The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (22 page)

Ether threw herself at the first of the
dragoyles. Despite the fact it was one of the smaller ones, the
soldiers gave the clash a wide berth. The shape shifter, still in
her stone form, sidestepped a powerful snap of the beast's jaws and
delivered a blow to the creature's head. When it tried to pull back
for a second strike, she grabbed a hold and was drawn into the air
with it. Once she'd managed a firm hold of the beast's neck, she
began to rain blows down upon it unmercifully. In mere moments
cracks were opening in the monster's stony hide, oozing the black
blood that flowed beneath. The abomination was well past the
breaking point before long, and the soldiers and beasts that had
held back until now moved in. Arrows began to rain down upon her,
but her rocky form shrugged them off. Not so for the vicious
strikes that the other dragoyles delivered. By the time the third
such blow found its target, her own stony hide was showing
fractures of its own. Worse, a small contingent of the soldiers who
held spears tipped with the blasted crystals that tore at her so
effectively had made their way to the battle. Knowing that any one
of those spears would do more harm than a dozen of the dragoyle's
attacks, Ether decided the time had come to abandon her stone form
for one that would not be affected by the crystals. The choice was
obvious.

Desmeres grimaced as he rummaged through a
pouch at his belt. It was filled with glass ampoules that had held
doses of his healing potion. Most had been shattered when he was
thrown and had leaked out into the snow, but one small one had
mercifully remained intact.

“This is precisely why I do not get my hands
dirty,” he muttered through pain-clenched teeth. “It is not a one
man job. When this is through I must find someone to fill Lain's
role.”

He shattered the appropriate vial and poured
it through the jagged hole torn in his armor and into the gaping
wound. Instantly the pain compounded as the imperfect elixir began
to do its work. Desmeres stifled a scream and resolved to improve
the concoction and produce some more effective armor before
attempting something like this again. The agony faded somewhat,
leaving an incompletely healed wound thanks to the undersized dose.
After failing to pull himself to his feet, he scanned the ground
desperately. The battle was raging less than ten paces away, but he
had no place in that. Simply by assembling the Chosen here and
distracting them long enough to open the portal he had earned the
lion’s share of his fee, but it was in his best interest that the
battle end in the D'karon's favor. For one, it would no doubt
increase the size of his reward. Far more important, though, was
the simple fact that if Lain finished this battle on his feet,
Desmeres would not live long enough to collect. His sharp eyes
spotted the crystal that would turn the tide and set about dragging
himself toward it.

Myranda flexed her mystic knowledge,
conjuring gale force winds, tremors, and bursts of force, anything
that could occupy or immobilize the soldiers without killing them.
Epidime, the only soldier on the battlefield with his face still
obscured, stalked slowly toward her. When a final heave of magic
scattered the men that surrounded Epidime, Myranda coaxed thick,
woody vines from the ground in an interlocking ring around them.
The soldiers on the outside of the wall immediately begin hacking
at it, trying to break through. It was clear that it wouldn't hold
for long.

“End this now, Epidime. I won't hesitate to
do whatever it takes to stop you,” Myranda said, gathering her mind
for an attack.

She unleashed the spell, a potent example of
the little training in black magic she'd received, fully expecting
it to be deflected. Instead, her foe did not even raise his weapon,
the crackling ball of magic connecting and throwing him backward
into the wall of vines. His frail body bounced like a rag doll off
of the wall, his grip on the halberd loosening. She seized the
weapon with her mind, trying desperately to pull it from his grasp,
but his spindly fingers tightened around it, the first hint of the
unnatural strength that Epidime brought to his hosts beginning to
show. Myranda charged in and grasped the shaft of the weapon with
her free hand, readying a second attack.

“You chose poorly this time, Epidime. What is
the matter? Have you used up all of the able bodies in the Alliance
Army?” Myranda taunted, hoping to force him into a misstep.

“I chose this one for sentimental value,”
came the voice from behind the mask.

