The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (17 page)

“Isn't it astounding? She is phenomenal!”
Myranda whispered to him.

“Yes. Remarkable . . . Listen, Myranda. The
crystal? It is mentioned here. Ivy's soul was held in a crystal for
decades while they determined how best to put it to use, according
to these notes. The soul was released by fracturing its vessel when
she was placed in this new body. The crystal Demont wore, along
with this crystal, must be the remains of that vessel. It would
appear that the gem is still tightly linked with her soul,” he
explained in an almost silent whisper.

“So it would seem,” Myranda said, still
distracted by the truly astonishing performance that Ivy was
putting on. “When did you place that violin in your bag?”

“That is the other thing . . . I didn't. I am
certain that I never placed that instrument in this bag. There is
no point that one might have been placed there without my
knowledge. Certainly not the very one she claims to have left
behind,” he said, nervously.

“But . . . what would that mean?” Myranda
asked, puzzled.

“I don't know,” he said solemnly. “And that
concerns me greatly.”

Any reply she might have had was interrupted
as the rousing tune reached its epic finale. It was an almost
dizzying sequence of notes and chords. When she was through she
opened her eyes, a triumphant smile on her face. Myranda applauded
her and lavished praise.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” she
asked, hugging Ivy.

“I just know!” she said. “Deacon, did you
bring the case for the violin?”

“I sincerely hope not,” he thought as he
reached once more into the bag, adding with relief. “I'm afraid
not.”

“No matter. I really don't want to put it
down anyway,” she said, plucking a light melody to busy
herself.

With the graceful notes of the instrument
softly lilting in the background, the hours passed quickly. As the
short day came and went, there was nothing in the way of motion
from the ruined valley below. Deacon cast a spell or two to be
absolutely certain that there was no longer any danger, and as the
moon rose dimly behind the clouds, the group marched on. The
infectious joy Ivy had felt had done more for them than a night of
sleep ever could, so there was no need for further delay. The mood
was considerably brighter now. Forgoing the bow as she walked, Ivy
plucked the strings merrily, a smile on her face.

The path they followed twisted into the
mountains, nestled deep in a narrow pass. The going was slow, with
ice and snow tumbling into cascades with nearly every step. It left
the path unsteady, and constantly shifting, but they made their way
as best they could. Ether, for reasons she kept to herself, chose
to remain in her human form, slipping and stumbling with the others
rather than becoming something more surefooted. When the pass
widened a bit and leveled out, Deacon took advantage of the more
forgiving terrain to spend a few moments scratching at a sore spot
on his arm.

“What is it?” Myranda asked.

“Nothing to worry about. What direction are
we heading?” he asked, adjusting his sleeve once more.

“North, roughly,” she said.

“Have we decided upon our next goal?” he
asked.

“The capital,” Lain answered, a few steps
ahead of the rest.

“The capital. Do you really feel that is
wise?” Ether asked. “We are incomplete. The fifth Chosen must be
located before we attempt the final confrontation lest we risk
failure.”

“I do not care what fate has intended to
happen. My intention is not to fulfill my role in history, it is to
find and kill the beings responsible for continuing this war. When
they are dead, the structure of the northern army will collapse.
The war will end. I will be able to find a place for Ivy, and I
will be able to turn back to my earlier cause,” he said.

“And if the war does not end with these few
assassinations?” Ether asked.

“Then I will continue to cut the threads that
bind the war until it unravels,” he said.

His words carried an air of finality, making
it clear that further questions would be unanswered. The group
continued with as much speed as they could manage until the
constant wind that whipped at them rose to painful levels. The ice
and snow it hurled at them was mixed with fresh flakes from above.
A long overdue blizzard surged up with little warning, driving them
into the shelter of a cramped cave with an uneven floor, high up a
rather steep slope. The driving wind continued to howl harder and
harder outside the mouth. Ivy had carefully protected the violin
against the worsening weather until they reached shelter, but
before long the whistling outside was enough to drown out even her
loudest notes.

