Fortunately, before much longer, the roads they came upon began to show the telltale signs of upkeep. Soon after, they reached a road with fresh hoofprints. Further ahead, the smell of burning wood signaled the presence of a town. Hope began to rise. This must have been where the others had been headed. Gradually, though, Myranda's heart sank. Perhaps they had been here, but were not any longer. Any attempts to detect them assured her that they were nowhere near. Worse, it seemed that they were no longer together. They now were far below, perhaps already off of the mountain. She wanted badly to join them, but the horses--and, truth be told, she and Deacon--needed shelter, food, and sleep.
When they finally reached the town, it was a tiny mining community called Verneste, a place Myranda had passed through before. This was good news. She'd raised little stir during her last visit, and there was an assayer who would likely give them gold in exchange for some of the more unique contents of Deacon's bag.
The gray wizard, rather than relying upon the general's seal to provide him with free provisions, sold a few of the smaller shards of Myranda's broken crystal. In addition, one of the bottles of healing potion brought a very high price indeed, as it was revealed that the alchemists and wizards who normally crafted them had been warned, under penalty of death, to provide them only to the military. This was ostensibly to ensure that the military had a plentiful supply, but most knew it to be simply another way of keeping the general populace in check.
The money was enough to resupply, stable the horses, and spend a night with a roof over their heads and pillows beneath them. Myranda was mercifully able to reach their accommodations without drawing any attention. The room had but one bed, and thus it was shared. If this were another time, that night might have been--and, by all rights, should have been--something truly special. Alas, the weariness of travel and the heaviness of the task on their shoulders brought little more than sleep.
The next day, the first in some time that saw both Deacon and Myranda fully refreshed, was spent desperately trying to catch up with the nearest of the Chosen, but the fear and duty that had driven the others along put far too much space between them. By the time flat land was reached and real progress could be made on horseback, the three Chosen they sought had already converged, and were in the presence of two generals.
The two wizards arrived in time to narrowly ward off both of the generals and escape without losing a single hero.
Chapter 4
"And that brings the tale full circle," Myranda said.
With the last words of her story told, Myranda fell silent. Deacon put his hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. The telling of the tale had done little to dull the edge of the sorrow she felt. In her desperation to end the devastation of the general named Epidime, and to save the lives of her friends, she'd crossed a line she had promised herself that she would never cross. She'd killed a man, a fellow human.
At the time, she'd believed him to be Epidime himself, and that taking this one life would save countless others. In the end, she'd discovered that the man she killed was but a pawn, and Epidime was not a man at all, but a presence, a possessing spirit associated with the halberd he always bore. His body destroyed, he merely selected a new one and escaped, leaving Myranda emotionally shattered, blood on her hands and a death on her conscience.
Now she sat with the others, hidden by a small glade of trees and licking their wounds from a fight that destroyed half of a city and nearly claimed their lives.
"That was a somewhat more mundane explanation than I had anticipated. For a moment, I had thought you were almost worthy of your place among us," Ether stated.
The lack of compassion was typical for this Chosen One. She was a shapeshifter, able to assume virtually any form, physical or elemental. She'd existed since the dawn of time, but seemingly had spent the whole of her life convincing herself of her own superiority, and that emotions were little more than poison for the soul.
"Are you mad!?" came a voice of protest.
All eyes turned to Ivy. The young hero had been sleeping, recovering from near death since the recent battle ended. Now she was sitting up and fully awake. If ever there was a beast that could be considered wholly Ether's opposite, it was Ivy. The very same malthrope who Myranda had contacted, she was an enigma. Her own history was unknown even to her, though it seemed likely that she owed her current form to the machinations of General Demont. She was childish, enthusiastic, caring, and dangerously emotional. When her feelings ran strong enough, she became something else entirely. A berserker, surging with rage or fear, she seldom left behind anything but rubble, and often found herself helplessly drained when the smoke cleared. If not for the intervention of the wizards, she would have bled to death from her wounds--or, worse, she would have been left in the hands of the generals.
"I heard the whole thing. I didn't want to interrupt you," Ivy said to Myranda before turning to Ether. "This man fell from the sky to save her life! What about that is mundane!?"
She turned to Deacon and approached him, arms extended. He offered a hand for a shake, but she pushed it aside and embraced him.
"You saved Myranda's life. That makes you my friend, and friends don't shake hands," Ivy asserted.
When she was through, she released him from her embrace and turned to Myranda.
"It is so good to see you! I told them that you were alive, but they didn't believe me. At least, she didn't. I'm not so sure about Lain, but I knew for sure," Ivy said.
Ivy threw her arms around Myranda and hugged her tightly. The joy was quite literally infectious, as a golden glow spread weakly out from the ecstatic creature. Deacon's eyes widened in wonder at the phenomenon he'd only heard described before. A feeling of warmth and joy filled him--and, to varying degrees, the others as well. Any nagging ailments melted away. It was another peculiar effect of her emotions. They tended to spill over into others, and just as rage brought strength and fear brought speed, joy brought relief and recovery, easily the match for a spell of healing.
