Faint memories of her last detainment drifted to the surface of her murky mind. She'd spared herself the pain of the collar they'd placed on her by forcing her strength down deep. Perhaps that would help here as well. Gathering what little she had, Myranda did so. It was not long before she was sure it was working. The glow of the larger crystal ceased to increase. Her mind cleared a bit, too, though it did little good. Her eyes brought her nothing useful, and what she could hear did little to help her. Mostly, there was the periodic sound of plodding footsteps approaching to check the gems, then retreating again. The only other sounds were distant, muffled noises that sounded like the roars of animals.
With nothing but her thoughts and her pain to occupy her, Myranda began the long, difficult task of sorting though the events that had happened in the valley. The D'karon had known precisely what was needed to defeat each one of the Chosen. Her own refusal to kill humans, Lain's reliance on his sword to defend against magic, Ether's weakness against crystals and her tactics to combat them, and the gem that controlled Ivy. Everything had been planned out from the start, and each hero had played into the traps perfectly.
Her own manipulation had been masterful. Epidime had managed to make her reunion with her father the most painful moment in her life, instead of the moment of joy it should have been. And Trigorah . . . all of this time, she'd been the last of the original Chosen. All of this time, she'd fought to defeat, to capture, those who should have been her allies, and each success had been another nail in her coffin. Somehow, that band had protected her from the retribution that fell upon the divinely Chosen when their loyalty strayed.
Myranda worked it over in her mind. The swordsman had fallen, Ivy had been transformed, Trigorah had been subverted, and Lain and Ether remained. The intended five were all accounted for.
More time passed. The strength sequestered deep in her soul grew stronger. Her mind grew sharper. She was beginning to administer small doses of magic to the wound on her arm, healing it slowly so as to not be overtaxed. It had only just been reduced to a dull ache when the click of boots on the stone floor approached again, this time coming much closer, and accompanied by the glow of a torch.
The face the torch revealed was anything but a welcome one. It was General Bagu. On his face he wore a look of superiority and triumph.
"Ah. Alive, I see. I was beginning to think you'd been pushed beyond the breaking point," he remarked.
"You would have let me die? I thought you needed us alive," Myranda replied in a hoarse voice.
"Not for much longer. Now that the four of you are in our possession, we've found ways to utilize you to our own ends. A few more weeks of harvest and we shall be prepared to pass the point of no return. After that, your failure will be assured, whether more Chosen arise or not," Bagu explained.
"How?" Myranda asked.
"That is not for you to know," Bagu said. "All you need to know is that your life right now depends upon your ability to fill these crystals. If you prove unable to do so, you shall be disposed of."
"And if I am unwilling?" she asked.
"Your cooperation is not essential. Even if you hold back, you will have to sleep eventually, and when you do, the crystals will drink what there is to be had from you," Bagu informed her. "At this point, there are only three possible outcomes. You can join us, at which point you will be restored to health and given a place among the generals. You may even be made the overseer of this world."
"I've seen what you do to the Chosen who join you," Myranda hissed.
"Trigorah's fall was unfortunate, but necessary. She attempted to turn her back on us, and in doing so shunned our protection from the curse of the Mark," he stated. "But if you will not join us, I suppose you shall simply have to wither away to nothing as we leech away every last bit of your strength."
"And the last option?" Myranda asked.
"Suffice it to say that the final option is mine to choose, not yours," he stated ominously. "Now, since you've been informed of how to cooperate, I shall give you an opportunity to do so. I suggest you take it."
He turned and marched off, leaving her in darkness once more. A short time later, food and water were delivered to her. It was the same watery gruel she'd been served during her last detainment. Myranda considered foregoing the food, letting herself waste away rather than give them the power they wanted. There seemed no way out. Even if she were to release all of the strength she'd been able to keep from them at once, whatever spell she cast would be leeched away to nothing by the overabundance of crystals before it could be of any use.
Myranda was languishing in despair as a form approached her. No light was brought along this time, the presence signaled only by the click of boots upon the floor. Something clattered to the floor just outside of the bars, and a creak followed. Slowly, a bluish light appeared in the heart of a gem that had thus far been hidden. It was affixed in the head of a halberd, and cast its light on the form of her father reclined in a chair that had been placed beside the cage. Once he saw the pained look of recognition come to her face, he let the light drop again.
"So we meet again, my dear," he said.
"Why have you come? Do you plan to make another attempt at my mind?" Myranda asked weakly.
"Tempting, but no. Where is the challenge? Besides, I am still busying myself with your father's mind. We've been using him for quite a while, you know. Most of the nearmen fight using maneuvers plucked from his head. But until recently, the facts of his life were of little interest. Quite the noble soul, your father; did you know that--" Epidime began.
"Stop it!" Myranda cried. "Is this why you've come here, to torment me?"
"Partially. In truth, things have become painfully tiresome these past few days. With the Chosen all either dead or in custody and the end in sight, I find myself stricken with ennui. You've always been the most interesting to me, so I decided, while they are busy securing my next target for interrogation, I might have a word with you," he said. "It might interest you to know that Lain has nearly escaped no less than three times since our little encounter in the valley."
