"That has never stopped him before," said Myranda.
Lain appeared to have recovered from the torture at the hands of Epidime. His physical wounds were healed, save for a burnt and swollen patch of skin around his Mark and the lingering effects of starvation. His mind and soul were another matter. Epidime had left them in tatters, savaged and weakened. Myranda set herself to the task of coaxing it to the surface. As she did, the members of the Undermine attempted to gather around, but Myn quickly made it clear that doing so would not be tolerated.
Deacon admired the work Myranda was doing. White magic, where it was concerned with the mind, was a very tricky area. Every mind was different, necessitating a level of improvisation that was difficult to teach. Myranda, it seemed, had a natural knack for such things. Watching her carefully untie the knots left by the D'karon's actions was like watching a sculptor at work. He would have been hard-pressed to achieve in a day what she had done in just these few minutes. It was best she be left to the task.
He stepped between Myn and Ether. The dragon's anxiety was apparent, and though Ether had managed to regain her composure, she too was clearly upset. Deacon placed a hand on Ether's shoulder.
"Remove your hand from me or I will remove it from you," she stated in an even voice.
Deacon hurriedly did so. He turned to Myn and gave her a reassuring pat. She turned to him briefly, coiling her tail for another lash. Deacon cringed, but Myn relaxed her tail and settled to the ground, resting her head on the ground beside him.
"Lain will be all right, Myn. Myranda will have him on his feet in no time," he said, scratching the creature.
Ivy wandered over and climbed on Myn's back, absentmindedly scratching the dragon as well. She leaned close to Deacon, an uneasy look on her face.
"Look at how the others are looking at us," she said.
The Undermine did indeed appear to be surveying the heroes with a combination of fascination, disbelief, and distrust. Only Caya and Tus behaved otherwise, with the former seeming to be feeling little more than impatience as she awaited the completion of Myranda's treatments and the latter chiefly directing a blank faced stare at Myn.
"No one is talking to me anymore. They were talking to me last night," Ivy whispered.
"Last night they were drunk. First on victory, then on wine. It has a way of silencing some of the more insistent voices in the mind. I dare say those voices are speaking now," Deacon said.
Ivy gave him a puzzled look.
Deacon sighed.
"The average person can only tolerate things that are different in small doses. You and the other Chosen are something of an overdose," Deacon clarified.
"Oh," Ivy said. "I was afraid of that. Is everyone like that?"
"Mostly," Deacon replied apologetically.
"That's going to have to change," Ivy decided, "because I don't see us becoming any less different, and we're about to save the world. It'd be pretty silly if folks had a hard time accepting the people that saved the world."
"Agreed," Deacon said.
Suddenly, Lain's eyes opened and his hand shot to his chest. Myn leapt to her feet so quickly, Ivy had to grab on to avoid being thrown. His eyes had a desperate, crazed look about them. They swept over the faces of the Chosen around him. Myn nosed the jealously protected share of the previous night's hunt to him. With a disquietingly feral snarl, he tore into the long overdue meal, scarcely taking time to breathe. As the burning in his stomach subsided, a measure of his sanity returned. A hastily provided canteen was emptied into his mouth. Only when its last drops were swallowed did he finally seem to calm, surveying his surroundings as if for the first time. As he did, Myn crept forward and lay before him, placing her head on his lap.
"How?" he asked, as his stroking brought about a purr almost as formidable as her growl. It was the first he’d truly seen of the dragon since he and the others had believed her killed.
"She was touched by the divine. They brought her back to us, and made her what she is now. She's Chosen, Lain," Myranda said.
"Another soul on the pyre," Lain said solemnly.
He climbed to his feet, Myn reluctantly pulling aside. The eyes of the Undermine fell upon him, and the air was alive with tension. Lain was rigid and silent, as though the gaze of each and every soldier was boring into him.
The soldiers felt a cocktail of feelings. Some admiration, most disgust, but all felt a measure of comfort. This creature they knew was deceitful and murderous. In short, he was precisely as they knew a malthrope should be. Amid things like an obedient dragon and a lighthearted, musical malthrope, finding a being that did not challenge their preconceptions was akin to meeting an old friend.