Myranda froze at the sound of the voice.
There was a chilling familiarity to it. Without thinking, she
released the weapon and grasped the helmet. Epidime thrust at her,
knocking her backward, but her grip on the helmet held. It was torn
from his head. As Myranda scrambled to her feet, the face she saw
before her stopped her heart. It was old, but looked worn beyond
its years. Gray streaks ran through the once black hair, but the
features, even twisted by Epidime's perpetual look of cold
intellect, were unmistakable. It was her father.

Myranda's mind was aflame with a thousand
emotions. Tears came to her eyes. Joy, fear, anger, hate, and love
all combined in a paralyzing chorus of voices in her head. A
fiendish smile curled her father's lips, followed by a mocking
laugh.

“What is the matter, my dear? This should be
a joyous reunion, shouldn't it? After all, you sought me for years.
Well, here I am,” he said, cruelty peppering the voice of Myranda's
loved one.

“You . . . aren't my father,” Myranda
replied, her voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, but I am. You look upon his body, and
deep inside his soul still resides . . . if only you could hear how
it cries out for you, Myranda. Truly touching,” Epidime said.

Elsewhere, Lain made his way through the
soldiers on his way to Trigorah. They did not resist him, pulling
back with their shields and weapons held defensively. The first
real resistance came when another special contingent, bearing
whips, nets and other tools of entanglement, sifted to the
forefront. Lain evaded them effortlessly, reaching Trigorah in
moments. When the two warriors met, the surrounding soldiers pulled
back. There was no exchange of words. Indeed, there was barely time
for a heartbeat. Lain launched himself at the general, still
mounted on her horse.

She managed to block the attack, but was
knocked to the ground. Instantly Lain was above her. Before he
could manage a killing blow, however, one of the surrounding
soldiers lashed at his raised weapon with a whip. He managed to
evade the attack, but at the cost of a few moments. It was enough
time for Trigorah to deliver a kick to her foe, staggering him. He
recovered to find her on her feet. The warriors clashed swords
again, again, and again. Each time, the gems that lined the
general's blade took on a brighter glow. Soon the weapon was
burning with energy.

Lain was relentless in his attacks. At first,
it was all that Trigorah could do to block each one. As the clash
progressed, however, the force of her blows increased. Soon she was
knocking back her foe, each time offering a window of opportunity
for her men to attack. They hurled nets, lashed with whips, and
swung bolos. It was clear that their intention was not to strike
Lain, but to separate him from his sword.

A blood curdling screech split the air. Where
once there was a single massive dragoyle, now there were two. As
the titans clashed, the soldiers below scattered. Earthshaking
blows were traded, rocking the whole of the valley. Identical in
every way, it was impossible to tell which of the beasts was friend
and which was foe. The battle raged on, threatening to collapse the
whole of the plateau into the valley below, until one beast forced
the other to the ground, clamping its jaws on the head of the other
and twisting its neck past the breaking point.

For a moment, all motion in the valley came
to a halt. The eyes of Chosen and soldier alike turned to the
massive beast. The monster moved slowly, taking two plodding steps
away from the fallen one. The inky black hollows of its eyes swept
over the valley. Suddenly, in a lightning motion, the enormous
creature snapped its jaws shut on the nearest dragoyle, shaking it
to pieces. Instantly the remaining dragoyles took to the sky,
tearing at their new target as arrows rained down on it from the
soldiers.

Ivy's confidence was growing as the soldiers
proved unable to lay a hand on her. She'd seen some of them out of
the corner of her eye bearing nets, but they were swiftly and
easily left behind. She'd managed to knock down quite a few of the
soldiers, but she could not bring herself to truly attack them.
These were not the teachers. They were only doing what they were
told.

“Ivy,” Deacon called amid the chaos. “Head
for the wall!”

“Sure thing!” Ivy replied, grateful to have a
direction for her efforts.

