The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  "Brilliant. And masterful," Deacon said, admiring the piece he was handed. "Worthy of being an exam back in Entwell, I would say. You would have made a fine teacher."

  "Is it sufficient? Will it hold the enchantment?" she asked.

  "A normal arrowhead might not have been, but those we make in Entwell will be quite sufficient," he said.

  Deacon thought for a moment before casting the appropriate enchantment upon the ring. He slipped it onto his finger and slowly transferred the crystal to the other hand. Even without his constant counter influence, the afflicted limb remained normal. Both heaved a sigh of relief. Myranda began to slip her own ring on.

  "No. Wait a moment," he said, taking it from her. "You have given me a gift. The least I can do is return the favor."

  He cast a second enchantment, then took her hand in his. He slipped it onto her finger with all of the respect and reverence that such an act warranted.

  "There. An ancient spell of protection, one of the most fundamental in Entwell's history. The very same enchantment adorned a pendant around Azriel's neck when she found the land of my birth. May it bring you the same luck and fortune as it brought her," he said.

  When they finally continued on their way, it was with spirits higher than they'd been in years. Suddenly, the cold seemed to be gone. The blackness of night was no longer oppressive. The countryside was as icy and unforgiving as it had been minutes before, but there was now no place that they would rather be. The conversation flowed easily, as though the months that they had been apart had never happened.

  Deacon was filled with a sense of wonder at these, his first steps into a vast world entirely new to him. He marveled over the size and isolation, hearing tales of the sights he was sure to see. He looked forward with great anticipation to their arrival in the town.

  Now and again, the map was consulted, but not to find their way. The initial glimpse of it had been more than enough to restore Myranda's well-practiced sense of direction. It was not the towns on the map that drew their interest, but the other markings. Deacon looked with fascination at the shapes and symbols. It was that rarest of things, a language he knew nothing of. The very same writing covered the books and notes from Demont’s study, occasionally accompanied by familiar words and terms. He launched himself headlong into the task of deciphering these new runes.

  "They differ fundamentally in structure from any other language I've seen," he said, an array of different notes and books scattered in the air before him, the folded map at their center. "It is used for place names, terminology, spells . . . yes. This is definitely a spell. I think that this may be the true purpose for the symbols. Remarkable . . . a language defined for spells first and communication second."

  "How is that possible?" Myranda asked.

  "Well, these runes here have unmistakable mystic power. These others are different. Weak . . . it is . . . it is as if this is not one language, but several. Five . . . a dozen . . . more than that. A patchwork of languages, none familiar to me. What do we know of this race, the D'karon?" he asked.

  D’karon was the name applied to those they fought. Even before she learned she was one of the Chosen, the D'karon were her foes. They constructed creatures, commanded armies, and wove twisted and cruel magics. Indeed, of the five generals of her homeland, the Northern Alliance, all but one seemed to be a member of the dark race. Despite their unmistakable influence, and her repeated confrontations, their origins and their nature remained shrouded, save one small notion.

  "Nothing beyond the fact that they are not of this world," she said.

  "I dare say they are not from any single world. The way these words collide into uneven, ill-fitting phrases implies some fusion of different cultures. Amazing," he posited.

  "You can tell all of that from their writing?" she remarked.

  "There is nothing so telling as the language of a people. One moment . . . Yes. Patterns are emerging. See? Here. This is a spell book, it must be, and all of the pages end with this symbol or some variation of it. This other book--it looks to be notes--does not bear the mark anywhere. It is unique to the spells. Like some activation phrase. It is possible that this mark, when accompanying any phrase written in this language, will bring about some sort of mystic effect," he thought aloud.

  "What is this?" Myranda asked, pointing to a shape with some runes beneath it on the map, located deep within a mountain range.

  "I am not certain. Why?" he replied.

  "I don't know of anything there. No town. No fort. Nothing. And it looks the same as this other mark, here in these mountains. That was where I found Ivy. And the same mark here, where we just left," she said.

  "The D'karon forts!" he said, unfolding the map fully.

  The sight they beheld was chilling. They were everywhere. Like black stains on the map, every valley, every mountain, every place far from prying eyes was marred by one of the marks. Several forts she knew of, Northern Alliance forts, bore the mark. Worst of all, the black mark rested on the capital itself. There was even one far to the north of it, at the very edge of the map.

  The fort that they had just toppled had nearly taken her life, and now there were dozens more.

  The unfortunate revelation put a renewed urgency in their minds. Deacon had been lucky until now. He'd not yet faced one of the generals, and had had only the merest brush with their creations--but Myranda knew all too well the things that they were capable of, and to know that their roots were so deep was terrifying to her. She fairly ran, her mind only on securing the means to catch up with the others. Deacon kept pace, stumbling now and again as he tried to keep one eye on the ground and one on the mound of indecipherable notes.

  Aside from the assortment of sheets and artifacts orbiting before him, there were a handful of other items he had draped over his shoulders and tucked under his arms, each featuring familiar symbols alongside foreign ones. These might prove the key to unlocking the secrets of the language, offering some manner of common ground between the languages and some hint of how best to proceed.

