The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence

by Joseph Lallo

  Her thoughts weaved more and more deceptively as her eyes ventured open. Instinctively she braced for a dizzying rush of pressure that would shatter her concentration and end the struggle. None came. The room was dark. Blue light pulsed dimly from her collar and the halberd, illuminating the table beside them. There were the potions, the bandages, the book, the dagger, and a gold glove. The glove . . . had it been in the bag? She searched through her memory and received a very strong yes as a response. Furthermore, something inside of her urged that she put it on. She reached for it . . . when had her hands been freed? The thought dropped away unanswered. She stopped suddenly when she realized that Epidime was staring, albeit through half lidded eyes, directly at her. Surely he would stop her. She questioned why she had even wanted the glove in the first place, and when Epidime had moved from behind her to in front. The answers that came were numerous. She ventured her hand out again but stopped. This wasn't right. She had to stop this fiend from trying to invade her mind. A notion forced its way to the front of her mind. The halberd.

  "Yes!" she thought. "He uses it like I use my staff. If I can get it away from him, he won't be nearly as powerful. I may even be able to use it against him!"

  She reached out, slowly. As she did, his grip on the weapon visibly loosened. A feeling of alarm in the back of her mind was brushed forcefully aside. Her hand, trembling in a combination of exertion and fear, was nearly upon the weapon when her fingers snapped shut around it of their own will. Her arm quickly pulled the halberd away from Epidime's grip while the gem within it surged powerfully. Myranda tried to drop the halberd, but her hand would not obey. The gold glove she had felt the inexplicable need to put on rose into the air. Now there was no doubt that Epidime had been the source of her confusion. He was much more in control than she was now. Out of desperation she searched her mind for anything that might chase him from it. Her thoughts were swiftly and forcefully torn away as soon as they arose. She could feel the dark influence of Epidime's will slipping past her defenses into the deepest reaches of her thoughts. Finally she pulled together all of the will she had left and forced it to the surface.

  There was a brief, unnerving surge inward as she removed her defenses, but immediately after came what she was hoping for. Agonizing pain. By forcing her magic back to the surface, she incurred the collar's effect. She cried out aloud and in her mind, and from deep within her, a second voice cried out as well. She felt the intruder's grip loosen just a bit, but it was enough. She forced him from her mind. Before her she saw the eyes of Epidime brighten back to life. She threw his halberd away and redoubled her defenses. The pressure of his invasion was gone though, in its place a loud grumble halfway between pain and anger.

  "Well, that was a new one. Teloran! Get in here!" he cried.

  Myranda hesitantly opened her eyes. He was standing, pacing angrily with his halberd in hand. The door swung open and Trigorah entered.

  "Take her to a cell, I have had enough of her for today!" he ordered.

  "Have you managed to learn anything?" she asked, gripping the wavering girl by her upper arm and hoisting her to her feet.

  "TAKE HER TO A CELL!" he repeated viciously as he rubbed his neck. "AND HAVE SOMEONE CHANGE THE CRYSTAL IN THAT COLLAR!"

  Myranda was led up the stairs, where she was joined by a pair of torch wielding Elites. She was suddenly acutely aware of just how much effort she had put into her defense when she found that getting her legs to cooperate was just a bit past her mind's ability. The Elites fairly carried the ailing girl to the nearest cell, one floor up. After being dumped inside, the door slammed shut behind her and the jingle of keys followed by the click of a lock could be heard. After sufficient time to gather the strength to do so, Myranda raised her head to look around. The cell was sparse, to say the least. A pile of shredded cloth in the corner was likely intended to serve as a bed. The only piece of furniture was a chair, though by the looks of the ankle and wrist shackles attached, it was intended more for restraint than comfort. She tried to stand, stumbling against the bars in the process. The motion was accompanied by a jingle around her neck. She felt at it to find that a chain ran down from either end of the collar she wore and connected to a crystal larger than her fist. Just as before, it hurt when it touched her, only now she could feel it leeching her strength away. There was, at least, one benefit to the larger crystal. It provided more light. Without it, she would have been in almost complete darkness.

