The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (12 page)

She began to struggle against hands that were
holding her down.

“Open your eyes!” Myranda commanded.

Ivy's eyes shot open and darted about. She
was no longer on the horse's back. They had all stopped. Myranda
was holding her by the shoulders, Deacon holding his glowing
crystal near. The whole of the tunnel was bathed in a bright blue
light that sharply faded as she realized that it was all in her
mind. Behind Myranda, now almost invisible among the shadows, was
Lain. Beside him was Ether, casting her scornful gaze.

“They stabbed me! In the chest! It was a
spike. Like Demont used on Ether when we were in his fort. It was
him
then,
too. The soldiers killed the rest. Everyone died.
My mother, my father . . . me! He . . . he killed ME! How can I be
alive?! What
am
I? What did they
do
to me!?” she
cried, tears pouring down her eyes. “Why did you make me
remember!?”

Ivy beat her hands on Myranda's chest weakly
as the girl cried as well. It was not Ivy's curse forcing her
emotions upon others. This pain she felt was genuine. Immersed in
the same sorrow, the pair embraced, their bodies shaking with the
force of their sobs.

“There were flames. I saw them . . . I heard
the screaming . . . It was all I could hear . . . even after they
were dead. I . . . “ she sobbed.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you relive
it,” Myranda forced through the tears. “I just needed to know if it
was true. I needed you to remember who you really were.”

“But . . . I don't . . . I don't even
remember my name . . . or the names of my parents . . . my family.
All I remember is that horrible day . . . And I remember . . . just
for an instant . . . seeing me, this me, from the outside . . .
like it was someone else. I . . . I wasn't always what I am now . .
. but I can't remember what I was,” she managed to speak between
sobs.

Ether watched the outpouring of emotion with
disgust. Deacon had placed his hand on Myranda's shoulder and
offered what little consolation he could. The shape shifter turned
to Lain, who stood emotionless as ever, his eyes locked on Ivy.

“Well? Aren't you going to coddle the beast?”
she grumbled.

Lain turned away, his gaze shifting to the
darkness that lay behind them. He twitched his ears and tried to
listen over the slowly subsiding sobs of his fellow travelers.
Nothing revealed itself, but something did not feel right. He
stepped a few more paces into the darkness. Ether joined him.

“You aren't suited for this, Lain. And
neither am I. We are Chosen. We are not meant to be babying the
weak of mind. I was at first pleased by your sudden dedication to
our cause, but it swiftly became clear that it was not the desire
to do that which is your birthright that motivated you, but
revenge. Revenge is a petty thing, Lain. And worse, revenge for
what? Denying the beast a safe haven?” she judged.

“I do not seek your approval,” Lain replied
simply.

“Nor should you. I know that I have behaved
in a way that was . . . overt in my attempts to direct your heart's
desire to where it rightfully should reside. I realize that such
behavior was inappropriate, and quite unnecessary. Whether you
accept it or not, you are an original Chosen, and so am I. The two
of us are the only beings, created of the will of the gods
expressly for the purpose of turning back the tide of darkness,
that have managed to remain untainted and whole. This affection you
place with Ivy is misguided, and you will see that, just as you
will see that there can be only one who is worthy of it. All that
is required is time. Fortunately, the two of us have an abundance
of that. So I shall wait for your senses to return to you,” Ether
proclaimed.

Lain drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

“I do, however, offer a word of advice,” she
continued.

“What is it?” he growled, patience at an
end.

“I had believed that there were no more
Chosen to be found, even prior to our discovery of the beast. The
fact that she, technically, remains a valid Chosen suggests that
there may yet be a fifth yet to be discovered. I realize that
Myranda claims that the Great Convergence has already occurred, and
that somewhere, a creature we have already met stands as the fifth
and final of our own. This is absurd. However, if there is even a
remote possibility of it, it is of paramount importance that the
actual final Chosen be found. Even if it means locking that . . .
thing . . . into her place among us. When your thirst for revenge
is sated by the decimation of this meaningless fort, I suggest we
devote our full efforts to searching for our final ally until we
are certain that such an ally no longer exists,” she advised.