  Chapter 3

  The dull light of day came and went, with the last of its glow lingering at the edge of the western sky as Myranda and Deacon approached a tiny town. One needed scarcely a glance at the town from afar to see that the destruction of the fort, a fort that may well have been a mystery to them until the black smoke rose from the field the day before, had put the town into an uproar. The place was far too small to have soldiers patrolling it, but the streets were alive with the sturdiest townsfolk serving as a makeshift town guard. It was clear to Myranda that this was not the time to come walking in from a field looking as she did, even if she wasn't an increasingly well-known enemy of the state. Worse, there didn't appear to be much in the way of a stable. Likely the horses of the town were the property of the residents and visitors. To deprive a person in a town as small as this of their horse, be it through sale or theft, would be to maroon them here.

  Myranda stood for a few moments, contemplating what to do. Deacon, at first, took the opportunity to devote his full attentions to the latest in the stack of Demont's notes, but quickly became aware of Myranda's look of concern. At his prompting, she explained the situation to him. The source of the difficulty clashed repeatedly with the life he was accustomed to in Entwell. There, if someone needed something, they merely asked for it. Indeed, even that was seldom necessary. All was provided. He similarly was not certain why they would be distrusted for arriving on foot, looking as though they had been through the ordeal that, indeed, they had. Above all others, one confusion could not be cleared.

  "But you are Chosen. You are trying to return to the other Chosen Ones and return to the task of saving the world. Surely the townspeople would gladly offer you anything you need," he said.

  "The prophecy is something of a child's tale here," Myranda explained.

  "I . . . see," Deacon said, attempting to process the statement. "Well, nonetheless. This should not be a concern for you. If you cannot risk sho
wing your face in the town, then I shall do what needs to be done. Tell me what you require and it shall be attained."

  "Deacon, I am not certain that you are ready for this. We will just need to find a different town," Myranda said, her mind working hard at the problem.

  Deacon looked Myranda in her eyes and spoke earnestly. "Myranda, I came here to be useful to you and I mean to do so. Tell me what you need and tell me where to meet you. You can trust me."

  Myranda hesitated, but relented.

  "Be careful, and put the crystal away. There are very few wizards about. Don't use any magic if you can help it," she warned before listing what was needed.

  A few moments later, Deacon was on his way to the town, stuffing items into his bag. He knew that he needed at least one horse, preferably two, and enough food to last a week. He had no clue how he would attain them--but, for him, that was beside the point. Myranda watched nervously as she skirted around the edge of town to the other side. Deacon was every bit a capable person, but he was well out of his element. She set her mind to the dual task of escaping whatever mob was sure to come sprinting behind Deacon and reaching the others quickly.

  #

  Deacon approached the nearest entrance to the city. Standing guard was a frail-looking older man. He looked as though he could have been a grandfather, gray hair peeking out from beneath a war-scarred helmet that had no doubt served him well in his youth. The rest of his armor fit poorly, a relic from an earlier life in the military. He bore no proper weapon, brandishing instead a recently sharpened shovel. He looked haggard, as though he had been at his post for far too long without relief. As Deacon drew near, he straightened up.

  "Halt. What is your business here?" he demanded in a very official tone.

  He squinted a bit, trying to get a good look at the curious sight before him. Deacon had neglected to stow the materials he'd hung on his shoulders for further study, and without magic to lend an extra hand, he was having difficulty keeping them together.

  "I am in need of supplies," Deacon said, simply.

  "Where is your horse?" he demanded suspiciously.

  "A horse is among my required supplies," Deacon answered.

  "Where are you coming from without a horse?" the makeshift guard growled.

  "That direction. I'm not certain of the name of the place. One moment," he said, burrowing into his bag, attempting to reveal the map.

  One of the artifacts that had yet to be stowed, a strap of leather with a rather ornate medallion on it, stubbornly refused to stay in place on his shoulder. It dropped for a second time as Deacon tried to keep from dropping the papers under his arm.

  "I am terribly sorry. Would you hold this for just a moment?" he asked, snatching it from the ground and holding it up to the soldier.

  "Get that out of my . . ." the soldier sneered, trailing off when his failing vision finally focused on the seal on the strap.

  He took the strap and looked it over. It was a general's seal. One of only five. This one bore the name Demont. He remembered it, even from his youth. Soldiers seldom met face to face with the generals. He'd gone from recruitment to retirement without seeing even one. Could this young man be Demont? Either he was or he was skilled enough to kill or steal from him. It didn't matter. Regardless, this was not a person to be trifled with.

  "Th-this way, please," he stammered.

  "Oh, thank you," Deacon said, having only just managed to stow the loose papers.

  He took back the strap and looked it over as he was led to what must have been the general store for the town. Slowly, he realized what was happening. The misunderstanding was greatly in his favor, but it was dishonest to allow them to believe that he was someone that he was not.