  She collapsed backward onto the chair, finding that standing was not worth the effort at the moment. A moment later her eyes came to rest on something that most definitely was worth the effort. A bowl. A full bowl. She leapt with a strength she didn't know she had at the food. When she reached it, she found that food was a rather generous word for the contents of the bowl. It was a substance that would have brought dishonor to the word gruel. More correctly, it seemed as though someone had mopped up a kitchen spill with a loaf of bread and wrung it out into a bowl. Of course, neither this, nor the possibility that the stuff was poisoned was enough to keep Myranda from gulping it down without so much as a spoon. The sound of boots clicking upon stone only just penetrated her hunger crazed mind as she finished draining the bowl. When she was satisfied that she had swallowed every last drop of the horrid stuff, she looked up to see who had chosen to witness the spectacle. Standing before her was Trigorah. The General looked down at the girl, forcing her to realize she was still huddled in the corner where she had found the bowl. With great effort Myranda stood, attempting to salvage what little dignity that she might have left.

  "Come to gloat?" Myranda asked.

  "I don't gloat. Particularly at a victory that is not mine. You have been asleep for ten hours. Epidime was beginning to fear you might die rather than wake," she said.

  "He was worried I might die?" she said. "I would think he would have preferred it."

  "Another perhaps, but not you. Seldom does he encounter a subject that offers a challenge," Trigorah said.

  "I am a challenge, am I?" Myranda asked.

  "You resisted him for more than six hours. You forced him out in a way that no one had before. For this you have earned his interest," Trigorah informed.

  "Well, I am honored," Myranda said defiantly.

  "Don't be. It only means that he will continue to try. Harder and harder. And when he does find his way in, I doubt he will take the time to leave your mind as he found it. He might not leave any of it at all. Frankly, you will be lucky if you've enough wits about you to remember to keep breathing when he is through with you," Trigorah said.

  Myranda drew in a deep breath.

  "Come here. Give me your hand," Trigorah said.

  "No. Why?" Myranda resisted. Though she had been drumming it into her head that Trigorah, at least, could be trusted, the events of the day had shaken that belief.

  The General held out a loaf of bread and a canteen. Myranda snatched them away. A bowl of glorified water was hardly enough to curb a days old hunger.

  "Why are you giving this to me?" she managed between swallows.

  "I can't be sure he will feed you . . . you deserve a chance," she whispered, leaning closer. "Listen to me. No one has resisted him. He has been through my mind and a hundred others. Whatever he wants to know, he will know. Just . . . fight him. Do your best. Someone has to show him that . . . that we can resist."

  "We . . . what do you mean? It is true? He isn't human or elven or . . . anything like that?" Myranda asked.

  Trigorah cast a cautious look in either direction before slipping silently back into the darkness. Once again, Myranda was alone and in danger. It was hardly the first time that such was the case, but this time was different. This time it might be the last. She was in a cell, far below ground, waiting for a fiend to make his next attempt at forcing his way into her mind. She wracked her brain, desperately seeking some shallow hope to cling to. There was one. It was possible that those who held her would make the same mistake they had before, that they would not pay t
he price on her head. That would bring Lain to rescue her again. It was far from likely. The pair of Generals seemed to agree on nothing but the fact that her previous captors must be paid. That didn't matter. It was hope, a shining light at the end of the tunnel to lock onto. Until then, she had to save her strength. Epidime would be back.

  A week passed in the most wretched manner possible. She was restrained at all times. Each day she would be fed a thin bowl of food by one of the guards whose faces were hidden behind a mask and submitted to a variety of Epidime's attempts. Most were marathon sessions that pushed each to their limits. Others were short, subversive attempts under the guise of all manner of other things, ranging from attempts to recruit her to offers to release her. In a way, the worst part was that each day she was moved to a different cell. A feeling of safety would have been impossible, but now she was denied even a feeling of familiarity. She was reflecting on this fact and trying to ignore the horrible taste that was clinging to her tongue when Epidime approached for the day's torture. This day promised something new. Epidime had brought a second chair bearing similar restraints into the cell.