Myranda was silent.
"I believe we've worked out a way to keep him in line though . . ." he remarked.
"You know . . . If my end has finally come, there is one good thing about it," Myranda said. "You'll never get the chance to grasp at my mind again. I turned you away once, and you will never be able to redeem yourself. You will simply have to live with the defeat."
"There, you see? Fascinating. The motivations behind such a statement are a delicious little puzzle. Was it simply out of malice? Are you trying to goad me into an attempt, or are you trying to trick me into releasing you?" Epidime replied. "Not that it matters, of course. I sincerely doubt your path ends here. You are the clever sort. That is why I like you. That boy of yours, on the other hand . . ."
"You leave Deacon out of this. He isn't Chosen!" Myranda said.
"I knew that he would get a rise out of you. Demont wants me to take a look through his head. The old beast wrangler seems to think there are some parlor tricks inside that we might use. I suppose I shall get to that. He could be interesting, as well. After all, you seem to have grown rather attached, haven't you," Epidime thought out loud.
"Why! Why do you do this? What do you get from torturing me?" Myranda cried.
"Why, to know, Myranda--to know," he replied. "That is all there really is in the end, my dear. Knowledge. There is an awful lot of it, and there is always more to be had. That is why I agreed to come along with these fellows. They could take me elsewhere."
"You aren't one of them? You aren’t a D'karon?" Myranda asked.
"Well, naturally I am a D'karon. I wouldn't be here yet if I wasn't. You see, I've noticed this about you and the others. You've incorrectly interpreted that word's meaning. I'll explain it to you one of these days. I'd explain it now, but it might give you some insight into something that it is in our best interests to keep hidden," Epidime said. "But I digress--I
do what I do because I wish to know things. Not trivial matters like the names of spies and the movement of troops and the sort of things I dig up for them.
"I live for skills, and techniques, and the nature of things. Look at emotion! Things like love, happiness, and joy? They are not without their allure, but in the end they are a bore. They just lead to more of the same. Things get really interesting when you start to unearth things like anger, jealousy, sorrow, hate, worry, and lust! Once I set one of them churning about in your mind, you start to do things that don't even make sense to you. Things you don't want to do. Things that you know are wrong.
"How can you help but be fascinated in that? It is as though each one of you is not an individual, but a spectrum, a society, occupying a single body. I need to test these limits, to see how I can bring out the side that benefits me. The more I learn, the more I become convinced that, given time, a mere handful of careful manipulations could shape the whole of a world into any form you choose. I simply must try that, one of these days."
"You are mad," Myranda stated.
"Am I? Do you realize how simple it was to start this war? Do you even know how it really started?" Epidime asked.
Myranda was silent. A devilish grin came to Epidime's face.
"Oh . . . And I thought there wasn't a single way I could leave you in any more anguish than I had found you in," he said. "Well, it is really a very short story. One hundred and fifty or so years ago, things were going quite well for your little world. In fact, the King of Vulcrest was on the verge of hammering out a mutually beneficial agreement with Tressor. He was not at all well, though.
"As you are quite aware, it is the tradition for the kings of the three northern kingdoms to be buried beneath the ground that they die upon. Thus, when the king suddenly became weak, he was pulled away from the bargaining table and rushed to a carriage, so that should he die, it would happen in the north. A faster carriage was waiting just on the other side of the border, and the king was being led to it when he collapsed. He was found just a few paces on the Tresson side of the border. The government of Vulcrest demanded that soil beneath their king be made a part of Vulcrest. The Tressons refused. And so it began.
"Most of your people do not even remember that simple tale, but there is a bit that no one knew. I was the king's aide. Bagu was the driver of the first carriage, and Teht the driver of the second. Members of the D’karon were the only ones that witnessed his death . . . He died on his own side of the border, but that is not where he was found. Oh, we didn't kill him. His own failing health did that. All we did was move him. And that was all it took. One hundred and fifty years of war only required me to move him a few paces."
Myranda dove at him, stretching the chains to their limit and struggling weakly against them.
"You monster! You monster! All of those years. All of those lives!" she cried in a frenzy.
Epidime rose, taking his seat with him, and left the enraged girl to her outburst. She strained at her bonds until her strength gave out. With the crystals eating at her, it didn't take long. As she became still, the hopelessness and pointlessness of it all consumed her mind. Nothing mattered. She hadn't the strength to save herself, let alone the others. And even if she could, what was the point? Any world that could plunge itself into a generations old war on such trivial pretext, and allow itself to forget why it fought, scarcely deserved to survive. All she wanted was for death to claim her. For the final darkness to creep over her and take the weight from her shoulders.
Amid the darkness of her mind, a tiny part of her resisted. Some insignificant corner of her soul scratched and dug at her memories, desperate to find something to draw her from the abyss. The events of the valley battle faded briefly into her mind. One of the last things she'd seen was Deacon being hauled through the portal. He was alive, then. Epidime had indicated he still was. At the same time, her own father was at the mercy of Epidime, enduring a torture she herself had only narrowly been able to avoid. The two men that she loved most were both in the clutches of the D'karon, and it was no one's fault but her own. Finally, she understood why the heroes of legend were meant to be solitary. It was to shield others from this hell. To spare those not burdened by divine mandate the wrath of the enemy.
