Everything, right down to the full head of long brown hair, was just as it had been on the woman. Had the body not still been on the ground in front of them, they would have believed the enemy had somehow torn herself back from the beyond yet again.
"You have done well, Chosen One," the being said. "I am impressed with your ability to blend with the lower creatures."
The being approached Lain. He held the sword tightly, tip leveled at the throat of the woman, keeping her at bay.
"What are you?" Desmeres managed through a rare look of wonder.
The being did not acknowledge him, her gaze locked on Lain.
"Answer!" Lain ordered, moving the sword to within a hair's width of her throat. The woman was unaffected.
"I am not in the habit of dignifying the questions of mortals with response. I will answer you, if you wish," she said.
"Do it!" Lain growled.
"I am like you. I am a guardian of this world. I am Chosen," she said.
"Why are you here?" Lain demanded.
"To join you in battle against the enemy," the woman said.
"I neither want nor need help," he said.
"Nor do I, but it is decreed by the powers that govern all of existence that it must be," she said.
Lain drew in a long breath of air. "The soldiers that survived your escape are coming back," Lain said, scanning the surroundings for the best route of escape.
"That show she put on likely has every soldier from here to the horizon on the way," Desmeres said.
Lain spoke to Desmeres in a bizarre language Myranda had heard spoken in Entwell. He responded with a nod.
"We need to leave--now," Lain said.
"Agreed," Desmeres said. Myranda offered a weak agreement.
"You aren't actually afraid of these animals, are you?" the woman asked, a hint of disdain in her voice.
"I do not want to deal with them. Not now," Lain said.
"Mmm. Yes. Then let us go," the woman said.
"You will not be joining us," Lain said, moving swiftly to the west.
Myn trotted to Myranda's side as Desmeres helped the weary girl to follow.
"I must. It is destiny," she said.
"Lain, you must allow her join us. She is Chosen," Myranda agreed.
"These creatures use this word . . . Lain . . ." the woman said.
"It is his name," Myranda said.
"Inform your mortals that they are not to speak to me," she said. "I cannot approve of their continued presence. The very fact that you have allowed them to label you as they label themselves speaks volumes of the fact that you have spent too much time among them. You are Chosen; you mustn't allow yourself to be lowered to their level."
Lain was silent. Myranda's reverence for this mighty being was quickly slipping away. It, like most elements of the prophecy she'd encountered, was not as she had imagined. Far from the noble, benevolent, caring being she had expected, the woman before her had managed, in the space of only a few sentences, to firmly define herself as a rigidly superior, tactless creature. Everything she said had a cold, sterile feel to it. In a way, her attitude was similar to the one Myranda had assumed as a Tesselor--but her tone made it far worse. At least Myranda's words had the sting of sarcasm. This woman spoke frankly, as though there was no doubt that anything she spoke was anything less than absolute fact.
"What is wrong with you? We are the people of this world! It is your duty to protect us, not lord over us," Myranda said, her irritation briefly pushing her weariness aside.
"Tell your human that--" the woman began.
"Tell her yourself and be gone," Lain growled.
He increased his westward pace to a speed difficult for the ailing Myranda to match, even with the help of Desmeres. The woman released an irritated sigh and turned, for the first time since that day in Entwell, to Myranda. She then proceeded, with infinite calm, to shatter any lingering hope Myranda might have had that she was the hero she'd hoped for.
"My duty is to the world, not the inhabitants. I am to protect you insomuch as you are a product of nature. Past that, I see little distinction between yourself and the charred ground you stand on, and were you to suddenly be changed from one to the other, I would hardly consider it a change at all. I have watched over this world since the dawn of time and have found the brief fraction of history that you and your ilk have inhabited it of no more consequence or interest than the eons that preceded it. Your society has proven itself to be shortsighted, dim, and quite likely to bring itself to a prompt end without any enduring influence in the grand scheme of things whatsoever. I consider it an enormous concession that I have even bothered to learn this sequence of squeaks and grunts that you call a language. I would not be speaking at all but for the fact that the one you call Lain seems unwilling to communicate by spirit. He is the only being besides myself worthy of any distinction at all," she stated before turning back to Lain.
With the infuriating being by his side, Lain wore a far more stern expression than usual. It became clear that she had no intention of heeding his order to leave.
"I haven't the time to deal with you at the moment. Keep out of sight. If we are pulled into another battle because of you, I will see to it that you do not survive it," Lain grumbled as they reached the trees at the edge of the clearing.
"I assure you, if any weak-minded beasts discover us, they will not survive to spread the knowledge," the creature said.
They trudged on. Lain had a determination in his stride that carried him and the seemingly indefatigable woman far ahead of the others. Now, among the trees, they didn't have to rely upon distance alone to hide them from prying eyes. This fact, coupled with the hundreds of different trails made by the other prisoners, made discovery of the growing group exceedingly unlikely. This was fortunate, because the chill air of the hardening night was beginning to take its toll. Myn had taken to puffing flame once a minute or so to keep warm, and before long Myranda was shivering uncontrollably. She was walking now simply out of reflex, shuffling in a daze, eyes closed. After her staff slipped out of her hand for the third time, Desmeres decreed that the time had come to stop until morning. He lowered Myranda to the ground and began to gather dry boughs from beneath the trees. He had already begun to spark flint against steel to start the fire before she realized what was going on.
