The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (13 page)

“What is this place?” Myranda asked.

“If I understand correctly, the map labels it
Final Reserve
,” Deacon said.

“What could that mean? There is no one here!
Why would they bring the dead to this place?” she asked.

“Maybe the reserves are in those buildings,”
Deacon offered.

“Trust me. There is nothing
alive
here
but us,” Ivy coughed.

“Do you feel any magic about?” Myranda
asked.

Deacon grasped his crystal tightly and slowly
scanned the area.

“Nothing active,” he replied. “Those crystals
have something potent in them, but I can't quite place what . . .
wait . . . there is something more.”

He raised his finger to the night sky. A
black form against the faded gray clouds emerged a moment later,
bursting from the clouds where he had indicated. It seemed close,
judging from the size, but as the seconds ticked on, the bat-like
form took up more and more of the sky. By the time the flapping of
the wings could be heard, a horrifyingly large section of the sky
was blocked out by them. It was a dragoyle, or at least, that was
what it most closely resembled. The size was at least triple that
of the largest such beast they'd yet faced, and it seemed far
stouter overall. The neck was slightly shorter and much thicker, as
were the legs. The tail was covered with spines that grew longer
and broader along its length until they ended in a near morning
star. Its head bore similar armor plating, and in place of the
cruel beak that normally adorned such beasts, this one seemed to
have a more jagged, tooth-like serration. At the sight of the
creature the horses bolted, vanishing into the tunnel.

Lain readied his steel. Ether shifted to her
flame form. Both wizards held their casting stones at the ready.
Ivy stared in open mouthed awe, not having gotten a firm enough
hold on her wits to be afraid yet. The monster descended into the
valley. The wind from the massive wings was a constant gale. When
it touched down, it did so with enough force to shake free much of
the snow that had clung to the steep slopes of the surrounding
mountainside. Instantly the tunnel behind them was hidden in a
cascade of rocky ice and snow. All were prepared for a monumental
struggle. Oddly, once it landed, the massive creature held its
ground, each foot planted just outside the stone platform, not
making the slightest motion of hostility. Slowly, it lowered its
head. As it opened its mouth, the heroes scattered, expecting a
torrent of the wretched miasma the similar beasts had spewed, but
none came. Instead, what looked to be a wooden treasure chest fell
to the ground. Slowly, the chest opened.

“Steady, everyone. Some sort of spell is
activating. A weak one,” Deacon warned.

A pale blue mist stirred from within the
chest. Slowly it coalesced into the form of a man. Ivy and Myranda
stiffened at the sight, and Ether's fiery hide flared. They had
encountered this man before. It was the most senior of the
Generals, Bagu. He appeared to be reclining in a chair that had not
fully appeared along with him. As the mist took on the appropriate
hues of his flesh, he stood.

“You kept me waiting. This beast has been
circling over the clouds for some time,” he stated.

“Who is that?” Deacon asked, fascinated by
the act of magic he was witnessing.

“General Bagu,” he replied. “You must be the
newest thorn in my side. The human foolish enough to associate with
the Chosen.”

“Incredible! An illusion coupled with
communication . . . brilliant,” he admired.

“Listen, Chosen. I am certain you know a
great deal about me, but I assure you, I know a great deal more
about you. I have been gathering information on some of you since
before your birth,” he said. “I was concerned that you were
functioning too well as a unit, but I realize now that I could not
have been more wrong. You all fight for a single cause, perhaps,
but your motivations are your own. I am the focus of your fury
because you believe that my defeat will provide you with the goal
you crave. You are mistaken. I do not stand between you and your
desires, your own foolish beliefs do. I am the only one that can
offer you all what you seek. And all I request in return is for you
to lower your weapons and allow me to finish my work, or if you
prefer, join me and see it to as bloodless an end as you like.”

“Don't listen to him!” Myranda cried.