Lain remained silent and turned his
attentions fully to the darkness behind them once more. There was
something in the air that he didn't like. Deacon, helplessly
watching the others pour out years of anguish at once, tried his
best to comfort them.

“It is all right. It is all in the past.
What's done is done,” he fruitlessly offered.

“What was that place? The place I saw?” Ivy
begged Myranda. “Tell me you know it!”

“It was Kenvard. It was my . . . our home,”
she replied, wiping tears away.

“That was Kenvard . . . the massacre you
talked about, that killed everyone but you and your uncle . . . I
was there? But you said that it was years ago . . . My head . . . “
Ivy said, wincing in pain and covering her eyes. “I guess this is
what sadness does to me. Makes me weak . . . and opens old wounds.
Kind of poetic, huh.”

She was quite right about the old wounds. The
deep gash in her arm that had nearly cost Ivy her life a short time
ago was trickling blood again. Myranda closed the wound and helped
her to her feet.

“So . . . if that was Kenvard, did you know
me?” Ivy asked.

“Perhaps. I was very young. My memories of
that time are vague at best. But I'm sure my mother did. Lucia. Her
name is on the proclamation,” Myranda said.

“Lucia . . . I remember the name now. She was
. . . a teacher. But not a bad one like Demont and them. I think I
had a lot of teachers then. But I can't . . . I can't remember.
Why! Why are the bad memories the only ones left?” she cried.

“You remembered this. The rest will come,”
Myranda said.

“Quiet,” Lain ordered in a whisper.

Everyone turned to face him. He closed his
eyes and focused on what was silence to all, even Ivy. After a
moment, he opened his eyes. Now it was certain.

“Someone has entered the tunnel behind us,”
he said. “At least a horse. We need to keep moving. Keep the light
low.”

The group hastily returned to horseback and
continued. The sound of the horse's steps echoed infuriatingly,
wiping out any hint of the sound of the follower and making it all
the more likely that they would be found. The group could travel
more silently on foot, but leaving the horses now would give away
their presence when they were found, and the speed they provided
just might keep them ahead.

Time had passed slowly before, but now each
passing moment was an eternity. It was clear that Ivy was doing all
she could to keep the fear she was feeling from showing. Tension
only grew as the horses began to falter. They'd had little to eat
or drink. Provisions had run out for them shortly before they had
entered the mountains, and here in the tunnel there was no source
of water and not even a single blade of grass for them to eat.
Their purposely slow pace grew gradually slower, until there could
be little doubt that the mysterious followers would be gaining.

As they progressed, the tension grew thicker.
A long section of the otherwise completely featureless tunnel was
stained with two shades of blood, and shortly after a pile of
unrecognizable remains came into view. Time had rendered it a dried
up husk, and the same ruts that had remained constant throughout
the journey ran right through it. It filled the tunnel with the
smell of death. Not long after that, Lain signaled for the light to
be doused entirely.

Many believe that they know true darkness,
but until it has been experienced, it cannot be imagined. Without
even a flicker of light, the mind begins to play tricks. There is
the constant feeling that there is a wall before you, that you must
stop. The eyes open as wide as they can, hungry for light. The only
thing that helps is to shut them tight. The horses' eyes were
covered and they were led along. Ivy's arms were wrapped tightly
about Myranda's waist, her head pressed hard against Myranda's
shoulder, shakily breathing in the girl's ear. She was practically
whimpering, but with the exception of a flare of blue occasionally,
she was doing a heroic job of suppressing her fear.

In the darkness it was impossible to tell how
far they had traveled, and hours and minutes bled together. Even
Myranda could hear something in the echoes now, something near. She
pulled in a breath of the stale air in the tunnel. It still reeked
of death. If anything it had grown stronger. How could that be?
Surely that . . . thing was miles behind them by now. Then Myranda
felt something she had been waiting for. It was the tiniest puff of
cold air on her skin. She opened her eyes. Far ahead was the silver
light of the moon falling on snow. It was barely there, but after
so long in the darkness it may as well have been a beacon.

