Gone were the colorful, cultural names like Dellics, Glints, and Ouns. Instead there were the four types that remained today: copper pieces, half silvers, silver pieces, and gold pieces. The likeness of kings and queens of the past were hammered away, leaving the coins as plain and faceless as the people who spent them.
The aimless wandering of her mind had done its job at least as well as the wandering of her feet. Before she knew it, she was approaching a shoddy wooden wall around an equally shoddy little town. Both were likely a remnant of the bygone age when the three kingdoms were separate. In those days, forts such as these dotted the landscape along the borders. Now most were left to rot, and some were made into trading posts. Such was the case here.
A weathered and faded sign proclaimed the frosty place to be Fort Wick. A few steps more took her past the decrepit gate that had once held doors heavy enough to turn away a battering ram. Now one was wholly missing, burnt during a particularly harsh winter, no doubt. The other had dropped from its massive hinge and buried its corner in the earth, never to close again. The buildings, what few there were to speak of, were in slightly better condition.
At the town's center was a large building surrounded by a handful of smaller ones. Here and there, the ancient gray wood of the walls gave way to the brown and yellow of new wood where the old had been replaced. Where once had been the cots of dedicated soldiers now stood shelves of poorly-made tools. A former armory held the flimsy wares of a leather smith. Most importantly, in what had been a stable in the years past could be found a market marked by a carving of crossed swords. Perhaps inside she could relieve herself of the burdensome sword and gain the means to reduce her burden further.
Myranda hurried to the door and pulled it open. Inside, a simple, smoky oil lamp cast its sallow light on case after case of weapons of various types. An elderly man sat behind the counter, lazily shaving pieces off of a wooden stake. Judging from the mound of shavings on his shirt and the plank of a counter, it had been his sole activity for some time. The sight of a customer stirred him from his seat. The fellow had a head of wiry gray hair that had grown wildly out of control. He was exceptionally thin, but moved with considerable speed at the prospect of a sale. He glanced past her to the closing door, but when it shut without another customer, his eager look took a step toward confusion.
"Ah, hello, little lady. What can I do for you?" he said, in a voice to match his withered features. "Have you lost your way?"
"Do you sell these weapons?" she asked.
"I do," he assured her.
"Then it would seem I have found my way," she said.
"I see. My apologies, miss. I don't get many young ladies through here. Truth be told, haven't had many people at all through here," he said.
"Then I would think you would be happy to see me," she said.
"Oh, that I am, miss. As a matter of fact, I've got just what you'll be wanting right here," he said.
The feeble old man tottered to one of the cases behind the counter, mumbling all the way.
"Just the thing for dainty hands. Nice and light . . . and small," he muttered.
He hobbled back to the counter with a leather pad with an array of small knives arranged on it. The eager salesman placed it down, beside where Myranda had placed the cloth-wrapped sword while he walked. The hidden prize drew a curious glance from the old man.
"Did I put this here?" he asked, scratching his head.
"No, sir, I did," she assured him.
"Oh . . . why?" he asked, the years having taken their toll on his mind, it would seem.
"I would like to sell it to you," she said.
"Oh, well, we can settle that later," he said, shifting quickly back to his sales pitch. "First, take a look here. A stiletto, and a fine one, you can be sure of that. Nice and thin, but tough. Toughest metal made. Won't bend, not one bit, you can be sure of that. Someone tries to bother you, young lady, you just put this little knife right through their ribs. Won't take hardly any effort, you can be sure of that. Push it in right up to the hilt. Won't have any trouble from that troublemaker any more, you can be sure of that."
"That is very nice, but I would really like to show you this sword," Myranda said.
"Now, now, miss, I am not in the habit of picking up rusted relics from the public, even from those as lovely as yourself," he said with a wink.
Myranda weathered the unwelcome compliment for the sake of the deal she hoped to make.
"I think this sword will pique your interest," she said.
Myranda pulled the ragged cloth from her prize and carefully watched the merchant's face. His eyes widened briefly in astonishment, but dropped quickly back to their cool and sullen state. Now the game would begin. Uncle Edward's advice often echoed in the place of her mother's in Myranda's head, and when it came to haggling, he had a wealth of advice to give: "The only difference between a ten-copper price and a five is confidence. You can give them the most unreasonable of prices, but if you are confident about it, that price will not move an inch."
For Myranda an additional requirement arose that made her perhaps a bit less of a skilled bargainer. Certainly confidence was essential--but, for Myranda, honesty was required for confidence. She was an excellent liar, but she simply functioned better with the truth on her side. As such, she had become something of an artist at sculpting the truth into something she could use.
"Where does a little lady get such a big sword?" asked the old man.
"It was left to me by a very dear friend," she said. That soldier in the field had saved her by leaving the sword. That made him a dear friend in her book.
"So it is old, then . . ." he said, searching for a reason to drop the price.
"The age has no bearing. This blade is immaculate and in perfect condition," she said, careful not to fall for his trick.
A few words crept up from her memory.
"Note the clean edge and excellent temper," she added, quoting Leo's observations.