"You can't start a fire . . . pine . . . too much smoke," she objected weakly.
"I am in no mood to spend the next few hours finding a more appropriate fuel, and we need this fire. It would be awfully anticlimactic if you froze to death tonight," he said, mustering a weak grin.
The cold, frost-crusted wood was not being cooperative. Myranda, moments before succumbing to exhaustion, whispered a barely audible request to Myn, and a burst of flame from her lips lit the stubborn wood quite nicely. Shortly after, Lain and the woman approached. He cast a stern look at Desmeres, but relented upon seeing the collapsed Myranda with Myn curled on top of her. The woman looked upon the sight with the same sterile stare she'd worn since her arrival. Lain sat cross-legged by the rather meager fire and closed his eyes.
"I was under the impression that our intention was to avoid detection," the woman remarked.
"I am afraid that the fire is a necessary risk. We mortals are quite fragile, after all," Desmeres said with excessive pleasantness.
"Infuriatingly so. Those two are sleeping, I suppose," she said.
"As I hope to be shortly," Desmeres said, adopting a similar posture to Lain. He then propped his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists.
"Such a pitiful requirement, a mandatory period of helplessness at the end of each day," she remarked as she bent low to inspect the girl and the dragon. "And these eyes are woefully inadequate."
"What exactly are you accustomed to?" Desmeres asked.
The woman remained silent, inspecting the fire instead.
"Ah, I see. I must answer your questions but you needn't answer mine," he said.
This, too, was i
gnored. Suddenly, flames swept up around the woman and, in mere moments, she was consumed in flame. A moment later, it was clear that she was, as before, actually composed of the flame. At this distance, the wonder of the sight was breathtaking. The flame was like cascades of liquid gold flowing upward in graceful curves over her body. Behind the bright tips, the flame was a deep red, and behind that was a dark, almost black core that was just barely visible among the brilliant gold and red. The fiery being was more defined now than she had been before, looking more like the woman from whom she'd borrowed her form. The ground beneath her feet sizzled briefly before she stepped onto the campfire. Its flickering flames joined with hers and she took a seat.
"It isn't nearly as strong and pure enough a flame to suit my needs. I shall require a fair amount of time to restore myself to the strength I enjoyed this morning," she remarked in a voice similar to the one she'd had as a human, save for a peculiar crackling quality that underscored it.
"I shall endeavor to build a more appropriate one in the future. Have you any specific requests?" Desmeres offered with a yawn.
"Use the wood of several trees and fan the flames constantly with strong, focused winds. That should provide adequate intensity," she stated simply.
"I think that may be a fire more visible and taxing than I am willing or able to create," Desmeres said.
"I suspected as much," she replied.
After a few moments, the form of her body seemed to flicker away into the flames.
Lain sat in deep concentration as the others slept. It was often as near as he would come to sleep for weeks or even months at a time. His back was striped with slashes from the cloaks he'd battled. Many still leaked blood, contributing to long maroon stains along his own cloak. If he managed to sink deeply enough into this trance, the last of them should close. He had no use for magic, but the warrior's sleep had saved his life more than once.
It was no replacement for true sleep, though. The body was greatly rejuvenated, but at the expense of the mind. Dark thoughts from long ago had a way of finding their way to the surface. Few had even heard of the warrior's sleep, but those who had heard of it had learned of it first through the tales of those minds lost to it. Madness was often the price of the technique. For a few hours, Lain endured the twisted remembrances. Sometimes the faces of his victims would flash in his mind. Other times, some of his darker deeds would crawl out of the murky darkness and linger. One scene in particular came so frequently it seemed to become an old friend.
The setting was always the same. He was on the farm of his youth. The only man who had shown him anything but hatred, blind Ben, was being beaten before him. As he watched, he--lashed to a plow--was being beaten as well. He was too exhausted to continue. Ben, old and feeble, finally took his last lash with a whip and fell to the ground, dead. Shock, pain, rage. Emotions burned at his brain. The baser instincts inside of him screamed for revenge. Ignoring the increasingly intense lashes of the slave driver's whip, Lain tore at the leather straps that secured him. Tooth and claw reduced the last of them to shreds and he was free.
The acts he committed were unspeakable. Inexcusable. He tore through half a dozen slave drivers and guards before a team of them managed to force him into a shed. This would be the last mistake they made.
The shed they barricaded him into was filled with supplies for the harvest. Taking up a scythe, Lain slashed through both the door and the men who braced it. Before the thinking part of him returned, he had stained the blade with the blood of fifty men--or more. Only the other slaves and the youngest son of the owner were spared.
Those who found the aftermath of his rampage did not know what to think. It was as though a bear had mauled half of the men, while the other half were simply cut to pieces.
