The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (18 page)

“When did those creatures touch you?” she
gasped.

“Never mind . . . me,” he said, the focus
taking virtually all of his mind. “When I am through . . . keep her
safe. And warm. Keep the fire going . . . as long as you can. She
will be weak . . . but . . . if she can last just a few hours . . .
the curse will be gone.”

The blackness that, even as he spoke, brought
the look of death over Deacon now began to show itself on Ivy. The
snow-white fur began to darken in patches where it was thinnest;
around her eyes, the pads of her fingers, her ears. Her claws
split, leaving jagged, yellowed shards. The sight was stomach
turning, like seeing the rigors of death pour over her friend and
her beloved in a matter of minutes. Slowly Deacon removed a shaking
hand. His fingers were bone white, his face was gaunt. Weakly he
reached for the crystal, Ivy's crystal. He held it up to the fire
that Myranda faithfully kept alight and stared. The shifting black
stain within was halted. A long minute passed as he and Myranda
poured over the waving of the cloud. Finally it seemed to slow and
pull inward ever so slightly.

“The deed is done,” he said, his voice harsh
and raspy.

“What did you do?” she asked with urgency.
“We need to cure you.”

“Not the same way. Too dangerous for you,” he
said. “There are other possibilities. She was further along than I
was. We still have time.”

“I don't care how dangerous it is, I will not
let you die while we try to find something else when we know that
there is a method that works,” she assured him.

“We don't know that it works. She has a long
night ahead of her. She will need every bit of her strength to
fight off the last of the curse,” he replied.

“Just tell me. I'll deal with the
consequences,” she demanded.

“Absolutely not. Now, the traditional
treatment for necromancy is to counter its darkness with . . . “ he
began.

“This is madness! Why are you risking you
life?!” Myranda protested, tears clouding her eyes.

“ . . . holiness,” he continued, raising his
voice to compete with her cries. “Holy water in fact. Anointing the
wound has proven effective in some cases.”

“You yourself said that there isn't a cure
for soul blight,” she tried to reason.

“But this isn't soul blight. It may have a
weakness that the true spell lacks,” he countered.

Myranda threw her hands up. “Where are we
going to get holy water?!”

“That is . . . a valid point,” he said, as
though the thought hadn't occurred to his increasingly addled
mind.

He reached for the slim book again, leafing
through the pages.

“Necromancy . . . yes . . . the ah . . . the
blessing of a priest is a powerful tool . . . but we haven't got a
priest. Ah . . . there some herbs that can slow the process,” he
offered.

Myranda looked about helplessly. She pulled
the canteen from the provisions she carried with her and scooped
some snow from the mouth of the cave.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm Chosen, right? That means that I am a
product of divine will,” she said, filling the canteen with snow
and willing some of the fire around it.

As the snow melted, she thought. In time, the
words came.

“Oh powers above. The mark on my hand is your
sign that I am your tool in this battle. I represent our world. I
defend it. I did not ask for this role, but I have done my best to
fill it, and I have expected nothing. But now the very forces that
I am tasked with turning back are threatening to take the one soul
that has touched mine. A being whose life may as well be my own.
All I ask is that you give me the power to wash away the blight of
the dark ones. All I ask is that you imbue this humble water with
some trace of your purity, that it might restore this victim of the
darkness,” she solemnly spoke.

Myranda waited and watched, her senses
aflame, hoping for some sign, any sign, that her prayer had been
answered. The flame she maintained flickered, the wind outside
wailed, but there was no indication that anything had changed. She
drew in a deep breath and motioned for him to uncover the wound.
She sprinkled just a few drops upon the blighted flesh.

“It . . . it feels warmer . . . no . . .
hot,” he said, pain creeping up in his arm.

He cringed as the blackness pulled back,
giving way to the red blood and pink flesh that it had replaced.
Deacon stifled a cry of pain as the feeling that had been stolen
from him returned all at once. In a few moments, his arm seemed
almost healthy, and the complexion of his face had improved.
Myranda let out a sigh of relief that turned into a laugh of
joy.