  From the youngest age, he'd been taught that dishonesty was the first step down a road that ended very poorly for deceitful wizards. Magic users tended to attract the attentions of, and occasionally draw strength from, the spirits around them. Deceit was one of many things that twisted the soul, and a twisted soul attracted twisted spirits. After a short, one-sided debate in his head, Deacon conceded that he would allow the misunderstanding, but he would not foster it.

  The weathered soldier opened the door and held it as he entered the store. After a harshly whispered exchange, the woman minding the store looked nervously to Deacon.

  "I can get anything you need right away," she offered shakily.

  "Provisions for two people for seven days," Deacon requested in an even tone.

  As the storekeeper hurried off, gathering armful after armful of provisions, the soldier turned to him.

  "Why might the general favor us with a visit today?" he asked, nervously.

  Deacon silently thanked fate for the awkward phrasing.

  "A fort of great value was destroyed in the field I came from. I am pursuing the individuals responsible," he replied. It had been destroyed, and he was indeed seeking those responsible. No word a lie.

  The answer was quite enough for the soldier, now certain that it was the general he stood beside. Pride welled inside of him at being graced by his presence. Deacon, on the other hand, was simultaneously berating himself for allowing this disgrace to continue and fighting heroically to keep the nervousness and shame from his face. In less time than he would have thought possible, the shopkeeper dropped not only food, but blankets, bandages, and a dozen other things on the table.

  "We have no horses for sale, I am afraid, but, ah, I would be honored to donate my own steed," the shopkeeper offered nervously.

  "If that is what you wish," Deacon said.

  "I too would like to provide you with my steed. A fine, sturdy animal it is, too," the soldier chimed in.

  "That would be most appreciated," Deacon said gratefully.

  #

  Myranda crouched behind a drift of snow near the top of a hill, the rising wind whipping at her, anxiously watching the rear exit of the city. She had only been there for a few minutes, not yet settled upon what manner of action she would take in response to whatever trouble Deacon managed to cause, when she saw him lead a pair of heavily-laden horses out of the town and onto the road. When he circled around the hill, out of sight of the town, she ran to him. He had everything they needed and far more, but his expression was one of utter shame.

  "This is remarkable!" she said, hugging him. "What did you do?"

  He handed her the medallion.

  "This is . . . Demont's seal, isn't it?" she said.

  "I suppose the man is a recluse. At least enough that his own people would mistake him for me," he said.

  "You managed to convince them that you were a general?" Myranda said, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise.

  "They managed to convince themselves . . ." he said.

  Myranda was quickly able to surmise the source of his turmoil.

  "Deacon," she said, mounting one of the horses, "I don't mean to make light of the situation, but there are a great many things that may need to be done before our task is complete. Some will be difficult. Some will fly in the face of your morals and beliefs. Just know that, if it truly had to be done, then doing it was the right thing."

  "I suppose," he said, scarcely consoled.

  He twice tried and failed to pull himself onto the horse's back as he'd seen her do. A third try landed him unsteadily in the saddle.

  Myranda looked at him flatly. "You don't know how to ride a horse, do you?"

  "In truth, this is the first time I've even seen a horse. They don't fair very well in caves, I understand, so they have never made their way to Entwell," he said, apologetically.

  What followed would have been an endearing experience if not for the tremendous rush that they were in. Myranda coached him along, teaching him the ins and outs of horseback riding as they tried to make their way toward the others. Fortunately, and not surprisingly, he was a swift learner, and before long they were breezing along fairly swiftly.

  A few days passed, traveling a route far from main roads. As day after day passed wit
hout so much as a glimpse of another traveler, Myranda became more and more aware of how empty the war had left her homeland. The conflict with the massive southern country of Tressor had been raging off and on for well over a century, and the years of bloodshed had taken their toll. The north was nothing more than a handful of roads connecting a handful of dying towns. All of the rest was vast ice field after forbidding forest after rocky mountain.

  There should have been life. There should have been some hint of the people of the land. Instead, the people gathered into smaller and smaller groups, ever more remote and isolated.

  For a moment, at least, that isolation was in her favor, a fact of which she repeatedly reminded herself. It seemed that luck had momentarily begun to favor them.

  In her ongoing efforts to bring the Perpetual War to an end, Myranda had been branded a murderer and traitor by the five generals. She was still not certain of the degree to which the Northern Army had managed to spread her infamy, so any situation that kept them from prying eyes without the need for stealth was quite helpful indeed.

  Deacon, when his mind was in need of distraction from his slow progress on the translation of the D'karon language, resumed his instruction in the ways of the gray arts. A variety of useful spells were taught and even practiced without the fear of being noticed. Nightly, Myranda sought the others with her mind. She felt herself drawing nearer. This road seemed to be ideal.

  That notion did not last very long. After the sunset on yet another day without so much as a trace of the others, it became clear that the most direct path on the map was not necessarily the swiftest. Long disused roads had eroded to little more than patches of loose gravel for the horses to lose their footing on. That, coupled with narrow passes made all but unusable by years of uncleared snowfall, made the going painfully slow. Before long, it was not clear if the ample supplies that they had managed to secure would be enough, particularly when there was little food about for the horses.