The two haggled back and forth for the better part of an hour. In the end, he bargained her down to fifty silver pieces, plus the stiletto and a sheath. Rather, she bargained him up from five. Both knew that the sword was worth ten times what he was paying, but she wasn't greedy. If she was equally skilled in her dealings with the other merchants, she would walk away with all she needed, and even some change in her pocket.
"Now, I don't have all of the money right here. I deal mostly in coppers, so unless you want to carry around a few thousand of those, I will have to get some exchanged with my supplier," he said.
"Of course," she said. "How long?"
"Three days. Nearest inn is Bydell," he said, pointing a shaky finger in the direction from which she came.
She'd had enough of that town, and decided on a second option.
"Is there a church nearby?" she asked.
"A churchgoer, eh? Good to hear it. These days, folks don't pay the reverence to the good word like they ought to. Particularly you young folks. To tell the truth, I haven't found the time to make it up there myself. The spirit is willing, but these old legs won't get me there. Time was I could . . ." he rambled.
The old man attempted to regale her with a painfully long tale of his athletic exploits of youth. After the third off-topic story, Myranda cut in to request directions to the church. He indicated that there was a fork in the road a half-hour south. If she took a left there, she would find the church about an hour down the road. She thanked him, and, after getting the less than generous offer in writing, headed down the road.
Chapter 5
The sky had an unfriendly look to it. Myranda quickened her step. Snow came suddenly and severely this time of year, and to be caught in it would be very treacherous indeed. As the minutes wore on, the air became colder, and stinging pieces of ice were hurled into her face by a swiftly stiffening wind. She pulled her tattered hood forward and leaned into the wind, which blew out of the southeast. She had only just reached the fork when the wind began to carry no
t only snow from the ground, but also fresh flakes from the sky. She took the left turn and exposed her right cheek to the blustery assault that the left had thus far endured. The cold bothered her little, her mind locked instead on the consequences it brought with it.
A snowfall alone would slow her, so long as there was little wind. Likewise, wind alone was more an annoyance than a threat. Together, though, they were deadly. The wind and snow were growing in intensity with equal ferocity. If she did not get a roof over her head soon, all of that bargaining would have been wasted. Periodically, a gust came so strong it stopped her in her tracks. Myranda closed her mouth and breathed through her nose, longing to gasp but knowing that air this frigid could tear at her insides if she didn't warm it first.
The sun was still high in the sky, but the curtain of snow blocked its rays, making early afternoon seem like dusk. The road in front of her was a wall of white. In these conditions, she could pass within an arm's length of shelter without seeing it. Finding what her eyes told her useless, Myranda closed them to spare them the stinging wind. Now she had only the sound of her feet to guide her. Even under layers of snow, the crunch of a road had a different timbre than that of the turf of the field. Before long, she was not so much walking as wading through snow that had already drifted to knee height in some places. With each passing step and each icy flake, the hope of reaching the church seemed to fade.
A streak of ice beneath the snow caused her to slip. She stumbled forward to catch her balance, but instead caught a sharp blow to the shoulder from an unseen obstacle. Sparks swirled against the black of her closed eyes as she reeled from the impact. She opened her eyes a sliver to see what had happened, and nearly cried out in joy at the sight of the frosted over shingles of the church. Feeling along the wall with what little sensation her fingers had left, she came to the door. Eagerly she pushed the gateway to savior, but after only a few inches it stopped and would not budge.
"Hello?" Myranda said, banging desperately at the door. "I need help! Please let me in!"
Even if there had been an answer, she could not have heard it over the howling wind. She shoved the door with all of the strength she could muster. It slid open a bit more. One more valiant push allowed just enough of a gap for her to slip through. She angled herself through the opening, a task greatly complicated by the large pack and long sword she carried. When she finally tumbled inside, she heaved the door shut against the biting wind.
After spending several minutes catching her breath and brushing the caked snow from her clothes, she inspected the clearly unoccupied church. A pale white light filtered through the snow-encrusted windows, dimly illuminating what little there was to see. Aside from the odd broken chair or pew strewn about the floor, there was nothing in the way of furniture. It was clear that this place had been ransacked long ago and stripped of anything of value, leaving a large, empty room with a raised platform at one side and a fireplace.
Myranda slid to the ground with her back against the door. Even with little more than the wind and snow out of her face, she could feel her cheeks redden with warmth. She sat for a time, letting her heart slow to a more normal pace and listening to the wind rattle what few shutters remained on the windows. When she finally recovered from the onslaught, her trembling having subsided somewhat, she rose to inspect the fireplace. The flue was clear, so at least a fire would be safe. She gathered together some wood from a broken pew and carefully arranged it in the hearth.
Eventually, she was able to get a fire started. After basking in the much appreciated warmth, she pulled her provisions from her pack. The last of the purloined food would have to serve as her meal for the day. In truth, it might have been wiser to ration the precious stuff, as this blizzard had the potential to block her way for days, and there was no other food to be had. The meat was old already, though, and only getting older. She would rather have a full stomach today than an upset one tomorrow. She dropped all of the salted meat into the pot and put it over the fire.
