as ash, the weight upon her mind was slightly lessened. So little was left. Just a bit more.

  At last, the final speck of paper was destroyed. She opened her eyes to find that at some point during her concentration she had collapsed to the ground without realizing. She tried to right herself, but her body would not obey. A thousand miles away, the crowd surrounding her
let out a roar of approval. She was vaguely aware that Deacon was lifting her onto his shoulders as the onlookers swept in to offer congratulations. This turned out to be more than Myn could bear, and she let a burst of flame free to back the crowd away, allowing only Deacon to touch her.

  He thanked the dragon for both the help and the permission and made his way to Myranda's hut. Tomorrow she would be told that she had succeeded. Today she would have a very well deserved sleep. After a trial like that, it would be a slumber from which it was difficult to awake.

  #

  A trio of worn and ragged forms rushed through the night toward a flimsy shack nestled in a stand of evergreens. When they reached it, the door was flung open and they tumbled inside. A lamp was clumsily lit, revealing walls covered with soggy maps and a table heaped with pages of every shade, quality, and state of repair.

  The three figures huddled about the light. The first, Undermine leader Caya, cleared the table with her arm and dumped a leather satchel on the table, replacing the notes with fresher ones. Her partner, Tus, did the same. Their final companion was casting nervous glances through a slit in the door.

  "Kel, don't dally. Show us what you've got," Caya said.

  Kel was one of the newer recruits and had ended up as third in command fairly quickly, mostly by virtue of the rapidly dwindling ranks of the Undermine. The man dug through his pockets and deposited a few grubby wads of paper on the table.

  "That's it?" Caya asked. "Why didn't you bring more?"

  "That's all there was. The usual places are empty. All the drop spots. Everything. Half--half of the places aren't there anymore," Kel sputtered nervously. "Commander, I think I heard something."

  "Easy, Kel," she said, looking over the notes.

  After fumbling through the scattered pages until she unearthed a quill and an ink bottle, Caya attempted to make a mark on one of the maps, only to find the ink frozen. She placed the bottle on the lamp and looked at the map.

  At its height, the Undermine had agents in nearly every city. That was when her father had been running things. In the weeks after Myranda's arrival on the grand stage, they had very nearly equaled that. Now things were falling apart. As the ink melted enough to be useful, Caya digested the pages she'd brought with her. One by one, names were crossed off. Cities, safe houses, and informants were scribbled off of the map. By the time all had been considered, there were only a handful of names left, and only two marks on the map. Caya sagged, but the eyes of the others looked to her expectantly.

  "Well . . ." she began. "Between desertions, casualties, people turning rat, and all of the arrests . . . membership is down."

  "How far down?" Kel asked, glancing again to the door.

  "We're it," Tus stated, his eyes on the updated roster.

  "Well, not quite, but soon. I suppose we only were able to exist because the Blues didn't consider us a threat . . . now they do," she said.

  "About time," said Tus.

  "Heh. Yes. At least they are taking us seriously now. Kel, there's too much going on now. My brother Henry is the one giving Wolloff his supplies. If the Elites are still prowling around in Ravenwood . . . I would just feel better with a hand that is a bit firmer on a sword doing the job. I want you to see to Wolloff," Caya said.

  "Yes, Wolloff. Where is he exactly?" he asked.

  Caya hesitated. By virtue of his status as perhaps the only white wizard not in the employ of the Alliance Army, Wolloff's exact location was a closely guarded secret. Caya, Tus, and Caya's younger brother Henry were the only ones who knew, besides those that he trained. The field healers tended to have a rather short life expectancy, due to their tendency to attempt to desert after receiving their training, and Tus's tendency to silence them when such an attempt was made. Thus it was highly likely that no one captured had been able to supply that particular piece of information. As such, someone eager to become a valued informant to the Alliance Army would be particularly interested in that fact.

  "He is . . ." Caya began.

  The distant thud of hooves drew her attention. Tus looked as well.

  "Where!?" Kel insisted.

  "Someone is coming . . . and from the wrong way. We weren't followed here. We were--" Caya said, before being cut off.

  "Tell me where Wolloff is!" Kel cried.

  They turned to him. His sword was drawn. Caya looked more disappointed than afraid.

  "Every time . . . every time! You know something, Tus? It is a sad fact, but the only sort of people we manage to attract to the Undermine these days are traitors," Caya groaned.

  "Tell me and I will see to it that they go easy on you!" Kel demanded.

  "Tus, would you?" Caya sighed.

  In a one smooth motion, Tus slapped the blade from Kel's hands, wrapped his hand around the traitor's face, and thrust his head into the rickety wall of the shack. The would-be informant crumpled dizzily to the ground and caught one final glimpse of the massive Undermine soldier before being brought to a mercifully swift end with his own sword.