“The wizard . . . What is it that you want?
An end to this war, and perhaps a taste of revenge in exchange for
the price your homeland had to pay. Do you really believe that this
war will end simply by killing me? There will be others to take my
place, I assure you, and others to replace them. You blame the
D'karon for keeping this war alive, but it is your own people, and
the people of Tressor that will allow it to continue. Join me and I
promise you, this war will end tomorrow. I will issue the order to
cease hostilities. Negotiations can begin. If you join me, the next
drop of blood could be the last,” Bagu said.

“You would never do such a thing,” Myranda
replied.

“Are you so certain? Certain enough to allow
another few generations to be cut short rather than risk trusting
me? Or have you let the assassin's pathological distrust poison
your mind?”

Myranda was silent. Bagu turned to Lain.

“And you, assassin. You don't even care about
this war, do you? You want us dead because we threaten that
precious little experiment behind you. Again, your blame belongs
elsewhere. We did not kill your kind. It was the humans, the elves,
everyone who saw them as inferior, as dangerous. If you kill every
last D'karon, the murderers who took your people will still remain,
and so will the threat to your precious race. You have accepted Ivy
as one of your own, and she was not even complete. We created her,
giving your kind another breath, and you seek to destroy us for it?
Do as I say and I will have Demont resurrect your race. There will
be hundreds, thousands of your kind again,” Bagu offered.

“You didn't create me! I don't remember
everything, but I know I wasn't always this way,” Ivy retorted, a
flare of red surging around her. “Someone give me a weapon. I'll
show him!”

“The experiment. Your motivations are more
difficult to determine. Do you seek revenge for being altered? Or
do you simply wish to remain with the others because you have
nowhere else to go? Regardless, you have nothing to gain by our
defeat, and everything to lose. Everyone who knew you as you were
is dead. If you seek answers, you need only return to our fold. We
and only we can provide them,” Bagu reasoned.

Ivy tried to reply, but her mind was suddenly
awash with conflicting thoughts.

“And what would you offer me, fiend? I have
no motivation, only a purpose, and that purpose is to rid this
world of you and your kind,” Ether interjected.

“Yes, yes. The protector. Existing from the
dawn of creation for one purpose alone, to fend off the threat to
your world. And if you succeed, what then? If we are well and truly
defeated, you are left with nothing. An eternity of hollow,
meaningless existence. You can be more. This world is not the first
we have sought. It will not be the last. As we pierce the veil,
sweeping from realm to realm, you could have a new purpose by our
side. You could be a conqueror. Or if you must defend, why defend
just one world? Join us and when this world is ours, it will be
yours to defend once more, and a thousand others besides. You are
not our only enemies. There will be an eternity of meaning for you
with us,” the General offered.

“It doesn't matter what you offer. Fate is
not so flimsy as to even allow the heroes of this world to be
corrupted,” Deacon proclaimed. “The Mark will strike down any
divine warrior that would betray its cause.”

Bagu turned his gaze to the young wizard.
“The scholar of the group, are we? Listen, human. We have been at
this game for a very long time. We are familiar with the rules,
more so than you could ever be, and we are equally aware of their
exceptions. It is well within our power to accept you safely into
our ranks. It has been done before.”

“And what will you do if we refuse. Kill us?
There are only four Chosen here. Without the five of us united,
even if you
could
kill us, it would only delay our cause.
New Chosen would arise. You are afraid of us. That is why you came
to bargain with us. You are so afraid you wouldn't even come in
person,” Myranda said, gambling that the General did not know as
she did that the convergence had already occurred.

“Afraid! You insignificant piece of flotsam!
How
dare
you even
think
that you could instill
anything but contempt in me? I have seen thousands more powerful
than you crushed. You are
nothing!”
Bagu raged, before
adding in a smoldering tone. “And as for not killing you? It is
true we need you alive for now . . . but life is more loosely
defined than you might realize . . . “

The image of the General vanished. In a swift
and sudden motion, the massive beast burst into the air.
Astoundingly, and mercifully, the dragoyle did not instantly bear
down on them. It managed to heft its ponderous girth into the sky,
spiraling higher and higher until its inky form merged with the
equally inky clouds. For a few moments, where seconds ago it seemed
certain there would be a titanic clash, there now was only an eerie
stillness. The only hint that the unusual standoff had happened at
all was the still open chest in the center of the valley. Myranda
cautiously approached it.

