"I doubt Desmeres would do such a thing. He would probably consider it cheating," Myranda said.
Myranda experimented with the levitating staff. It drifted along beside her when she walked, and with the merest thought, leapt to her hand or swished to any location she required.
Lain, Myn staying close beside him, had outfitted himself with some of the light armor. The thin chain mail, covered by close-fitting black cloth that had the dull texture of velvet, made him seem, save for his head, a featureless silhouette against the white snow. The hilts of a dozen or more throwing daggers protruded in groups of three from any portion of this outfit large enough to accommodate them. He finished by throwing a white cloak about his shoulders. Anyone who doubted that he was truly an assassin needed only to look upon him now.
He drew the new sword. It slipped from its sheath with a barely audible hiss. The weapon bore a marked resemblance to Trigorah's, though with a gentle curve along its blade. Lain took a few cuts, the thin, elegant blade whispering through the air silently and flawlessly. Satisfied, Lain slipped it back into its sheath.
Myranda found a hooded robe that seemed tailored to her. Somehow, merely putting it on seemed to add to the already formidable effect of the new staff. As she moved, she noticed a slight shifting of what felt like cold sand, but turned out to be small swatches of the same exquisitely fine mail that Lain wore placed strategically about the garment.
"Ooh, what's that?" Ivy asked, snatching up the last of the items on the mat.
The equipment was indeed meant for her, and she slipped discreetly out of view behind Myn to try it on. She emerged transformed. They were quite like Lain's equipment, though entirely white. The back of the cloak had a slit up half of its length and the body suit was more form-fitting, no doubt to permit a more full use of her preternatural agility. As they were the first clothes she'd ever worn that were made specifically for her, wearing them made her instantly seem older, more serious, and more formidable. Gone were the saggy, shredded cloak and charred gloves and boots. Where before had stood a childish, seemingly harmless, silly little creature now stood an individual to be dealt with. She hung her new weapons on the straps she found on either side of the leggings.
"Do you like it? I feel a little strange," Ivy said, trying to look herself over from every angle.
"You look like a warrior," Myranda said.
"Oh. Well, I like it, anyway. Not quite as comfortable, but lots easier to move in," she said, attempting a few graceful turns, leaps, and pirouettes.
Myn sniffed at the new outfits and their unfamiliar scents. Myranda looked over her friends, and herself. Each dressed in new white, they seemed to be wearing a semblance of uniform. Of the Chosen, only Myn was unchanged, Ether having quietly altered her clothing to match theirs. Myranda thought hard. The greatest battle of their lives lay ahead. Surely there was something to help Myn. It didn't take long to realize that there was.
"Deacon. The charm from Myn's neck, do you still have it?" Myranda asked.
"I ought to," he said.
He removed a sequence of items from his bag. A bundle of papers, a bottle affixed to a long length of thin chain, and finally the charm. The piece had once adorned the helmet of the now-deceased Trigorah. It carried a powerful enchantment that protected its wearer against nearly all magics. Myn had worn it when she was small, having snapped it free of the late general’s helmet with her own teeth.
"What is that vial?" Myranda asked, as she removed the dragon head figure from its tattered thread.
"I don't know," he said, picking it up and gingerly removing the stopper. The scent was potent and familiar.
It seemed to be something he'd encountered during his brief discussions with the alchemists in Entwell, but it couldn't be. There had never been more than a few drops of it, and this vial seemed to hold perhaps a quarter-cup. He stoppered it again and began to put it away.
"Do you need the chain? I think we may be able to use it," Myranda said.
Deacon nodded and attempted to unhook the chain, only to find it fused to the vial. He conjured a simple spell to break it, but somehow it was not enough. Only after summoning an intense heat, one hot enough to make the chain glow, did he manage to unravel a single link and free the chain. Whatever this vial was, it was very valuable, and never intended to leave the chain. He gave the sturdy chain to her, only to have her hand it back, with the addition of the charm, to have its ends connected. He managed it, and carefully stowed the vial.
"Come here, Myn," Myranda said.
