"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 great 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.
"The coming of the Chosen," she said.
"Precisely. I looked further, and there is a description of the Chosen. Listen to this. 'He will have the blood of a fox, a member of a creature race. His skill with all weapons will be unsurpassed in the mortal world,'" he said.
"Lain," she said, her voice an awed hush.
"Yes. And therein lies the problem," he said.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"The prophet tells of three things that will signify the Chosen when they arrive. They will be pure of soul, divine of birth, and born with 'the mark.' The prophet speaks at length about the mark, but he could never describe it," he said.
Myranda looked to her left palm. The thin white line of the scar still remained.
"He bears the mark. We do not know about the rest, but he bears the mark. And so do you. But . . . the prophecy does not speak of you. It does speak of 'a swordsman and knight, a leader among men, who will carry an enchanted sword and bear the
mark upon all his armament,'" he said.
"The soldier . . . the one in the field. I took his sword. But he was dead. How can that be?" she asked.
"The prophecy does not speak of his death. The fact that you found the knight dead can mean only two things. One, that neither Lain nor the knight are the Chosen spoken of in the prophecy, and their appearance is a coincidence. The second, and far more disturbing, is that Lain is the one spoken of, which would mean that the leader of the Chosen was the one you came upon. If that is true then . . . the Chosen will not be complete and . . . the end of the war will not come," he said.
"But how can we be sure?" she asked.
"There is a way. The other three Chosen are described as well. One is an artistic prodigy, skilled in all that she puts her hands to. Another is a cunning strategist and tracker. Finally, a mystic being of unimaginable might, awaiting the day that the words of the others coax a return to the physical realm.
"Soon there will be a blue moon. On that night the mystic energies will be at their highest. That is the night that we have made it our tradition to attempt to summon this legendary being, but without the voice of a Chosen, our attempts have always been met with failure. Lain was never made a part of the ceremony in his time here, but we will see that he is this time. If he is involved . . . and we are able to summon the strength . . . the mystic creature will return. If the being appears, then we will know for certain that a Chosen is among us," Deacon said.
Myranda sat silently in the bed. She had heard the tales. The tales of the Chosen. It was a favorite bedtime story. She had pictured the Chosen as the pristine and perfect knights that populated all of the other tales. Now Lain could be one? How?
"You say if you are able to summon the strength . . . there is doubt?" Myranda said insistently.
"The night of the blue moon is a night of high magic, to be sure, and we are quite likely the greatest wizards in this world. That having been said, the mystic creature will be one of monumental strength, and we shall be tasked with creating its physical form from nothing. There is no telling if there is strength enough in the world to succeed," Deacon stated.
"This ceremony to summon the Chosen. May anyone be a part of it?" Myranda asked.
"Anyone may observe. In fact, the Elder specifically requested that you and the others do so--but participation is limited to full Masters of war or the elements. The rite is a dangerous one. A lesser level of training would leave one at great risk," he explained.
Shortly after, Deacon left her to get her rest, the revelations he'd spoken of churning in her mind.
#
It took another day for Myranda to recover completely from the overexertion of the test. During that time, she received several angry visits from Ayna, the air wizard who was to be Myranda's second trainer. She reminded Myranda that she had been specifically told to report to her on the day of the test, and now three days had passed. She went on to accuse Solomon of sabotaging her so that he could appear to be the only teacher capable of producing such a pupil.
The harsh words swept over her without effect. There were more serious concerns stewing in her mind. When Myranda finally felt well enough, she ventured out to find Lain. He was outside of his hut, as usual, engaging in some manner of odd stretching exercise.
"I have been told to congratulate you," he said.
"You are one of the Chosen," she said, angrily.
"Not this again. I thought I was through hearing this nonsense when I left this place the last time," he said, readying his staff. "Prepare yourself."
"You finished your training here decades ago. You were out there, in this war, with the power to stop it. And you did nothing!" she screamed, lunging at him with the weapon.
"It is the dream of a child. There are no Chosen," he said, parrying her attack.
Myranda launched into an offense with a ferocity that she would have never thought herself capable of. With each block or dodge, she grew angrier. Visions of the war spurred her on. Had he done what it was his destiny to do, she would never have had to know war. Every hardship of her life would never have occurred. Suddenly, it happened. Perhaps it was the long rest, or the anger-fueled strength, or the unpredictability of her furious attacks, but a blow slipped through, passing by his block and striking him squarely on the chest. In an instant, he swept her legs out from under her and put the end of his staff to her throat, his teeth bared.
Myn stood rigidly still, unsure what to do.