Finally, Lain forced the remembrances from his mind and pulled himself from the warrior's sleep. It was these soul-searing visions that served as a reminder to him that whatever horrid end he may come to, it was deserved. He knew that the life he had led could not be redeemed. He did not fear death. A part of him craved it, but the same instincts that led him to his atrocities that day continued to demand that he do whatever it took to give the lives back to those like him, through any means necessary. In doing so, perhaps he could prevent another from becoming the twisted demon that they had made him into.
As Lain hunted down a meal, the others slept. Once fed, he remained vigilant. With the wretched swirling wind--which, it seemed, had been the newcomer's doing--gone, the breezes again brought him smells from far away. Soldiers were numerous; the wind carried their scent regardless of direction. Most were in the company of horses. Some were joined by far more fearsome beasts. They all seemed to be growing nearer. With the others to slow him, an encounter was inevitable.
Each passing moment brought the first of what was sure to be a string of battles nearer, but Lain knew it was best to fight sooner with the group well-rested than to run now and face a battle later with his group useless. His group . . . Lain furrowed his brow. He had never been comfortable as part of a group. Now there were four who looked to him. He was not a leader. He was not a protector. This was not his place.
His solitude was broken when the rising sun roused Myn, who, in turn, roused Myranda.
The girl was far from recovered. Her strength was a fraction of what it should be, but that still made her several times stronger than the previous few weeks of captivity and torture had allowed. Thoughts and memories of what had occurred in that terrible place constantly leapt to the surface of her mind and had to be brushed away. She attempted to rub her sore neck. The collar that had severely limited her spell-casting was still locked in place, but without the crystal it was little more than a nuisance. Now that there was nothing to prevent it, her mind worked to heal her body as she slept--but even so, she was sore from head to toe. Slowly, she surveyed the status of her friends.
Myn was off faithfully hunting down breakfast. She must be healthy enough. Desmeres was sleeping propped against a tree. Here and there, a place where one of the cloaks had managed to reach his skin could be seen. One or two such wounds still had the look of fresh blood about them. They should be healed. Lain was crouched at the edge of the clearing. His clothes, formerly white to blend with the snow, now were streaked with the remnants of his injuries. He didn't seem to be bleeding any longer, but the wounds were still quite large, quite numerous, and quite deep. They must be terribly painful.
"Lain, you're still hurt. Let me heal you," she said, fetching her staff and using it to struggle to her feet.
He silently agreed. Within a few minutes, she had found all of the visible injuries and healed them. She knew better than to ask if he had any others. He would deny it. Instead, she turned her attentions to the sleeping Desmeres. His gashes were easily dispensed with, though the warm, tingling sensation of their removal was enough to wake him while she was still crouched by his side.
"Why thank you," he said with a yawn, admiring her work as the last wound shrank away. "I must say, you do a better job than those potions of mine. Mind you, you might wake me up next time you feel inclined to cast a spell. I may have an opinion about it. By the way, there is a nagging pain in my lower back that you missed. Yes . . . there . . . this is why I have made it a policy never to get my hands dirty."
Myn came trotting back with some manner of wild bird for Myranda. The girl cleaned it, fashioned a spit, and held it over the fire.
"What do you suppose you are doing?" came a voice from the flames.
Myranda, startled, fell backward. The form of the newcomer separated itself from the flames and shifted slowly back to her human form. Desmeres chuckled to himself.
"I am sorry, I didn't know!" Myranda apologized.
"No. Of course you didn't," the woman said. Her cold voice bore a hint of the tone of a weary teacher consoling a poor student. "A creature of your level could not be expected to understand the nature of my being."
Myranda felt a twinge of anger, but there was no u
se voicing it. She cooked her meal as best she could over the remnants of the fire. When she was through, Myranda offered the rest to Desmeres. Myn, apparently still holding a grudge for being tied up and bagged the day before, would not allow it. Instead, she quickly ate it herself.
"Well, if you could behave yourself, I wouldn't have had to bind you in the first place," Desmeres stated, correctly assuming the motivation for the act. "Ah, it is just as well. We need to move before someone spots the smoke."
"We shall stay here until I have fully recovered," the woman announced.
"We leave now. It is already too late to escape cleanly, but if we move quickly we may limit our encounters," Lain said.
"I cannot be expected to perform the acts of which I am capable if I am not allowed to recover fully," she said.
"How much longer will you need?" Myranda asked.
"With a fire this size? Several weeks more," she stated.
"Well, when the soldiers find you, lie to them about where we went," Desmeres said, quickly following Lain, who had already set off in the direction they had been headed in the day before.
"Wait! Lain, you mustn't leave her behind. You are both Chosen! You must remain united," Myranda called after him. He did not turn.
Myn trotted halfway to Lain and turned to urge Myranda on.
"Please, you must follow now. I am sure you are strong enough to reach wherever we are headed! If not, I will help you," Myranda pleaded.
"To suggest that I would ever require your aid is tantamount to blasphemy. Even in my weakened state, I am more powerful than you can imagine," the woman snapped, a rare hint of emotion flavoring her usually sterile voice.
"Then let us go! Quickly!" Myranda urged as Lain disappeared amongst the thickening trees in the distance.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 60