The dragon turned and inspected the trinket, seeming to recognize it. She offered her head. The loop of chain allowed it to hang against her chest comfortably. Once adorned, she stood again, radiating pride. The addition of the long-absent ornament gave her a regal bearing, and she stood tall, with the air of one who has just been knighted. Ivy turned and beamed a broad smile.
"Look at you! Now that just leaves . . . oh. You're dressed like us now!" Ivy said, realizing Ether's change for the first time. "This is incredible! You actually changed to be more like us! You are acting like we are a team, instead of just a bunch of people you tolerate."
"Only you could read so deeply into a simple act," Ether sneered.
"Uh-huh. You look nice, anyway," Ivy said, the excitement rising in her voice. "We all do. What are we waiting for!? Let's go!"
"What do you say, Deacon? Are we ready to go?" Myranda asked. Deacon did not answer. "Deacon?"
The young wizard was looking over the bundle of pages that accompanied the vial with puzzlement. It was strange . . . the language was his own shorthand, but he didn't remember writing it. It was describing, with a very grim tone, the inevitability of the coming of something he called "The Age of Ignorance." There were numerous mentions of the perpetual war, but they were all in the past tense. Near the bottom of the page, the text stopped abruptly and a single message, written in plain Northern and covering the entire bottom edge of the page, took its place. It read, "Stop reading. The knowledge will come in its own time."
"Deacon!" Myranda called, finally drawing his attention. "Is something wrong?"
"Er, ah, no. I do not believe so. I . . . I suppose I've gotten a bit ahead of myself. What was it you wanted?" he asked.
Before she could answer, Lain, Ivy, Ether, and Myn all turned as one to the northern horizon. There was a blotch of black forms against the red sunset.
"There are a lot of them. Looks like . . . maybe ten dragoyles. I think they have riders," Ivy said, Myn nodding in agreement. "I don't think . . . no. They aren't heading toward us."
"They are going to start where the battle was and search out from there, no doubt," Deacon said. "We should have little trouble avoiding them."
"No . . ." Myranda began, an idea forming in her head. "No, I think we can use them. I never let you look at the D'karon staff, did I?"
"No, I suppose not," he said, catching it when she tossed it to him.
Instantly, a look of awed realization came to his face as the spells of the staff revealed themselves to him. Ideas poured through his mind. It didn't take long before a plan began to form. Myranda could tell by the look in his eyes that they were of one mind on the subject.
"Can it be done?" Myranda asked.
"Almost certainly. It will take a bit of effort. I dare say the most difficult part will be convincing the Undermine soldiers," Deacon said quickly.
"Leave that to Caya," Myranda said. "Ether. Would you be able to attract the attentions of that search party?"
"Instantly," Ether replied.
Without another word, Ether flashed into the air. Myranda quickly pulled aside Caya and explained the plan. A grin came to her face.
"Attention, Undermine!" she began. "This war has seen its last sunset!"
Chapter 26
Northern Capital was uncharacteristically silent. Despite the fact that it was the northernmost city in the empire, its streets were seldom quiet. So far north, the air carried a deathly chill year round, but f
ate, geography, and climate had conspired to produce a small patch of land spared of the brunt of the arctic freeze. The people of the north, never ones to let a windfall escape them, perfectly ringed the anomalous region in stout walls and founded the castle town of Verril.
Those were the days before the war, before the empire, when words still had the benefit of history and soul. Now it was simply Northern Capital, a sterile description that fell well short of capturing the bustle and clatter of what had become the largest and most wealthy city in the empire. As simultaneously the furthest place from the front and nearest place to the king, the capital was home to the richest and best-born the north had to offer. There was no shortage of young men and women of age for military service here, their positions affording them the privilege of a civilian life. Now they passed their days overseeing the constant trade in goods and information that filled the streets with people and the air with commerce. That was--until today.