Caya approached him, standing for a time with their eyes locked, measuring one another. Caya broke the silence.
"I can't say that I ever thought the Undermine would be working with you. We can't afford your fee," she jabbed.
There was a general stir of chuckles from her men. Lain remained silent.
"I want to make this clear, Shadow. We are not like you. You would never have been allowed to join us if not for Myranda. We are freedom fighters. We are rebels. We are not murderers," Caya added, again to the raving of her troops.
"Caya, stop it. We have to work together in this," Myranda said. For a moment she dwelled on the fact that, somehow, she'd managed to forget Lain's past. She was not sure whether she should feel pride or shame for having done so.
"Indeed. We've saved your life, Shadow. When this is all over, and we've gone our separate ways, I want you to remember that if ever one of our names comes up from one of your employers," Caya warned before turning to the men and women who followed her. "Come on, Undermine. The day has come. I want this entire campsite on your backs, now!"
To the great relief of some, each soldier set to work. Myranda began to help them, but Caya pulled her hand from the task.
"These men and women are real soldiers, Myranda. They have a routine. You couldn't offer a hand without slowing them down," she said.
And so the Chosen found themselves left alone, their privacy strengthened when Myn planted herself resolutely between them and the Undermine. The dragon focused a dagger-sharp gaze on Caya, radiating displeasure at the tone she'd adopted. Ivy took the opportunity to prance up to Lain and give him a hug.
"I am so glad you are safe, Lain," she gushed, kissing him on the cheek. "We had to fight you! I thought for sure someone was going to die, but we all made it! Myn and Ether were so worried, but once Myranda started to heal you, I knew you'd be fine."
Ether's fists tightened at the mention of her concern. She slowly turned to avoid Lain's gaze.
"You should have seen Ether," Ivy continued, realizing the shapeshifter's discomfort. "She was practically on the verge of tears. And when we were fighting! At the end, she was huge! And . . . wait . . . she wrecked the mountainside! That's another one of the forts we destroyed! We are good at that!"
"Where are we?" Lain demanded.
Deacon scrambled to retrieve the map.
"Now that Myn can fly, precisely where we are isn't much of a concern. She can take us to anyplace in the north in hours," Myranda said.
"We need to get to one of Desmeres’s storehouses, and quickly. He told me he had finished something, but Epidime was in my mind. We need to reach it before--" Lain began.
"I . . . I think he's given it to me," Deacon realized, hoisting the massive bundle from his bag. "I think there is something for all of you in here. He'd been very clear that I should only open it when all of you were present."
He carefully unrolled the leather mat. What unfurled before them was an array of glistening blades, elegantly carved wood, sparkling crystal, and rolled pages. Beneath them was a carefully folded and tied pile of exotic-looking cloth and mail. Every item Desmeres had provided the Undermine with had been a masterpiece, but the pieces before them now were something else entirely. They had the hallmarks of his design, and a precision and craftsmanship bordering on perfec
tion, but there was more. They seemed alive, pulsing with energy. A small bundle of pages sat atop everything, sealed with wax and scrawled with the words Open first and read aloud.
Deacon broke the seal.
"'Chosen,'" he read. "'By now I am certain that I've made an enemy of all of you. It is to be expected. If the messenger has followed orders, these pages are being read in the presence of the united team. If not, listen carefully and act quickly. I believe Lain has been subverted in some way. Do not allow him to take up the enclosed sword unless you know him to be himself. Likewise, if you must face him, do not make use of the other weapons. If memory serves, the death of one Chosen at the hand of another will end them both, and one of these weapons clashing with anything but one of its peers is sure to end in death.'"
"Wow. Desmeres is smart," Ivy said.