The skillful creature dutifully cleared the
way for Deacon, who tried his best to keep his eyes trained on the
crystal. As they drew nearer, something which added a measure more
urgency to their trek became visible behind the wall of soldiers.
Desmeres had nearly reached the crystal. Deacon desperately tried
to break free of the cluster of soldiers around them, but each time
it was only through the masterful intervention of Ivy that he
avoided being struck down. The soldiers were under orders to forgo
fatal means when facing the Chosen, but it would seem they were not
similarly instructed regarding Deacon. Amid his attempts to keep
the crystal in sight and dodge the constantly swinging swords
around him, the wizard dug madly through his bag.

Generally he managed to keep it in a state of
relative order, but in the rather brief time that he'd been too
weak to cast any spells that had changed. Keeping track of the
contents of a bag that was so much larger on the inside than it was
on the outside without the aid of magic was exceptionally
difficult, even knowing where things had been before. Doing so
while under constant attack was impossible. He glanced up. Desmeres
had nearly reached the crystal. Time was running out.

“Hurry!” he urged his protector.

In response, Ivy grabbed the nearest attacker
by the wrists, yanked him from his feet, and hurled him at the
remaining soldiers who stood in their way. After pausing briefly to
marvel at the sudden showing of strength, the pair burst through
the opening before them. Deacon sprinted as fast as he could toward
Desmeres.

“What do we do now, Deac . . . “ Ivy began,
but suddenly her voice trailed off, her expression blank.

Desmeres breathed a sigh of relief as the
soldiers surrounded Ivy and Deacon. The breath caught in his throat
as Deacon managed to slip between them. He clutched the crystal
tightly.

“Get him! GET HIM!” he ordered.

Ivy burst into motion, forcing her way
through the line of soldiers and quickly closing on Deacon.
Suddenly, a net was thrown over her.

“No, no! Let her go!” Desmeres pleaded to the
soldiers who, having finally managed to capture her, were not
inclined to release their prize.

It was too late. Deacon dove at Desmeres and
tore madly at the crystal. As the pair vied desperately for control
of the artifact, Ivy's mind was pulled in every direction. She
bounced between Desmeres’ insistence that she escape and help to
defeat Deacon, Deacon's insistence that she escape and save
herself, and her own increasingly terrified thoughts.

“Give it up! It is only a matter of time
before these SOLDIERS realize that they need to COME HERE AND HELP
ME!” Desmeres taunted.

As the ruined body of the final dragoyle
dropped to the ground, Ether looked over the battlefield. The
creatures had taken a greater toll on her than she had anticipated.
Taking the beast's form had left her with precious little strength.
She found that the beast's eyes seemed to have a special
sensitivity to the crystals she'd taken the form to avoid. At the
far side of the valley, Ivy was tangled in a net with dozens of the
crystals knotted into it. There were a number of other such nets
scattered among the soldiers. The only other sizable crystals she
could see were those adorning the spears of the men who had managed
to form a ring around her. If she was to have any hope of returning
to one of her fundamental forms safely, she would have to eliminate
the bearers of these weapons. Unfortunately, the soldiers quickly
proved to be far less dimwitted than the dragoyles, and managed to
evade her attempts at trampling them.

As the men continued to bait her and evade
her, Ether could feel her strength quickly waning. She'd been
trying to avoid using the corrosive breath of her form, lest she
risk injuring the others, but now it seemed she had no choice. She
opened the massive maw of the creature and began to heave out a
great cloud of the miasma, but no sooner had the first wisp of it
wafted forth than she felt a sharp pain in her throat. Instantly
all of the strength drained from her. She could feel the stony hide
begin to give way, falling to pieces.

As she attempted to abandon the form, she
felt the intense sting of a dozen crystals jabbing into her. If she
were to change now, what little strength she had would be sapped
away by the crystals. She remained in the defeated form, the slow
realization of what had transpired dawning upon her. The soldiers
had been waiting for her to resort to the beast's breath, hurling a
spear into her mouth the instant it had opened. They knew that she
would take on that form, and that she would have the same weakness.
The dragoyles were easily felled in one blow by a precise strike to
the back of the throat, and they had goaded her into revealing this
flaw to them. It had been a plan, a trick, and she had fallen for
it. Now she was trapped within this helpless husk, a handful of the
mounted soldiers already beginning to drag what was left of her
through the portal.