A pair of generals stood in a watch post as the massive wood and iron doors were drawn closed for the first time in decades. Ancient hinges protested, and teams of horses strained against the mounded snow that was pushed steadily ahead of the closing gates. The people had been ushered indoors, the sounds of trade now replaced with the march of boots as nearmen filled the streets. Dragoyles and nearman archers lined the roofs. There clicked among the cobblestones of the streets the footsteps of scattered other beasts, creations of Demont. Rocky wolves, gleaming metallic hawks and centipedes, and all manner of other beasts lurked in shadows once lit by torchlight.
The doors creaked shut like a coffin lid. The horses and their drivers were quickly and wordlessly sent to the stables, and the ground outside the walls boiled with the movement of Demont's blind worms. The residents of the city locked their doors. The D'karon owned the city now.
"Explain again why we've closed the doors?" Epidime asked, still in the body of Myranda's father.
"You yourself said that they had troops now," Bagu said.
"What do we care if they have troops? Unless I am mistaken, it is the Chosen themselves that we fear," Epidime quipped.
"We fear nothing!" Bagu snapped. "Demont is attending the portal. It will be open in minutes. Once it is, this world is ours. The Chosen have already failed. There is nothing that they can do."
"Then why have we closed the doors?" Epidime repeated.
Bagu released a slow, hissing breath and tightened his grip about the handle of the sword that now hung at his belt.
"Where is the force we sent to search out the Chosen?" he asked with rigidly enforced steadiness.
"You would have to ask Demont. I never could get much of a feel for his toys. All I can say for certain is that they are alive. Most of them, at least," Epidime said.
Bagu looked beyond the walls. There was no moon, dark clouds leaving the sky a shroud of black hanging over the field of white. A few flakes of ice kicked up by the wind blew into his face, stinging the black scars left by his last encounter with the Chosen. Eyes adapted for the darkness picked out the thrusting forms of Dragoyles approaching.
"They have come, and empty-handed. Come, to the castle. I have a few words for the king before we attend the portal's opening," Bagu said.
The pair descended and strode up the long central street of the capital leading to the castle.
"My, but the dragoyles seem attentive tonight," Epidime mused.
Indeed, even after the generals had made their way inside, the dragoyles stood alert, the eyeless hollows of their heads universally focused on the handful of their brethren that were returning. As the group of wayward beasts drew nearer, a ripple of motion seemed to sweep through the creatures. They stiffened and stood. Slowly, as if through great effort, they each turned to the closest nearman. At the very instant the returning squad touched down within the city walls, there was a flurry of motion. A hundred jaws snapped at once, bringing a hundred nearmen to a swift end.
Instantly, the city was plunged into chaos. Silence was replaced with maddened, inhuman cries. The freshly landed dragoyles shed their riders--not nearmen, but Undermine. One oversized dragoyle leapt to a roof, two other forms climbing from its back. The rocky black hide wafted away to crimson and gold. As Myn took to the sky, Myranda clutched the D'karon staff tight. Her mind was split in a hundred different directions, pouring all that she had into the enchantment of the staff that made her the master of the beasts.
The Undermine were carving thick swaths through the nearmen that crowded the streets. Dragoyles lurched awkwardly through the air under Myranda's untrained guidance, crashing into the throngs of dark warriors choking the courtyards. The weapons of Desmeres made short work of the enemies lucky enough to escape the blunt attacks of the dragoyles, but for every nearman that fell, ten more seemed to rush in to replace him. The streets were a sea of crude armor and flailing weapons, moving like a tide toward the heroes.
Inside the castle, the armageddon outside did not fall upon deaf ears. Both generals rushed to the barred slits that served as windows. Somehow, a solemn silence that waited to bring a swift end to any who threatened the capital had turned into a storming battle in an instant.
"What has happened!? What is this!?" Bagu demanded.
"It looks as though the dragoyles are revolting," Epidime replied. "And our guests have arrived."
Bagu scanned the rooftops until his eyes came to rest on a hated form.
"Go. Mind the gateway," he ordered.
"I think perhaps you may need . . ." Epidime attempted.
"GO!" Bagu bellowed, twisting his fingers into an eldritch gesture and coaxing a portal into being.
"As you wish, General," Epidime said before slipping through.