“I suppose I was a bit premature in my
desperate act a moment ago. And we've discovered a new talent of
the Chosen!” he said with a smile, recovering from the pain.

Slowly, the smile faded from his face. He
pulled back the sleeve to reveal that the pale, stained flesh was
creeping back down. Myranda applied the holy water again, and
again, but there was now no effect, as though the spell had somehow
tempered itself against it. Before long any evidence that they had
tried anything at all was gone, and no further attempt worked.

“It is . . . remarkable,” he said in a
wavering voice. He attempted to make a note of the discovery in his
book, but his fingers would no longer cooperate.

Myranda grasped his hand and pulled it away
from the book.

“Stop praising the spell that is killing
you!” she demanded.

“It is a masterwork. And I need to catalog
its effects for future study,” he said, trying to pull free.

“Stop it, Deacon! It is madness! Just tell me
what you did to Ivy and let me do it to you,” Myranda cried.

“Myranda, listen to me. I cannot allow you to
risk it,” he said, suddenly wavering enough to lose his
balance.

“But . . . I can't lose you!” Myranda
screamed through the tears. “I am the reason you are here. If you
die, it is because of me!”

“Myranda, no. It is only because of you that
I even lived. Where was I before I met you? A . . . a tiny, unknown
corner of the world. I was learning for the sake of knowledge.
Perfecting spells that would . . . never be cast. Then you arrived.
I had the honor of helping teach you . . . spells that would be
used for the very highest purpose. I . . . became the first being
in the history of this world to cast a spell of transportation. I
was able to meet the Chosen. Children of legend. And I helped you.
Myranda, you gave me a place in history. You gave me . . .
immortality. Who . . . who . . . could hope for . . . anything . .
. more,” he struggled to say, his breathing becoming more
labored.

The hand he steadied himself with slipped and
he nearly fell to the ground, but Myranda caught him.

“No! Deacon, don't let go! Don't give up!”
she cried.

Her mind raced as she tried to determine why
he would not share with her the means to save his own life. How
could she force him to tell her? She cast a desperate look at Ivy.
The answer to both questions came at once. She grasped his hand
firmly.

“What are you doing?” he asked weakly.

Without a word she dragged his twisted,
jagged fingernails down her arm, opening a long gash.

“No. NO!” he cried, his eyes opening
wide.

“Now you have no choice,” she said. “This was
why it was too dangerous. You had to
have
the curse.”

His mouth moved wordlessly, his clouded mind
awash in despair. Quickly as he could, he gathered what was left of
his wits.

“Listen. What I tell you now, I tell you so
that you can save yourself,
not
me. You must seize control
of the spell. As it gnaws . . . at your spirit, some your own
control . . . over your stolen will . . . fades in time. That time
is . . . the key. You must feed the blight. Force . . . as much of
your will in as you can . . . as quickly as you can. The curse . .
. will grow like . . . a weed, but more and more of your will . . .
will linger . . . there will come a moment . . . a brief one . . .
when the will of the . . . spell is more yours than its own. It . .
. is then that you strike . . . turn the affliction's hunger upon .
. . itself. If you succeed . . . the blight will leech at itself .
. . and waste away. Do you . . . understand?” he struggled,
fumbling his hand through his bag.

“I do,” she replied.

“Good . . . “ he replied, pulling free the
blade he'd fought the undead with.

He knew that there was no dissuading her. She
cared too much about him to do what he knew was best for the world.
There was only one way to be sure she made the right decision. Make
it the only decision. With all of the strength he could muster,
attempted to thrust one of the curving blades into his heart.
Myranda caught his hand and wrenched the blade away, throwing it
far from his reach and pushing the bag away.

“You must . . . save . . . yourself . . . “
he begged her before the last of his will failed him.