  "Well, Myranda. I believe the time has come to meet some of your neighbors. You know this one very well. He hasn't stopped cursing your name since we found him," Epidime remarked smugly as he forced a shaggy, blindfolded old man into the second chair.

  The old man hung his head low. Drooping in the chair, he swayed slowly, almost deliriously. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't place it. A scraggly, gray beard adorned his chin, and wiry gray hair ringed a bald head.

  "Well? This is the quietest I've heard you, old man. She is here, in this room. Haven't you anything to say?" Epidime said.

  "I am waiting for her to speak," croaked the old man. His voice was raw, as though it had been badly overused. It, too, had a familiarity to it.

  "Why?" asked Epidime.

  "I want to know where her throat is . . . so I can wrap my hands around it," he said.

  The old man raised his head, revealing a worn and soiled priest's collar.

  "You are the priest. The one I met just after I found the sword!" Myranda realized.

  He lunged forward with all of the strength his feeble body could muster. Epidime easily pushed him back to the chair.

  "I am. I knew that you would only bring sorrow. Look at me! Look what you have done to me. You witch! You wretch! Because of you, I will be spending the last years of my life in this stinking, festering hole in the ground. I pray nightly that you meet an end suited to your treachery! I take solace in the fact that you were finally brought here! I hope you never see the light of day again!" the old man spat with disdain. He leapt to attack Myranda again, but Epidime held him back.

  "Why is he here!? Why do you have him?" Myranda demanded.

  "For the same reason everyone else is here. They may have touched the sword. The prophesy, if properly read, holds that the sword will find its way into the hands of a Chosen One. We will have the Chosen, but to be certain of that, we must capture anyone who may have touched that sword," he said.

  "You condemned us! ALL OF US! You carried that sword like a plague and MADE CRIMINALS OF US ALL! CURSE YOU! CURSE YOU, YOU WITCH!" he cried before his voice gave out and he was left wheezing and gasping.

  "I will give in. I will give in right now if you will release them," Myranda said.

  "Oh no. These captives will never be released," Epidime said flatly.

  "But why! Surely you read their minds! You must know that they are of no use to you!" she cried out.

  "Indeed," he said.

  "Then you could have let them go!" she cried.

  "No. You see, we had to keep them here, if for no other reason than the fact that any one of them might have been very important to you, and thus a useful piece of bait, without knowing it. It was a long shot, but it wouldn't have been the first to pay off. As luck would have it, you are one of those poor souls who cares about everyone. I was thinking that we might empty out the nearest village to fill the remaining cells. What do you think? Imagine the pressure that would put on you," he said with a grin.

  "Please, I beg of you. Release them and I will let you into my mind," she said.

  "If you submit to me now I will kill them all," he said.

  "What! Why? You wanted me to give in!" she said.

  "On the first day I did. Then you lashed out at me. You injured me. That is rare. Very rare. Unprecedented for your kind. Generally I would kill someone for that, but not you. There was something special about you. You know, I had everything I needed from you after the fourth hour of our first session. Everything I had been asked to learn from you. You have nothing new to offer me that my fellow generals might need to know. I know Lain is Chosen. I know that another Chosen has been summoned. I even know what it looks like. The things you needed to protect were left out in the open, yet, when I had them, you continued to resist. You continued to defend something within your mind. You dared to believe that you could be stronger than me. For that reason, you will be broken. If all I wanted was your mind I would have struck in your sleep. I want to show you that you are not strong enough. I want you to show me how strong you are. You will be tortured, twisted, torn, and shattered. You will try your best, and you will fail. You will be made an example of. And then, when you finally haven't the will to resist me, I will leave just enough of you to watch as I execute each and every one of these people before your eyes," Epidime stated. Chillingly, his voice was plain and calm, as though what he had said was to be expected.

  "You are the death of us! You are the death of US ALL!" the priest managed.