“Careful!” Ivy urged.

Myranda, staff at the ready, peered inside.
There were a few crystals, now dull and lifeless. No doubt they had
enabled the message to be delivered. The only other things in the
chest were an assortment of gold ornaments. There were two oddly
shaped metal plates, a gauntlet, and a headband. She leaned closer.
There was something familiar about them. The gauntlet in
particular. She was about to pluck it out of the chest when she
heard Deacon shout a warning.

“Those spells are waking up,” he called
out.

Myranda looked up. One by one, the gems on
each of the roofs were winking to life. In the space of a few
seconds, the dim light of the cloud-obscured moon was replaced by
the pale blue-white light of the gems.

“Did you hear that?” Ivy gasped as Lain
turned to the source of the noise unheard by the others.

A moment later it came again, louder. A low
rumble, like the long slow slide of heavy stone.

“It can't be. They wouldn't,” Deacon spoke in
a deathly hushed tone.

The irregular rumble began to grow. Soon it
mixed with a stirring from within all of the dozens of structures.
A few of the doors rattled, shaking free their sheath of ice and
straining against the mounded snow that had gathered at the base of
each. More doors followed. Soon the cacophony of countless doors
threatening to tear themselves from their hinges was deafening.
Lain stood resolute. He'd come here to destroy it, to take away
whatever it was that the D'karon hoped to hide here. To punish
them. Ivy's breathing was growing faster, her thus far heroic grip
on her emotion showing the first signs of slipping. As she backed
toward the carriage, the only hint of shelter in the whole of the
chaotic valley, she stumbled over the remains of the ruined
soldier. There on its belt, was its unused sword. She scrambled to
it, pulling it free and clutching it shakily.

Finally, one of the doors gave way. There was
a rush of stale, pungent air and a stir of choking dust and fumes.
When the cloud settled, what it revealed was horrifying beyond all
measure. The dead. Hundreds of them, some surely a hundred years
gone, or more. The cold, dry air had reduced them to little more
than bone and leathery sinew, but still they shambled forward. Most
still wore some shred of the armor they had fallen in, the heavy
plates of metal tugging at rotten straps. Nose and ears, if they
remained, hung loosely from skulls, eyes long ago rotted way. Yet,
somehow, each sensed the intruders and trudged their way.

“By the gods . . . “ Myranda said.

“The gods have nothing to do with this
abomination,” Ether growled.

Instantly she rushed at the shambling legion.
They took eagerly to flame, their ancient flesh little more than
kindling now for the flames of the shape shifter's form. Ether
continued inside the crypt. With a rush of hot air and the mixed
roar of a thousand unholy wails and the surge of a thousand flames,
every last lumbering corpse inside took to flame. Myranda pulled
what she knew of flame magic to mind, ready to unleash it on the
next door that gave way, but from the glow of the crucible Ether
had created, forms continued to flow. In flames, the undead
continued. Even when the flesh fell entirely from the bones, the
skeletons of the fallen continued their march. A second and third
door crumbled away, unleashing hundreds more into the valley, a
single one of them yet to be defeated.

“Deacon. Do you know anything about this? The
undead? Can you dispel this?” Myranda called.

“Necromancers were few and far between in
Entwell. I'll try what I know,” he offered.

He raised his gem and mumbled a few words,
thrusting the crystal outward with the last of them. A thread of
light swept out from the casting stone. As the twisting filament
struck the burning revenants that had already grown dangerously
near, they dropped to the ground. It was as though whatever will
had given them life had been pushed away, leaving them to crumble
into misshapen piles of remains. A smile and a glimmer of hope
flashed across his face as he prepared to unleash another volley,
but just as suddenly as the half dozen or so that had been struck
down had fallen, they rose again.

“Blast it! Something is fueling the curse. It
doesn't take a genius to determine what,” he said, looking to the
gleaming gems that adorned the roofs. “There is no reason to assume
that this spell is any different from their others. Interrupt the
source, eliminate the spell.”