Quickly she propped him into the position
he'd placed Ivy in and placed her hands upon his temples, searching
his spirit with hers. In her mind's eye, the sight was even more
horrific than it was physically. His soul, once brilliant and pure,
was withered and twisted. She searched desperately for the blight,
the affliction that she'd not seen in Ivy, but it simply wasn't
there. As she sought, she felt a tinge within her own soul. It was
unsettling, a foreign influence, tiny, pulling hungrily at her.
Despite the fact it was unlike anything she'd ever felt, she knew
instantly that it was what she was looking for. Her searches turned
back to Deacon, sifting for the same alien hunger. Having felt it,
it was now impossible to miss within him. The nature of the
affliction revealed itself, like a clinging vine that wrapped
around his soul, ravenous and drawing away what little power he had
left.

She forced her will upon it, and it eagerly
devoured. Its poisonous influence drew tightly around his soul,
growing stronger with every moment. As it did, the spell within her
own soul supped upon the feast of will as well, sprouting and
entwining itself about her. The speed with which she was weakening
was frightening. She could feel a part of herself flow into the
spreading infection and wither away, as though it was being
dissolved. She jerked and twisted her mind, prompting an ever so
slight imitation in the blight. She needed more.

Without hesitation she unleashed every last
bit of her mind, feeling it slip into the abyss eagerly. The
strength poured from her like a torrent, seemingly to no avail. It
drank up all that she had without pause. Her view of the spectacle
began to fade, her focus quickly wicking away into the darkness. In
a few moments she would have nothing left to give. Dizziness seized
her mind, threatening to tear her from her trance. She fought the
disorientation, knowing that if she lost focus now, there would not
be another chance. The end was upon her. Her grip was slipping.
Just as she was about to lose the last thread of connection to him,
she felt a feeling she'd never imagined before . . . like her mind
was simultaneously inside of the abyss and out. This was the
moment. She turned what little was left of her mind to the almost
mechanical workings of the spell that gorged on her power and
twisted it.

And then the connection was gone. The world
faded slowly in around her. She was in darkness, the fire had
vanished, but she felt no cold. She felt nothing. As her hands
fumbled blindly about the ground, her mind struggled to grasp what
had happened. Some small corner of her thoughts tried valiantly to
hold her mind together, but it was filled with a deafening static
and disorienting stirring. She could not remember what it was that
she had done, nor what she was doing. Indeed, she could not even
think
. Her fumbling tipped the canteen she'd placed upon the
ground, the contents sloshing onto her fingers.

Instantly there was a white-hot pain. It was
a stinging; definite, solid, and real. It cut through the static
and stirring like a knife and she latched onto it. Time was against
her. Already it was fading, already she was forgetting what it was
that she had so briefly achieved, but she knew she wanted it back.
Her fingers closed around the neck of the canteen and she raised it
up. The contents spilled out, burning everywhere it touched, giving
her an instant of clarity. This was it. Her chance to repeat the
miracle. She put the canteen to her lips. The stream of blessed
water burned its way to her core, stabbing at her from the inside.
The blight inside of her recoiled from it, losing just a hint of
its grip on her. She knew it would not last long. Already she could
feel the curse hardening to it. Resisting it. She dove her mind
into it entirely, seeking the thread she'd pulled before and
flexing what little will she had. Then, darkness.

There was a stillness. The stirring, the
static, everything was gone. She sat up, the motion requiring the
merest thought, not a whisper of effort, as though effort didn't
even exist. Slowly, her surroundings appeared to her, not as though
a light was growing stronger, but as though darkness was peeling
itself back. There was a presence before her. It was Oriech. Once
she had believed him to be little more than an aging priest who
despised her hatred of the war. He had since revealed himself to be
much more, an agent of fate who guided the lives of those with a
role to play. Now he stood in one of the few places in the cave
tall enough to allow it, his eyes covered by a gray blindfold.

“Myranda,” he said, shaking his head
slowly.

“Am I . . . “ she began.

“Dead? No. But neither are you alive,” he
stated.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“The more important question would be ‘why
are
you
here?’” he said.