The temperature inside the cave, numbingly
cold to begin with, dropped steadily. Myranda shivered, casting one
spell after another in an attempt to keep feeling in her
extremities. Deacon managed to repeat the enchantment he'd placed
on his own cloak on hers, but it only managed to take the bite from
the cold. As time passed, the storm only grew stronger. The opening
began to fill with snow, so much so that Lain and Ether had to
clear it every few minutes, lest they be trapped within.

Hours passed. The wind and snow did not
relent. Soon the cold was joined by an equally serious concern.
Hunger. The meal they had eaten the previous day was a meager one,
and easily a day had passed since then. Before long, Myranda's mind
began to drift back to that horrible day all those months ago,
starving and lost, freezing in the middle of a field. The day she
found the sword. The day this all began for her. Ivy plucked at her
violin, the sound lost in the wail of the wind, but as she did so,
she seemed increasingly flustered.

“I can't . . . I can't quite . . . “ she
called out, attempting something that she seemingly couldn't
complete.

“What's wrong?” Myranda replied, maneuvering
closer to Ivy to avoid yelling quite so loud to be heard.

“I keep making mistakes. I don't know why,”
she said.

“It is the cold, Ivy, it is getting into your
hands,” Myranda said, clasping them between hers. “You are cold as
death, Ivy!”

“No. No I'm not. I don't feel cold,” Ivy
said, lowering the violin to clasp Myranda's hands back. “And . . .
you don't feel cold either. And you don't feel warm. I can hardly
feel you at all.”

“Your hands are numb. You've got to warm up!”
Myranda said, pulling her staff free and conjuring up a flame. “I
don't know how long I can keep it going, so everyone, gather
around.”

Ivy did as she was told, with Deacon joining
her. He lent a bit of his own mind to the flame, to ease the burden
on Myranda. It didn't help much. The heat was a godsend, though.
For the first time since the wind began to pick up, Myranda stopped
shaking.

“I really don't feel the warmth. Or the
cold,” Ivy said, holding her hands to the fire so closely they
threatened to singe. “What I feel mostly is hungry.”

“I know the hunger seems bad, but right now
we have to worry most about the cold. Give the fire time to warm
you,” Myranda said. Her unfortunate life had made her something of
an expert at prioritizing such things.

More time passed, and Ivy's condition began
to worsen. The breath of all others within the cave left as great
foggy clouds, but her breath was weak and wispy. She seemed
distant, her head drifting and jerking suddenly, as though she
would collapse at any moment.

“Ivy. Stay focused. Why don't you play the
violin some more?” Myranda offered as she edged in for a closer
inspection.

Ivy picked up the violin, but nearly dropped
it into the fire, her fingers refusing to close around the neck.
Myranda gathered to mind what she'd been taught about healing. What
she sensed was worse than she could have imagined. Ivy was failing.
Her heart was weak. Her breathing was weak. Even her soul was a
flickering ember of what it should have been.

“What is wrong?” Lain demanded, an intensity
in his eyes, and for the first time, fear in his voice.

“I don't know. She is beyond weak. I can't
explain it,” she said. “We need to do something to get her strength
up.”

“Will food help?” he asked, almost
begging.

“It may, but I'm not sure it will be enough,”
she said.

Deacon rubbed his eyes and held his crystal
out, the glow within it flickering to life as he tried to lend a
hand in the diagnosis. Lain rushed out of the mouth of the cave and
into the deadly weather outside. Ether watched him go, glancing
back to the others briefly before rushing after him.

“Keep her talking,” Deacon said, shaking his
head before returning to the task of finding the source of the
weakness.

“Ivy. Ivy, listen to me. I want you to think
back,” Myranda said.

“No . . . no thinking back,” she almost
moaned, her voice barely audible against the whipping wind.

“Not to the bad times. To the good times. The
times after we found you. Please, just say anything. Anything you
remember,” Myranda urged.

“Uh . . . I remember when everything fell,”
she said.

“Good, good, what else?” Myranda prodded.

“Things. Things are always falling. The
valley. The town. The fort. All of the forts. Everywhere I go,
things are falling down,” Ivy said.

