The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril

by Joseph Lallo

  “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 had 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?”

  “Err, 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! . . . “

  #

  Northern Capital was uncharacteristically silent. Despite the fact that it was the northern most city in the empire, its streets were seldom quiet. So far north the air carried a deathly chill year round, but fate, 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 position 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 is, 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 a 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, 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 struggled. “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.

  “We've got to stop them, and warn the others!” Myranda cried, turning to her faithful dragon skimming the rooftops. “Myn!”

  The mighty creature, half a city away and surrounded by chaos, pulled a tight turn and charged toward Myranda at the sound of her name.

  “Myranda, wait. Leave the city to the Undermine and I, you've got to stop the generals. They are desperate now,” Deacon said.

  “But-” Myranda began.

  Deacon took her hand and placed his casting gem in it.

  “Take this with you,” he said.

  “How will you-” Myranda attempted again.

  “Don't worry about me. Just go,” he said, guiding her hand to click the gem into the vacant socket on her staff as Myn arrived. “And survive.”

  With nothing left to say, Myranda nodded, throwing her arms about him and sharing a kiss before climbing atop the dragon and taking to the sky. It may have been Deacon's crystal, or it may have been the knowledge that the whole of this ordeal had been leading to this moment, but Myranda's mind had never been so focused. She secured the D'karon staff to her back and willed her new staff to her side. Arrows from the few archers that remained were not merely deflected but snatched up and hurled at the largest threats. Myn blazed forward, now high above the city. Tiny, hawk-like beasts of Demont's design flitted around her, mere insects in comparison, but insects with a powerful and deadly sting. An intense swath of flame turned them to plummeting cinders. The castle loomed before them, an imposing and seemingly impenetrable fortress. It had withstood uprisings, invasions, and generations of the harshest winters. Now it faced The Chosen.

  Deacon allowed himself a few moments to watch her as the warmth of her embrace slowly faded in the winter cold. Finally he turned. There was work to be done. Without his crystal he was at an immediate disadvantage, but it didn't matter. He'd been trained properly. Drills in unaided spell casting had been a part of his weekly regimen. Now it was time to put those skills to good use. He pulled the gray blade from the bag and it whirred to life. A leap and a surge of levitation brought him swiftly and safely to the streets below. The dragoyles had pu
nched vast holes in the tide of nearmen. Caya and her men had pushed far forward, but now the gaps were filling, and the battlefront was retreating. Deacon carved his way to the nearest cluster of Undermine. The ragtag soldiers, on the strength of surprise, confusion, and Desmeres’ weapons, had made their way to the center of the city, a vast courtyard. Deep in a sea of slashing swords was Caya, barking orders with frenzied energy.

  “Caya! The dragoyles are out of control! Stay away from them!” Deacon cried out as his blade sparked and buzzed against a thickening throng of armor and weapons.

  “That won't do!” Caya managed between clashes. “If they are not with us, they have GOT to be neutralized!”

  “There are too many, and they are attacking anything that catches their attention!” Deacon said, finally forcing his way to her.

  “Shift their attention elsewhere, then!” Caya ordered, Deacon now just another of her soldiers.

  “I will try!” Deacon cried.

  “Don't try! DO IT! NOW!” she bellowed.

  Deacon's eyes darted about the landscape. An idea presented itself. Without a word he shredded a path to the ancient, ornate doorway at the north end of the town square. After a heave against the heavy doors that served only to knock a crust of ice from them and injure his shoulder, he whispered a few words and wrapped his flagging mind about the beam that was bracing the door from the other side. It reluctantly slid aside and he forced his way in. It was the church, a building second in age only to the castle itself. A building containing a tower that was a match for all but the castle's tallest. A tower that contained a bell . . .

  In the distance a white form scaled the wall around the castle as effortlessly as a ladder and launched itself over the moat, clearing it by inches. A crusted-over stone plummeted into the icy pit, sloshing aside the half frozen water. It contained no beasts, but it needed none. Salt kept the water liquid and far colder than nature intended, making it deadlier than any beast. Lain did not attempt the doorway, nor did he scale the walls in search of windows for entry. This was a castle built not to show wealth, but to stand against any army. Windows were scarce, and those that could be found were little more than barred slits that would barely allow a finger to slip through. Outer doors were heavy, well secured, well guarded, and led only to other doors. A scattering of nearmen, heftier specimens no doubt created expressly to defend these walls, attempted to pursue the intruder, but no sooner did he turn a corner than he was lost to them.