What followed was maddening. The end of the
tunnel was tantalizingly near, but they had to maintain speed, lest
they be heard over the hoof beats of their pursuers. The opening
ahead crept closer. The breeze from outside became steady, until
the air in the tunnel took on the frigidness they had become
accustomed to in the mountains. Until then it was not obvious just
how much warmer the inside of the tunnel had seemed without the
wind bearing down on them. Myranda took another deep breath,
anxious for just a whiff of the fresh air that was so near, but
what she drew in was anything but fresh. The stench was horrific,
worse than she'd ever smelled. It was the scent of death magnified.
It caught in her throat. She could taste it in her mouth. Her lungs
urged her to cough it out but she could not risk the sound.

Another eternity passed, and finally it was
over. The group emerged from the tunnel. It emptied into a valley.
The mountains towered around them. Great circular platforms had
been carved like steps around the irregular floor of the place,
providing flat areas for the same structure repeated exactly on
every spare inch of space. Each was a vast building with no windows
and a single wide door. They were composed of stone, a few stories
tall, topped with a tall sloped roof. At the peak was a crystal,
the very same type that accompanied everything the D'karon put
their hands to, with identical ones at each corner. There were
dozens of the buildings, perhaps a hundred, arranged in ring after
ring. Only the center of the valley and the road leading to it was
free from one of the structures. The center of the valley bore a
wide stone platform, stained black by a thick and seemingly ancient
coat of grime. Despite the staggering amount of architecture, it
seemed that Deacon's translation had been accurate insofar as the
degree to which it was guarded. There was not a soul to be
seen.

The heroes hid themselves in an alcove beside
the tunnel entrance and waited. They attempted to remain silent,
but it soon became clear that the odor that permeated the tunnel
had come from this place. The air was thick with the smell of
death. Myranda managed to keep from gagging, but only just. She
felt sorry for Lain and Ivy. Their sensitive noses could only have
compounded the torture. The horses were visibly uneasy as well.
Only Ether seemed unaffected, no doubt owing to her ability to
forgo the senses as she saw fit.

The sound of echoing hoof beats grew louder
until, finally, their pursuers exited the tunnel. It was a vehicle
all too familiar to Myranda. The wretched black carriage. She'd
been unlucky enough to spend some time in one before, as a prisoner
of the Alliance Army. The windowless sides of the carriage made
identifying the unfortunate occupant impossible. A pair of horses
pulled the carriage, guided by a single driver.

Myranda heard something drop to the ground
beside her and looked to see that Lain had deposited his sword
there. In a flash he was streaking across the ground toward the
carriage. He dove at the driver, tearing him from the seat and
throwing him to the ground. As he opened his mouth, revealing his
vicious teeth, Myranda turned away, covering Ivy's eyes. A few
moments later and Lain was beside them once more, a familiar black
stain upon his mouth. He wiped it off with some snow and retrieved
his weapon. The body of the driver, now clearly a nearman, lay
twitching on the ground, blood running from beneath its mask.
Normally the mockeries of humanity turned to dust when they died.
That this one remained suggested that Lain had left him alive,
suffering.

“Why didn't he use his sword?” Ivy asked as
they followed him to the carriage.

“I am not certain I want to know,” Myranda
said.

The remains of the nearman finally collapsed
into empty armor and dust as they approached. Myranda leapt from
the saddle and rushed to the doors of the carriage. She undid the
latches and pulled them open, only to recoil in horror.

“What is it? Oh . . . oh . . . “ Ivy said,
turning away.

The carriage was filled with soldiers. Dead.
They were stacked like cord wood. The blue armored soldiers of the
north and red armored soldiers of the south alike. Myranda closed
the doors. She'd heard tales of this. That the dead were being
loaded up off of the fields. She had more than her share of
memories of funerals for the fallen soldiers of the many villages
she'd drifted through after Kenvard was destroyed. Seldom was there
a body to grieve over. It was believed that there simply was no one
to spare to return the dead to their homes, but there were those
who said that the black carriages hauled them off of the
battlefield.