“Yes, what else?” Myranda said.

“Uh. The horses never last . . . the supplies
too . . . we always end up on our feet, the sky over our heads,
hunting for food,” Ivy muttered. “Myranda . . . am I . . .
dying?”

“No! No Ivy, you are not dying!” Myranda
urged.

“It is alright . . . As long as you are here
. . . I don't mind . . . thank you . . . I'm sorry I couldn't . . .
“ Ivy slurred before slipping into unconsciousness.

“Ivy?! Ivy!” Myranda called out, shaking
her.

“Leave her rest. I know what it is,” Deacon
said, slumping back.

“What? How do we help her?” Myranda cried
desperately.

“She was hurt by the undead. You closed the
wounds, remember?” he replied rummaging in his bag.

“Are you saying she is infected? Cursed?”
Myranda gasped.

Deacon withdrew Ivy's crystal. The wisp of
black was now a thick, inky cloudiness, and it was slowly but
surely growing.

“It is the curse. It has wrapped itself
around her soul. She's got time, but not much,” he said.

“Why didn't I detect it?” Myranda asked.

“It is a disease of the soul, not of the
body,” he said.

“What do we do?” she asked.

Deacon dug into his bag and pulled out a
slim, leather-bound book, different from the one he constantly took
notes in. As he flipped through the pages, vastly different script
and illustration swept by, as though he was riffling past whole
volumes without getting any closer to the end of the book. When he
found what he was looking for he pulled his other book out and
scribbled some hasty notes on a clean page. As he did, he muttered
to himself, closing his eyes and tilting his head back from time to
time before launching on a new search.

“There is no
single
spell like it.
Soul Blight . . . similar. And Reanimate,” he mumbled.

“What are you saying?” Myranda asked,
anxiously glancing at Ivy's barely breathing form.

“The black magic and necromancy practitioners
in Entwell do not speak of a spell exactly like this one. It seems
like a combination of two of them, with something else added. Soul
Blight is a spell that feeds off of the target's soul until it is
too weak to recover. Reanimate restores motion to a soulless husk,
but it requires an outside will to support it. This spell is a
masterful union of the two. It feeds off of the victims soul, then
uses the strength it sapped away to sustain a spell of reanimation.
Something I've never seen before allows it to spread itself by
breaking the skin of a new host. It is a work of dark genius,” he
said.

“Is there a cure?” Myranda urged.

“The only way to cure reanimation is to
dispel the controlling will, the source of power. But her own soul
is the source of power, so we must act before she is fully
reanimated. But that would require that we cure the Soul Blight
aspect of the spell and . . . well, it is black magic. It is
intended to be irreversible, a way to kill a wizard that might
otherwise be able to raise himself from the dead,” he said.

“You're saying that there is no saving her?”
Myranda said solemnly.

“ . . . The spell has to be changed,” he
said, the sound of realization in his voice.

“How can we change a spell that has already
been cast?” Myranda asked.

“
You
can't, but
I
may be able
to. There is no time to lose, if this has a chance to work, it must
be done
now
,” he declared, throwing aside his books.

He crawled to her, raising her to a sitting
position and propping her against the freezing wall. Her head
lolled limply. He held her forehead with one hand and steadied
himself with his other on her shoulder. His eyes locked on hers as
they fluttered ever so slightly to reveal the milky pupils brought
by the affliction. The unmistakable look of concentration that came
with the most strenuous of spells mixed with a tinge of almost
manic desperation as he went to work.

“She . . . “ he struggled to say. “She may .
. . she will . . . worsen. And quickly. As will I.”

“Why? And why will you?” Myranda asked,
suddenly fearful for them both.

As she asked, part of the answer became
clear. The sleeve had slid back on his raised arm, revealing a day
old scrape, suffered during the battle with the undead. It was
minor, but it did not remain so. His skin, already a sickly pale
she'd attributed to the cold and hunger, grew paler still around
the wound. As the pallor spread, a blackness crept first into the
wound and then in feathering outward slowly along the veins of his
arm.