The portal clashed shut behind him, filling the room with a splash of dark energy.
#
As Deacon poured his mind into maintaining a shield against the torrent of arrows that rained upon Myranda from all sides, Myn roared through the air. The wind hissed past her wings as she cut and dove just ahead of the flurry of arrows. Her talons slashed at archers, tearing through them without sacrificing an ounce of speed. As more bolts launched into the air, she dropped even lower, here and there planting a foot on a roof for an extra surge of speed. Ancient instincts of the hunt and battle set her mind aflame as she dipped among valleys of buildings to scoop a pair of stone wolves into the air and hurl them into a dense crowd of soldiers. Fire billowed in her maw, but the last trace of her mind that was under her control held it back. She was protecting this city. Fire would destroy it.
A blur of black and white burst from the streets to the rooftops. Lain was sprinting. What few soldiers could get in his way offered little resistance to his sword, and as unholy bodies flashed to dust, the crystals of his weapon drank deeply of whatever arcane energy fueled them. His eyes were set on the castle. Like Myn, it was instinct that drove him now--but a different kind of instinct, an instinct learned rather than innate. His blade swept of its own accord, guided by training so deeply ingrained that it existed beneath the level of thought. He was on the hunt. His prey was within the castle. He'd not seen him, heard him, or even smelled him yet, but he knew just the same. Some sense unique to the assassin burned the image of his target into his mind. It was Bagu he would find.
In the streets below, there was a barely noticeable ripple moving through the densely packed streets, nearly matching Lain's speed. Ivy was insinuating her way through the horde of soldiers virtually untouched, fluidly sidestepping, shouldering, and squeezing past before most realized she was present. At a swift glance, it almost appeared that she was trying to hurry through a crowded street of uninterested bystanders. That illusion was dashed when she came upon a shoulder-to-shoulder wall of soldiers with swords raised. She made a quick, panicked swipe with her as-yet-untested weapons. The keen edge passed through weapon, armor, and nearman alike.
Had she taken the time to notice, Ivy would have seen the gems in her weapons take on a dim glow. She also would have seen the blades
become a measure stouter, roughly in proportion to her confidence. Instead, she launched herself through the opening and continued her sprint after Lain.
There was a thundering sound in an adjacent street as one particularly dedicated dragoyle trounced into a courtyard. Demont's creations were in full force there, tainted versions of nature's most vicious creatures. For a moment, the beast paused to survey the abominations. Those D'karon soldiers with minds keen enough to determine that the dragoyles were no longer allies set about hacking and slicing at the creature.
When a blade finally cracked the rocky hide, it was not black blood that rushed forth, but a hiss of air. The hulking form wafted into a screaming gale that scoured across the ground of the courtyard. First the smallest creatures, then the largest, were caught up in the tornado. When every last creature was bouncing, struggling, and scrabbling against the icy cobbles and aged edifices, the wind erupted skyward. As the dark creations rained down on their brethren and shattered against the architecture, the wind coalesced into the form of Ether, satisfaction in her eyes. She looked across the rooftops from high above. Some of the dragoyles were heading toward her.
"Something is wrong," Myranda said shakily. "I . . . I can feel them slipping away from me."
Myranda was pouring all that she had into fueling the spell that controlled the dragoyles. The stolen staff was beginning to smolder and warp.
"The generals are taking them back?" Deacon asked, his own efforts beginning to take their toll, though not without benefit. The roof beyond the shield was piled high with deflected arrows.
"No . . . they . . . they are cutting them free. The spell that controls them is being undone. No one is controlling them!" Myranda cried, as the last of the creatures were released from their enchantment.
The change was immediate--and horrific. The beasts were never meant to be uncontrolled. Their minds were not crafted for it. The fragments of consciousness and crudely-formed instincts and reflexes that were etched in their minds were firing randomly. Suddenly gouts of miasma were sprayed at the slightest movement, friend or foe. Those creatures in flight flailed madly until they collided with a building or each other. As soon as one of the creatures made contact with anything, mad convulsions consumed it until the unfortunate creature or structure was no more.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 122