"It . . . it is remarkable. Emotion radiates from you!" Deacon proclaimed.
"What?" Ivy asked, turning from Myranda.
"I've never seen anything like it. It is like some sort of mystically fostered empathetic symbiosis!" Deacon blurted.
Ivy blinked.
"Oh, never mind. I am just . . . it is a dream come true to meet you. All of you. It is an honor and a privilege of which I am truly unworthy," Deacon said.
Ether raised her eyebrows.
"I would not have expected a human to be so keenly aware of the degree of his lack of worth," she said.
"Don't listen to her. What is your name again?" Ivy asked.
"Deacon," he said. "And she is quite right. You are all Chosen, the warriors selected by the gods to protect your world. You have a purpose greater than any other. The world rests in your able hands. By comparison, I am nothing at all."
Ivy turned to Myranda again.
"Your friend is very strange," she said.
"He means well," Myranda replied.
"That I most certainly do. I mean to be as useful to you as I can. If there is anything at all that you wish or require of me, I would be honored to do all that I can. I am a capable wizard and an able fighter. Do not hesitate to ask anything," he offered eagerly, looking to each of the Chosen. "Lain? Ether? Ivy? Anything at all."
Lain showed no reaction. He seldom did. A malthrope, like Ivy, his life had forged him into a vicious warrior and a feared assassin. The hatred shared by his race and the hardships it had brought had burned away at him until all that was left was a shell of a being, nothing but iron resolve and an absolute dedication to his purpose. Currently, that purpose was to see to it that Ivy would be safe from harm. She was the only other malthrope he'd met in ages, and judging by the life he was living, she would soon be the last. She must survive, whatever the cost. If something did not contribute to this goal, it did not concern him.
Seeing that the silent hero required nothing of
him, Deacon looked to the others.
"There is nothing that you could offer that I could require," Ether rejected.
"Umm . . ." Ivy thought aloud. "I really don't think I need anything."
"Just get some sleep. When we have rested, we will share what we have found. There is much more to be done than we had suspected," Myranda said.
"I will make every attempt to sleep, but in the light of our current company, it will be difficult to do so," Deacon said.
Myranda settled with her back to a tree, Deacon to one side and Ivy to the other, her head resting dreamily on the girl's shoulder as she drifted happily back to sleep. Myranda's own slumber was slow to follow, and the dreams it brought were painful. Her battle with Epidime haunted her. A bolt of lightning tearing from the sky by Myranda's will. His body blackening to stillness. Then, impossibly, the halberd rising and flitting to the hand of a child. The young boy's face taking on the look of terrible intellect and detachment.
The images were repeated constantly in her mind.
#
Far away, three figures settled down at a table. The room was dark; the only light came from the cherry-red embers of a pipe, the weak, blue glow of a gem-embedded halberd, and a handful of similar gems that shifted about organically before settling against the wall amid much clattering. The room in which they had gathered was located within a seldom used wing of the residence of the king of the Northern Alliance, a castle on the north end of Northern Capital.
There was an uneasy silence as the man at the head of the table drew a long breath through his pipe. The man was Bagu, one of the four remaining generals of the Alliance Army, and the most senior among them. He had stark, handsome features, marred only by a scattering of scars. The well-dressed man held himself with a regal bearing and, at the moment, barely-contained fury. He pulled the pipe from his mouth, breathing out the smoke.
"Demont, report," Bagu ordered, frustrated anger adding an edge to an already forceful demand. "I feel I have waited too long to hear your explanation as to why you came rushing to us with your tail between your legs."
"There are three Chosen together now. That is more than I cared to face unprepared," explained Demont.
The man who spoke was shorter, dressed in clothing less suited for a nobleman, and bearing features sharper and less immaculate. His was the air of a scholar forced into a business he considered beneath him, and little was done to disguise the sentiment.
"Unprepared? That was your testing facility, was it not? That put a veritable army at your fingertips," Bagu growled.
"They were being tested because they were incomplete!" Demont fumed. "Those Chosen came to my facility unprovoked, with no time on my part to adequately fortify, and I still nearly destroyed them. If I'd had a force the size I have been supplying to Epidime every time you have a tantrum and decide to send him to kill them, in complete opposition to the plan, I would have brought them back barely alive."
"Yes, yes. A well-formed excuse," Bagu jabbed. "Do you have anything useful to add?"
"They aren't acting like heroes. They destroyed the fort. They fight viciously. I do not believe that we will be able to count on them reining themselves in for the sake of honor," Demont warned.
"One of them will," interjected a small, confident, but utterly out of place voice. It was that of a young boy, the body currently occupied by the general called Epidime. "Myranda is strongly principled."
"If that is the human, she is neither Chosen, nor among the living," Demont reminded him.
"Wrong on both counts. Whether she was or was not a Chosen before, she most certainly is one now. And she is quite alive. Worse, she is quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with, particularly with the partner she brought along," Epidime countered.
"You say she has a partner with her?" Bagu asked urgently.
"Not a Chosen!" Epidime explained. "A male, another human. Certainly not Chosen, but remarkably skilled. I'll have to learn more about him, but the spells he was hurling were unique, and quite effective."