  Caya and Tus stepped into the cold night, the commander holding the lamp. Sure enough, in a few moments the pair was surrounded by soldiers in crisp, fresh Elites armor, but the men were no Elites. The mismatch of weaponry made it clear what they really were. Caya sighed again.

  "Mercenaries? We don't even warrant the true Elites? So be it," she said, casting the lamp into the shack.

  As the flames swiftly consumed the contents of the temporary headquarters, Tus and Caya drew their blades. The hired Elites closed in. The battle was spectacular, though brief. One expected strength from a man such as Tus. One did not expect speed. Thus, the massive warrior managed to drive his weapon to the hilt in the chest of a still-mounted soldier before he could react. The subsequent swings struck a more prepared soldier's shield, eventually cleaving it in two.

  By the time his initial rush was through, he'd managed to shatter his own sword, killing a second soldier and its horse in the process. Caya raised her single-handed sword, prompting the man who targeted her to raise his own. A moment later, a crossbow bolt punched through his armor. Caya dropped the weapon she'd concealed in her cloak and made ready to put her blade to work, but by then the troops had recovered. Tus managed to burst between the ranks and tear free a piece of the burning shack to use as a weapon, but Caya shook her head.

  She was a capable warrior, but a better leader, and as she stared at the wrong end of a trio of mercenary crossbows, she knew the fight was over. She dropped her weapon, and Tus did the same. Prison offered the chance of escape. The same could not be said for death.

  #

  Myranda tried to focus herself. Slowly, she felt the darkness lessen. Sensations returned to her. She opened her eyes. It was night, Myn asleep on top of her. She managed to turn her eyes to the side, where she spotted Deacon in a chair beside the bed, also asleep. Her eyes lifted in time to see a dark form vanish from the window. Lain? She tried to move, causing Myn to stir. The dragon caught a glimpse of the girl's fluttering eyes lids and sprang to her feet, still on top of her. Myn looked to the sleeping Deacon and gave a sharp lash with her tail, jerking him to wakefulness.

  "What, what?" he said, before gathering his wits enough to realized that Myranda was awake. "Thank heavens."

  "What is wrong?" Myranda asked.

  "We lost you for two days. I was afraid we might have another Hollow on our hands," he said.

  "Two days. I was asleep for two days?" she said, scratching her head and sitting up.

  "Actually, two and a half. You may have given a bit more than you should have to pass that test," he said.

  "But I passed?" she said.

  "Flawlessly," he remarked. "Your place is secured in our records. You have gone from zero knowledge to mastery of a magic in one month. I doubt such a feat will be matched ever again."

  "I am honored," she said.

  "It is I who should be honored. Stay here. I will fetch you some food. When I return, I must discuss something with you that is of g
reat importance," he said, hurrying off before she could object.

  He returned to her with a bowl of the same stew and a loaf of the same bread that she had eaten every day since she arrived, save for the days that Myn would share some of her fish. He handed it to her and pulled out a book. It was not the one he usually carried. Instead, it was much older. As she ate, he spoke to her.

  "When you were telling me about yourself, I was intrigued by your mark on your hand. It was familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. When I discovered that Lain had the same mark, I decided to look into it. I would like to read you a bit of this," he said.

  "All right," she said.

  He pulled open the cover and carefully flipped to a point near the center of the book and began to read.

  "'A matter of land. Death too far south brings war. The three lands of the north join. The line is drawn. Generations fall to the blade of the enemy,'" he says.

  "Why are you reading me a history of the war?" she asked.

  It was a tale known to depressingly few, but the conflict that would become the Perpetual War began when, during meeting of the continent's nobility, the infirm king of Vulcrest grew ill. It was a long-held tradition that the kings of the north would be buried where they fell. Most came to rest within the catacombs beneath their palaces. On that fateful day over a century ago, the king fell on Tresson land. The resulting demands that the Tressons relinquish rights to the land beneath him would escalate into a generation-spanning war.

  "A history? Yes, today this would make a fine history. But this was not written today. This was written nearly two hundred-fifty years ago, a century before the war began. It represents the life's work of our finest prophet--a man called Tober. He is the only man who ever came to this place not to prove himself, but because he knew what he would find. He spent his time here perfecting this prophecy. He believed that if he could make the development of the war clear to the finest warriors in the world, then at least we could prepare. His only fault was his completion of the prophecy so long before it was needed. By the time warriors began to enter with tales of the war, the prophecy had lapsed into legend. Upon reviewing it, many of the events he told of have come to pass already. If the rest are to be believed, then a very important time is coming. The end of an era," he said.