"'Assuming things have gone well, this package contains what I consider to be my finest work. If you must kill me, Lain, kill me with this sword. I would be honored to be killed in such a way.'" Deacon continued as Lain picked it up, "'I made one like it for Trigorah many years ago as a gift. My brief time in the confidence of the D'karon has exposed me to techniques that have enabled me to improve it immensely, and in a fraction of the time I'd have thought possible. The gems in the blade will draw strength only from the D'karon and their creations. Once stored, the stolen energy can be used to fuel any of the five effects I've engraved upon the handle. I imagine that by now Deacon should be able to explain them.
"'I've enclosed a weapon for Ivy. It took a bit of research because of a few quirks about her, but I settled upon modified katars. They are a pair of double-edged, straight blade, horizontal-hilted punching daggers. For the sake of brevity, and for other reasons that will soon be apparent, I've called them Soulclaws. To my knowledge, these weapons are utterly unique, and necessarily so--but, regardless, I think they may suit her well. I only wish I could see them in action. The effects of a few of the unique enchantments I've placed on them should be truly interesting.
"'Finally, there is the staff. Myranda has certainly proven herself worthy of it, and I am in eternal debt to her for giving me a reason to craft such a device. It is mounted with three of the D'karon gems, treated to react in a more flexible manner. Providing the gems with a charge is not perfectly straightforward, but I've every confidence that Myranda will master the process in no time. It has a pair of mounts for focus gems, though lamentably I was only able to create a single crystal I would consider worthy of a place on this staff. I think you will find it a vast improvement to anything you've used before, regardless of its failure to reach its full potential.
"'I realize that there are five of you, but a shortage of time and information has denied me the opportunity of equipping the rest. Ether, the shapeshifter, I am in particular saddened that I've been unable to address. Designing a weapon useful to her limitless abilities may well be the ultimate challenge. If I've interpreted the events correctly, and the information that I've intercepted can be trusted, the dragon has been raised from the dead, which I sincerely doubt can be explained by anything other than a touch of the divine, and thus Chosen status. Interesting as designing for a dragon's physiology may have been, there simply was not time to do such a thing properly. I've provided ancillary weaponry as well as protective garments.
"'Finally, there are a few notes that Deacon will no doubt find quite enlightening. I wish you all of the luck in the world, my friends. Desmeres.'"
"Ooh," Ivy said, eyes wide, as she picked up her weapons.
Each consisted of a blade half the length of her arm and a bit wider than her fist, mounted on grips. The grips braced against her arm and placed the base of the blade across Ivy's knuckles. As a result, the blades continued the lines of her arm until they tapered into a point. As with all of Desmeres’s weapons, the blades had a flawless mirror finish and were carefully etched with arcane symbols and designs. In addition, each blade had a small, clear crystal mounted in it. Ivy gave the weapons a few experimental sweeps through the air.
"Wo-o-ow," she said with a wide grin. "I love them. They feel like I'm not even carrying anything. And they are so-o-o pretty. Look at the jewel! It changes color!"
The gem had indeed taken on a distinctive yellow hue, one that grew more intense as her excitement grew. Accompanying the change was a change in the blade itself. The razor-sharp edge was taking on a decidedly frilled, intricate shape, like the shell of an exotic sea creature. Ivy watched it change with a look of awe and fascination.
"I have to show everyone," she said insistently, bounding off toward the busy Undermine soldiers.
"'Unique enchantments' indeed!" Deacon said, turning to look over the remaining bundles of pages.
They were written in an unfamiliar hand. Several unfamiliar hands, in fact. Every few paragraphs seemed to have been written in an entirely different handwriting, yet the tone and voice of the notes remained constant. As he read, he discovered it to be notes taken by Epidime regarding the mental and spiritual aspect of Ivy's creation. In contrast to the somewhat mechanical and sterile writings of Demont, Epidime's words were lively. At times, they even seemed enthusiastic. Deacon poured over the words, stopping only when Lain thrust the engraved handle of his sword in front of his face.