"Never mind learning about him. If he is not Chosen, then kill him--as soon as possible," Bagu instructed. "Unless . . . Trigorah was with you. Was she present when . . ."
"No. I had her removed prior to Myranda's arrival. Conditions for the convergence were not ideal," replied Epidime. "She was not pleased."
"Yes. She was quite vocal in her complaints," Bagu recalled.
They spoke of Trigorah Teloran. A spectacularly skilled tracker and military commander, she was the least senior of the generals, despite her elfin heritage. She'd become increasingly displeased with Bagu's decision to keep her from the front, the place she felt her skills would be best used, leading the others to keep her on a still-tighter leash.
"There is a problem," Epidime continued.
Bagu's fingers pressed to his temple as a look of anger surged briefly in his expression.
"What?" he growled through clenched teeth.
"Lain is trying to deliver Demont's pet to someone in Tressor for protection. If we expect to be rid of the Chosen with any finality, we need the convergence to occur, and that will not happen with Ivy in the south," he reminded.
"Agreed. This situation is threatening to escape our grasp. Demont, despite your consistent and damaging failure, I am giving you another chance. Any resource you need is yours. I want something that they can't beat. Epidime, they are working too well together. Fix that, but do not forget that we need them all in the same place at the same time," Bagu dictated.
"Intriguing. If I interpret your commands correctly, you wish for me to destroy their unity without compromising their proximity," Epidime said.
"Do it," he hissed.
The orders thus laid out, the trio parted company. Bagu lingered in the now-pitch-black room, drawing in another puff on the pipe before marching off after them.
#
Deacon tried desperately to drift off, but he could not push from his mind the fact that so many figures of legend, beings anticipated even before their own births, were in his presence.
Ether, apparently satisfied with the degree of her recovery, stepped from the fire and assumed her human form.
"A second human. This is just a replacement for that lizard she lost," Ether said with disgust, referring to the young dragon named Myn, who had been a valued companion to Myranda until a battle took the creature’s life. "Her stubborn reliance on lesser beings is sickening, and a threat to us all. How much will this one slow us before it is destroyed?"
"I will do everything in my power to be a benefit to you," Deacon said, opening his eyes from the latest failed attempt at sleep. "And I would respectfully request you not blame Myranda for any delays or troubles I may cause. She does care deeply for others, and though I can scarcely imagine why you find this a fault, I assure you that, in this instance, the choice to accompany her was my own."
"You are in no position to make requests, human," Ether said, not even remotely apologetic.
"Certainly not," Deacon said, hesitantly adding, "but as a firsthand observer of the speed that Myranda has shown in her development, and the skill she has shown in her execution, I do not believe that it is fair or right for her to be viewed as anything other than an asset. She is a truly remarkable person."
"And what of you? What do you add to our cause besides your refreshingly well-adjusted sense of worth?" Ether asked.
"Well, my mystical skill would normally be that which I consider my most valuable asset, but in the presence of a being such as you, I feel it pales. However, I have unlocked a number of the secrets of the D'karon language, and more than a bit about their peculiar style of magic that I think may be of great use," Deacon offered.
"Doubtful," Ether replied.
"The map," Lain stated.
"Yes, of course," Deacon said, quickly retrieving the rugged piece of parchment.
It was unfurled before Lain and his eyes pored over it.
"These marks are D'karon forts. I am certain of it now. The oth
er markings, here, are some sort of ranking system, a priority or value, and these others have something to do with classification. I haven't fully determined their meanings. This mark is an identifier, not a name, but some sort of designation. I've been able to determine that the D'karon consider the Northern Capital to be a key stronghold, but it is second in importance to something a fair distance north of it," he explained.
Lain's finger traced downward along the map. In his mind, he counted off the days, weighing the roughness of the terrain against the likelihood of their discovery. In his years of traversing the land unseen, he remembered encountering many of these forts marked on the map. Alone, he'd seldom had to give them a second glance, but with the others . . . and while they were being actively sought . . . It was unlikely that he could risk straying near to any of them. What was left was a razor- thin path that was midway between cities and forts, at times dangerously close to each.
Deacon could not help but notice the route he was planning; he had been told of Lain's desire to take Ivy to safety by bringing her to the far south, past the battlefront--and, he hoped, out of the reach of the D’karon.
"I know you worry about Ivy. If she truly is Chosen, then her place is by your side. You cannot leave her behind and expect to succeed. You must trust in fate," Deacon urged.
"Fate has done quite enough for my kind," Lain stated.
"Leave him. You say that you have determined something about their magic. What is it that you believe that you have learned?" the shapeshifter asked.
"Oh, yes," he said, sitting down on the ground and rummaging through his bag. "I've spoken to Myranda about this. These crystals, they have the peculiar property of drawing in any source of mana--the souls of the living, even ambient elemental sources. Once filled, they can be treated, so that when broken they consume the energy while bringing about a desired effect. Conversely, they can be coaxed to release their stolen power, either through a conduit engraved with their runes, or another crystal, or even one of Demont's creations. It would appear from the notes he has taken concerning their creation that--"
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 91