"That's . . . one," Myranda managed.
Lain removed the staff.
"So it is," he conceded.
The vicious session continued. A handful more hits slipped past his guard before the sun finally set. Myn was beside herself watching the two finally attack each other in earnest. Myranda mopped the sweat from her brow. Lain inspected the site of one of the more powerful blows for blood or swelling.
"I count six," Myranda said.
"Five. I said solid blows. The third was glancing at best," he corrected.
"Fine, five. Time for you to pay up. I know that you have not been fighting to end the war as your destiny would dictate, and I know that you are not a tournament fighter as you said you were. For my first question, I want to know what you really do," she said.
"Are you certain? I warn you, you will not like the answer," he said.
"I assure you, I like the mystery even less," she said.
"Very well. I am an assassin. As a matter of fact, you are quite familiar with my exploits," she said.
"Why would . . . no," she said as the answer dawned on her. "You are the Red Shadow!"
Lain nodded.
"That is impossible--he is a man," she said.
"A man who killed a wolf with his bare hands and wears the bloody skull as a helmet," he said. "I started that rumor myself. If I was seen, I couldn't risk being recognized as a malthrope. Your kind would more easily let a mass murderer slip through your fingers than one of my kind. So if the gossip speaks of a man with a red wolf helmet, that is what people will see."
"And the Elites were after the Red Shadow. That is why they were really after you," she said.
"They are a formidable force," he said.
"If you are an assassin, then why were you after me?" she asked.
"This is your second question. The Alliance Army hired me to locate the swordsman and retrieve both he and the sword. I was also told that I was not the only one that would be after him, and that if he was to fall before I found him, I was to retrieve the sword and anyone who touched it and lived. That was you. I was also to kill anyone who tried to stop me," he said.
"But those men who came to claim me. They were of the Alliance Army. Why did you kill them?" she asked.
"Your third question," he said. "I must first inform you that I did not kill four men that day."
"I saw you with my own eyes," she said.
"You saw me kill four soldiers, but they were not men. Not quite," he said.
"I don't understand," she said.
"Somehow, I thought that you hadn't noticed them yet," he said. "They have been around for as long as I can remember, always wearing Alliance armor. At first they looked and sounded just as men do, but even then there was the smell. It was something . . . artificial. As time went on, they began to look less and less like men. Now they must wear their helmets lest their faces give them away. I do not know what they are, but I have taken to calling them nearmen, and they have infested your army.
"It was four of those that I killed that day, because they had come to collect you for themselves. They had been sent out with the same orders as I. Had they brought the payment, I would have let them have you and the sword, but they were empty-handed and they had to die."
"Wait, wait? Nearmen? You mean that there are creatures in the army that look human but aren't?" she said.
Lain began to open his mouth.
"That wasn't for you. I will not have you wasting one of my questions by answering that. Two more . . ." she scolded.
"Very well," he said.
Myranda looked at Myn, who had finally begun to relax after the anxious battle.
"Tell me about her. She likes you, me, and no one else. Solomon tells me he is sure that you were present at her birth. What happened that day?" Myranda asked.
Lain sighed.
"When I saw the cloaks recapture you so soon after I released you, I realized I had underestimated the number of other agents that the Alliance Army had dispatched after you. If you were to remain my prize I would have to keep you on a shorter leash. I made certain that, once you left the Undermine headquarters, I did not let you out of my sight. It turned out to be a very good thing that I did, because you chose as shelter a dragon's den. Even your nose could have told you that.
"I followed inside, and as fate would have it, a large male had been on the way. You panicked, so I knocked you unconscious, pulled you aside. If you had only kept your head and slipped out after the male had passed, you would have been safe. The dragons had no interest in you. After the female warded off the male, I remained near. The last remaining egg hatched, the creature inspected us, and deemed the two of us family," he said.
Myranda's head reeled. There was so much she had learned, and yet there was so much more to ask. What were those cloaks that had captured her? He had spoken of them so matter-of-factly, they must be as common as the nearmen that she had only just learned of. And exactly what was Lain? She didn't know much about malthropes, but she knew that they didn't live much longer than humans, and yet he had been active for over seventy years. There was only one question left . . .
"I will save my last question until next time. And I intend to earn more," Myranda decided.
"As you wish. I must warn you though--thus far, I have been limiting myself. It will not be so simple next time," he said.
"And I must warn you, Lain, I will not let this pass. You are Chosen, and I will see to it that you do your duty. I swear to it. From this day forward I am dedicating myself to the task," she hissed. "You will take your place in destiny."
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 31