"Yes. Yes, of course," he said, taking the weapon and beginning to analyze it while gushing about the notes to Myranda. "So much so quickly. All of this information. It is torturous to have to sprint through it . . . Yes, there are five spells here . . . Those notes--is Ivy busy? She probably shouldn't hear this. Those notes were about her, most of them . . . This is very clever, this design here . . . Desmeres had to create a new type of weapon for her, because she's been given all of the same training as the nearmen--if you could even call it training . . . What does this mark mean again? Ah, yes . . . Apparently the nearmen have a sort of instinctive training for most types of weapons installed into their minds. You put a weapon in their hands and it activates it . . . This grouping here is clever . . ."
"Focus on one thing at a time, Deacon," Myranda insisted, her head spinning as he alternated between topics.
"Right. Ah, the sword first. There are five spells. This first is fire. It heats the blade to glowing. The second is time dilation--or speed, I think. Activate it and the time around you will slow to a crawl. This one should render you invisible. Remarkable. This increases your strength. This heals you. The string of D'karon runes defines the spell, and this ring with the single rune must cast the spell. It is the activation rune, the spell won't be cast without it. Simply twisting it to align with the appropriate line of runes should be enough," he said, turning to Myranda. "Now, this nearman training. Ivy must have forced most of it aside, but the weapons training is different, almost a reflex.
"If Ivy brandishes a weapon covered by D'karon training in battle, she will be able to use it as well as they do--at the price of using it with their intention, as well. In short, if she uses the skills they gave her, her actions will be as mindless as those of the nearmen. The training covers virtually everything. The only gaps are blunt weapons and some of the more complicated rope and chain-based weapons. Desmeres had to make something she could use, but the nearmen couldn't. Brilliant. There are more pages here. Not about Ivy. They look older. Much older, and they are written entirely in D'karon . . . odd. In the other writings, it seems D'karon is a proper noun, but here it seems broken up. It means first . . . first . . . oh, blast it, where are my notes . . ."
Myranda reached down to pick up her staff. A hand grasped her wrist. She looked up to see Ether giving her a stunned look.
"Have you no sense? These weapons were left by Desmeres. He betrayed us. He is a known agent of the D'karon. There is no telling what he could have done to the weapons. To touch them is madness. Actually using them is suicide!" Ether cried.
"Desmeres would do many things, but he would never taint his weapons," Lain said.
"He would endanger the very future of the world, but he would not do so
with his creations? How can you be so sure?" Ether objected.
"You can't always trust a man to do what you ask. You can't always trust him to do what he should do, or even what he wants to do. The one thing you can trust him to do is be himself," Myranda explained. "Desmeres defines himself with his weapons."
The shapeshifter relented. The mortals and lesser beings had always been a mystery to her. She'd managed to convince herself it was because their minds were too simple to be understood--that they had no structure, no reason. Anything beyond securing food, finding shelter, and continuing their bloodlines boiled down to randomness, from her point of view. Her time among them had served to make two things clear to her: she would never understand them, but they just might understand each other. Their potent mixture of muddled thinking and fractured viewpoints did, at times, result in something quite akin to insight. Of all mortals, Myranda seemed keenest in this regard. If she believed something to be so, it deserved the benefit of the doubt, at least.
Myranda picked up her present from Desmeres. The D'karon staff had been adequate until now. At least, it had seemed to be. With the work of art Desmeres had created in her grasp, she realized just how inadequate it had truly been. She could feel her mind sharpening. Her eyes traced the long, intricate strings of runes carved into an ancient-looking silver wood. The lines seemed to shift and coil under her gaze. Though she could feel no discernible draw, the moment her fingers touched the surface of the staff, the gems embedded in its length began to pulse to life. Before long, they had taken on a definite glow. When the glow reached its peak, the effects of the staff seemed to compound. The miraculous weapon literally became weightless, drifting from her grip and standing obediently at attention. Somehow, the focusing effect persisted even without contact.
"Astounding . . ." Deacon said in awe. "The . . . the staff has an area of effect, and yet . . . I can't feel it. I can feel that it is there, that there is a force at work, but I can't feel its effects. Somehow, he's managed to create a staff that lends its strength only to its owner. I've never seen such a thing achieved without the binding of a soul to it . . . you don't suppose . . ."
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 121