The fire was weak and not nearly able to heat the whole of the empty church, but, huddled near it, Myranda finally began to feel like herself again. The smell from the food was not exactly appetizing, and stirred memories of her uncle's hideous attempts at cooking. It seemed that whenever he tried anything more complicated than applying heat to a pot of water, the results were sickening. Myranda's father would kid that if he churned out one more concoction, he would ship him over to the enemy.
That had been one of the last times she'd seen her father. Myranda tried to push the unwelcome memories away, but a tear came to her eye when she pictured the two of them together. It was foolish, but something inside her refused to believe that her father was gone. Somehow, after all of these years, she would still ask after him in each new town, even though every answer thus far had been one of ignorance or doubt.
A draft from one of the several broken windows whisked through the largest hole in Myranda's worn cloak, reminding her once again that it needed to be replaced. Of course, she could never do that. Links to what little past she had were too precious to give up simply because they had lost their usefulness, and this cloak was the last thing she owned that had belonged to her Uncle Edward. She pulled the blanket from her sword and wrapped it around her. As she recalled the history of the cloak, she vaguely remembered relating it to that Leo fellow she had met. Quietly, she wished he were here to keep her company again.
The light of the fire danced on the mirror-like finish of the blade. She stared at the pristine edge. It had likely been used in battle, certainly left to the elements, and yet the edge looked to be as keen as the day it was forged. Her eyes drifted to the grip. The jewels there were like none she had seen before, though, in truth, she had seen very few. Gazing into the deep blue gem at the hilt's center, she swore that she could see on forever, like looking into an endless dark tunnel.
Myranda reached for the magnificent weapon, but stopped. She turned her palm up, the very same one she had risked to touch it with the first time. It had healed quickly. Now all that remained was a thin pink scar running across her palm, with a single red mark just below her middle finger. The longer scar, centered on her palm, was a long, curving line that twisted back and forth on itself. It resembled a pair of smooth waves with a trough between. The red mark was centered above this trough. It was the very same mark that adorned the blade. The blade, not the handle.
Carefully, she touched the scabbard and flipped the sword to its other side. There was no mark anywhere near where her hand had touched the sword. How could such a scar have been formed?
"Magic," she decided aloud. The owner had some sort of spell cast on the sword to brand the would-be thief with the mark of the rightful owner. For such a fine blade as this, a security measure of that type would hardly be out of place.
Satisfied with her own explanation, she looked back to the fire. Using the corner of her blanket to shield herself from another burn, Myranda pulled her pot from the flames. The heat had done little to improve the flavor of the food, but the ration was nonetheless filling. With the meal gone, she realized that so long as the storm raged, she would have nowhere to go. Her weary muscles made it quite clear how they felt she should spend the spare time. She sought out perhaps the only unbroken chair in the church and sat upon it. Sitting on the cold floor was one thing, but sleeping on it was quite another. Once properly situated, she wrapped herself all the more securely in her blanket and drifted quickly off to sleep, regardless of the fact that there were still hours of sun left.
The single night in a proper bed had spoiled her, it would seem. The clattering shutters and sudden drafts pulled her from slumber a handful of times through the afternoon and night. At first, she would jerk awake and look around, but soon she tried simply to ignore them and get back to sleep. In a way, the light sleep was a blessing. It spared her the terrible dreams that she had been suffering. Not once in her life had she had a recurring dream, though she had often hoped for one. Such dreams were said to
carry great meaning. The dark and frightening images of her nightly torment did not bode well for the future.
Chapter 6
After she'd had her fill of fitful slumber, Myranda opened her eyes. The yellow light of the fire flickered on the walls of the otherwise darkened church. This struck her as odd. She had not fed the flames for hours. She tried to turn to the mysteriously lively fire, but something stopped her from shifting. Still groggy, she struggled to gain a glimpse of the tightness about her chest, straining until she could just barely see the cause. There were coils of rope wrapped tightly around her, securing her to the chair. Panic gripped her as tightly as the ropes as she struggled. Both rope and blanket trapped her hands. Despite the maddening effort to free them, there was little progress and even less hope of escape. In her struggle, all she managed to do was to knock her chair to the floor. With much effort, she was able to slide the chair along the floor to where she had left the sword, only to find it had been taken.
Myranda regained her wits. This struggling was getting her nowhere. She had to think. Who would do this? Who could do this? All that she had of value was the sword. Why would someone who had the skill to bind her without awakening her even do so when they could have merely taken the sword? She tried to struggle again, hearing the jingle of silver in her pocket. They had not even robbed her.
"It doesn't make any sense! Steal the sword, tie me up, and feed the fire!?" she cried in frustration. "Why would you feed the fire? Unless . . ."
Unless whoever did this was still here. She held perfectly still and strained her ears, fearful to even breathe. All that could be heard was the tap of shutters and the crackle of flames. Myranda's rattled mind shaped each of them into a half heard footstep. Finally she gave up listening. What could she do, even if she heard her captor? Nothing while she was tied up. She glanced about in her limited view from the floor for something, anything to free her. The fire! She could burn the ropes! A second thought brought the realization that her blanket and clothes would likely burn to ashes before the binding even lit, let alone what would happen to her skin. There had to be another way.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 7