That was why she had to fight. She could not let them pay the price. She had to do something. Something that could cripple the D'karon as they had crippled the Chosen. Saving the world seemed hopeless now, but saving the two people in it who meant the most, or at least avenging them? She had to try.
Slowly, a plan formed. She tested the crystals, seeing how much they could draw from her, and how quickly. Carefully, she practiced isolating just one gem. With purpose behind her actions, the time began to pass more quickly. She choked down what they offered in the way of food. If this was going to work, she would need every ounce of strength she could muster. When one crystal was filled almost completely, she choked off the flow of magic and held it there. It wasn't long before Bagu reappeared. He cautiously surveyed the room.
"I must say, you've managed to confuse the nearmen. And I would be lying if I said I wasn't at least a bit curious about what it is you think you are doing," Bagu remarked.
"I know myself rather well, General. I know how much strength I should have by now, which means I know how much I've given you. It is quite a bit," Myranda said, her words delivered carefully lest she allow her focus to falter.
"Hardly. It is the merest trifle when compared to the amount we've been able to draw from Ether and Ivy. You can be pleased, I suppose, that Lain has been less productive than you," the general mocked.
"Is that so . . . Well, then, I suppose I shall simply need to try harder," Myranda said.
Instantly, she reversed the efforts of her mind. She forced her strength to the surface and into the single gem. The studs in the shackles took on a blinding blue-white glow, some of them bursting. The main gem swiftly took on a similar glow. Cracks of more brilliant light ran across its surface. General Bagu realized what Myranda was attempting and turned to force the gem from its stand, but it was too late. The flood of power was too much for the larger gem, and before he could tear it free, it burst.
The blast was intense, hurling Myranda against the bars of the cage and peppering her with broken shards of crystal. It brought with it a tremendous, sharp clap, like a dozen thunderbolts at once. The flash of light robbed Myranda of her vision and her ears rang and whistled. As her vision slowly began to return, it revealed a surreal sight. The largest of the crystal shards were embedded deep in the walls, creating a fading galaxy of light blue embers all around her. The chain that had been attached to the crystal's pedestal was bent and twisted in the bars nearest to the blast. The bars themselves were bent slightly inward by the collision.
Myranda rose painfully to her feet, brushing away the shards that had found their way to her flesh and limping to the damaged bars to test their strength. With one of the gems destroyed, the end of the chain formerly linked to it was loose, completely freeing one of her arms. One by one, she investigated the bars until she found one that was slightly loosened. She had begun to twist and pull at it when motion caught her eye. A form, as embedded with crystals as the wall, was moving toward her. With an inhuman growl, a hand reached through the bars and grabbed a hold of her, yanking her to the limit of the chains that still held. Myranda could hear the joints of her still restrained arm popping, and the feeling of the half-healed arrow wound opening again made her cry out in pain.
"Congratulations . . ." came Bagu's voice from the darkness, saturated with hatred. "You've earned the third option."
Dozens of nearmen bearing lanterns and torches flooded the room, finally shedding light on the destruction. A large portion of the wall behind the crystal had been obliterated, and of the other three crystals, only one was still intact. Bagu himself was oozing black blood from a dozen wounds torn by pieces of crystal. Half of his face was an unrecognizable mass of ruined flesh. With his free hand, he bashed at th
e bars. Despite a build that seemed at best average, Bagu's attack was enough to rend the metal bars from ceiling and floor alike. As the nearmen clambered to undo the shackles, he barked orders at them.
"Make the necessary preparations. Tonight there shall be a show," he growled.
With that, he placed a hand on Myranda's head, his will driving the young wizard back into unconsciousness.
Chapter 14
When Myranda awakened, she was falling through the air, deafening cheers in her ears. She landed painfully on the dusty ground, her twisted joints, skewered arm, and perforated skin all making their presence known once more. After struggling to her feet, Myranda's blurred vision began to clear.
She was in the middle of a large, dirt-covered field. A high stone wall surrounded her. There were doors large enough to pass a carriage through with room to spare at opposite ends of the courtyard. At the top of the wall were downward pointing spikes. Beyond them was row after row of soldiers, weapons in their hands and murder in their eyes. Those nearest to the wall were in full armor, faces hidden behind the face guards. No doubt they were nearmen. Here and there, slung between spikes, was a large example of the storage crystals.
The wizard must have spent some time away from the parasitic gems, as a fair amount of her strength had returned to her. Quickly as she could, to avoid feeding the thirst of the crystals for any longer that was necessary, she healed the more grievous of her wounds. The white cloak she had worn was missing, leaving her only with her thin, hardly adequate tunic. Around one wrist was a shackle, its lock apparently twisted beyond opening by the blast that had earned her this fate. A short length of chain hung from it. An icy wind blew as the setting sun heralded the beginning of a long, cold night. The breeze chilled her, but what chilled her more were the deep furrows and crimson stains that littered the courtyard. There was little question what this place was, and even less question as to why she'd been brought here.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 105