  Epidime hauled him out of the cell and handed him to a guard to be led away.

  "You know, I have managed glimpses at what you've been keeping from me. A flash of your mother's face, a whisper of your father's voice . . . minutia. Trivialities. Pointlessness. Random, worthless events in your life. I have a feeling that, when you are broken, that is all I will find. Memories that you hold dear. Regardless, I will have them. I will see every cherished scene of your mind. Every moment in the garden with your mother, every precious visit from your father. Keep that in mind. And sleep well tonight," Epidime said.

  The week before was nothing compared to the week that followed. Every day another of the prisoners was brought before her. She had at least seen, though often in passing, each one of them before. Simple town folk, shopkeepers, everyone who might have touched the sword. Some did not remember her. In those cases, Epidime forced her to explain to them that she was the reason that they were locked away. For most of the prisoners, their crime had not been explained to them until that moment. The anger, the sadness, the confusion, all rushed forth in a tearful burst of emotion. At the precise moment that Myranda felt that the heart had been torn from her body, Epidime would make his attempt. It was agony in its purest form. And each day was worse. He would handpick more and more pitiful stories. Sobbing mothers torn from children. Soldiers yet to see their families after returning from the front. Worst of all, she knew that there could be no victory. If she gave in, they would be killed. If she was broken, they would be killed. All she could do was buy more time. All she could do was delay the inevitable.

  After another week, Epidime approached alone, but Myranda was not so naive as to assume that today would be any easier. He carried a black cloth bundle. On his face was a smile of pure delight. Myranda didn't waste the strength to imagine what sort of torture he'd come up with this time. She merely prepared herself.

  "Well, Myranda. What do you suppose I received today? It will interest you greatly, I am quite sure," he said.

  Myranda did not speak. She pulled together her mind, ready for anything he might try. Slowly he dropped away just a hint of the cloth. He touched the thick black covering carefully, as though it was an animal that might bite. Myranda's thoughts flashed to Myn, and a prayer passed through her mind that the creature was not inside the bundle. That prayer was answered, but the truth could hardly ha
ve been worse. The top of the cloth dropped free to reveal a splendid, bejeweled, engraved hilt. The hilt of a sword. The sword.

  "Here it is. The source of your sorrow. I suppose you may still harbor some illusions that you have some sort of value. That you might be important, and that is why we wanted you. No. It was all for this. The trials of your life of late have all been due to your association with this piece of metal. You could have been anyone. Anyone at all. This weapon means more than you ever will. And now it is mine. You do know what this means, don't you? Don't think I haven't seen it. That slim thread of hope weaving through your mind. That Lain might come, that he might somehow vanquish me and rescue you and perhaps even all of these others. That will not happen. They have been paid. They have accepted. You are now as worthless to them as you are to everyone else," he said, venom fairly dripping from his words.

  Myranda turned all of her strength to keeping the hopelessness from showing through. He would not have the pleasure of seeing her pain.

  "Unfortunately, this little prize means that I shall have to leave you for a while. I am under orders to aid a colleague with a few projects he has been working on, and this may just come in handy. However, lest you forget me, let me leave you with this to torture you in my absence. There is a moment which, despite my recent additions, remains the most devastating of your life. The massacre. It has come to your mind often recently, hasn't it? You've wondered, how could it happen? The leaked intelligence that would have allowed the attack was never delivered. Even if it had been, how could the attack have been so successful, the destruction so complete? Kenvard was a capital, and close to the front. It was fortified. It could have held off a force a dozen times the size of the one that had swept through on that day. It had before. How could it happen? . . . It was our men. There was no southern force. I handed down the orders from General Bagu personally. Leave no one alive. The leaked information was to cover it up, to provide loose ends that would tie up nicely in the minds of the people. Of course, I cannot say for sure precisely the names of every soldier involved, but I can tell you this. They were skilled, loyal, obedient, and trustworthy. They all came from the very top . . . Your father was at the top, wasn't he?" Epidime said, lowering his voice as he spoke so that his last words were a whisper.