The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (24 page)

“Well, I would say that it is quite clear
where the loyalties of
my
troops lie. As for you? Well, I
would count this act of insubordination as treason. Because of your
admirable service to the Alliance, I will forgo the death sentence,
but I'm afraid I must relieve you of your rank,” Epidime said with
false compassion.

A look of pure hatred came to Trigorah's
face.

“So be it. If this is the way decades of
faithful service is repaid, you can have my service band. I don't
want it,” she proclaimed.

A smile came to Epidime's face as she pulled
away the sleeve that had been ruined by Lain's attack. She ignored
the pain of her injury, carefully undoing a latch that had remained
clamped since before she'd been sworn in as a General. She pulled
the engraved gold band away from her flesh for the first time in
all of those years and threw it at the General's feet. Immediately
she felt a searing pain where it had been. There, shining
brilliantly with an unnatural light… was The Mark. The same mark
that each of the Chosen bore. The former general cried out in pain
as the burning of The Mark spread, the divine price for betrayal
finally free to be paid. As confusion and fear filled the minds of
the soldiers who looked on, Epidime approached Trigorah. His frail
fingers closed with unnatural strength around her throat and raised
her from the ground.

“So single minded, so dedicated to your goal,
you managed to convince yourself it wasn't there. That the mark you
had worn since birth was nothing . . . meaningless. I knew you
would. The instant we hid it beneath the band, I knew you'd thought
your last thought about it, gleefully hunting down your would be
partners. Digging your pit of betrayal deeper and deeper, until the
only thing keeping you from the exquisite divine retribution you
are feeling was our band. How does it feel?” Epidime asked.

Trigorah struggled, now almost completely
consumed in the soul fire.

“You will pay for this, Epidime. I swear by
the gods themselves that you shall pay, even if I have to claw my
way back from hell!” Trigorah cried in a voice twisted by pain and
hatred into a soul searing screech.

“You will have to,” Epidime replied, hurling
the burning form into the valley.

After watching intently as the burning ember
of her form streaked like a comet into the rocky valley to be
dashed apart by its jagged floor, Epidime was satisfied. He turned
to savor the look of horror on the faces of the soldiers before
ordering them to their tasks. Each of the heroes was gathered up
and brought through the portal. Desmeres limped to the portal,
turning his gaze to the valley below and casting a long, thoughtful
look before stepping through the gateway.

#

For a long time, there was only darkness.
When the blurry light of a lamp slowly came into focus, the glow
revealed something far worse than the darkness. Deacon shook his
head. He was sitting in a chair, his hands secured behind his back.
The room was small. Turning his head made the world around him
swirl and the knot left by Desmeres’ blow throb. The only other
things in the room besides himself and the chair he occupied were a
table, upon which the lamp and his bag sat surrounded by a large
pile of its former contents. The walls were stone, and the door
heavy iron, protected on the outside by a pair of guards. They were
nearmen, no attempt having been made to conceal their crude,
monstrous faces. His motion prompted one of them to disappear down
the dark hallway.

The young wizard struggled. Around his neck
was a collar identical to the one he'd seen affixed to the
flickering image of Myranda that he'd managed to summon to his
crystal all of those weeks ago. A brief, painful, failed attempt at
a spell affirmed that it served the same purpose. Any attempt at
magic would bring horrible pain. At least he knew that he'd
recovered from his ordeal enough to cast spells. Even if the skill
was currently useless, having it returned to him was a relief. As
he plotted his next move, a figure appeared in the doorway. He
matched Myranda's description of the general called Demont. Two of
the odd weapon creatures hung at his back. His face had a look of
weary disinterest.

“Name,” he stated.

“Deacon,” the wizard replied.

“Well, Deacon. A few words. First, I would
like to make it perfectly clear that, unlike the Chosen you've
gotten yourself involved with, we have no particular motivation to
keep you alive. Second, if you had been hoping you could escape
from the collar in the same way the other human did, don't. We
learn from our mistakes here. Corrections have been made. Finally,
this is not an interrogation, and I am not Epidime. I do not
consider this a battle of wills, a game, or anything else. I have
very little patience. If I do not get the answers I desire quickly,
you die, and I look for them elsewhere. Do we understand each
other?” he rattled off.

“Most certainly,” Deacon replied.

“Splendid. Now, how is it that the entire
contents of my workshop seem to have been wedged into your bag?”
Demont asked, irritation in his voice.

“When I arrived to help Myranda, she was just
outside the workshop . . . “ he began.

“No, no. Not why. How? Through what means can
so much fit inside of so small a space?” The General corrected.

“The bag has been enchanted to have a
disproportionate interior,” he said.

“That is within your capabilities?” Demont
replied, intrigued.

“Given the time,” Deacon said.

“And is that information contained within
this book?” Demont continued, holding up one of the two books that
had been within the bag.

“Not in a form that you will find useful . .
. You haven't developed that particular enchantment?” Deacon
asked.

“Not to the degree that you have. I'd toyed
with the idea of creating a beast that would act as a mobile
prison, swallowing down detainees, but the size necessary for it to
be useful made it a slow, easy target. Incorporating this
enchantment would alleviate that, if it could be as significant as
you've achieved,” Demont said, flipping briefly through the
book.

“Interesting. You haven't perfected an age
old enchantment like that, yet your own transportation skills are
tremendously ahead of ours. And, frankly, I never would have
imagined actually manufacturing a living thing,” Deacon remarked,
letting his academic side show. “Such are the differing aims of our
cultures, I suppose.”

“Mm,” Demont replied. “So it would seem.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a
violin case.

“So it
was
in there,” Deacon
remarked.

Demont looked over the case and set it
down.

“Would you consider joining us?” Demont asked
flatly, as though it was more a formality than an actual request.
“As a man of knowledge, the prospect of looking over a few of our
more complete spell books should appeal to you, and you seem to be
not without usefulness.”

“I can't do that,” Deacon replied.

“So I suspected. Very well then. If you would
kindly remove my crystal from your bag, we shall be through here,”
Demont said.

“You haven't found it yet?” Deacon asked.

“As I have said, Deacon, I have very little
patience. Emptying the contents of your interminable satchel does
not appeal to me. I've found the largest piece. Simply return the
other,” Demont said.

“I am afraid that it is in the satchel.
Occasionally things find their way out of arm's reach. Recalling
them to the opening is a bit of a tricky spell,” Deacon
explained.

“Mmm. One that you will not be casting,”
Demont replied. “I am not so foolish as to remove that collar so
easily.”

One of the staff-like creatures dropped from
Demont's back, sprouting its insect legs and clattering toward
Deacon. The wizard's gaze shifted to it, a mixture of nervousness
and fascination on his face.

“Do they have a mind? A soul?” Deacon
asked.

“No soul. I can imbue varying degrees of
intellect, from primal to superhuman, given the resources . . . You
know, for someone who has been made aware of his impending doom,
you seem in awfully high spirits. Almost as if you were expecting
this,” Demont said, suspicion beginning to rise.

“I knew that joining with the Chosen would
lead to my death. I'd come to terms with the fact,” Deacon
explained.

“ . . . Still. It makes me wonder if you
haven't got some manner of insurance in place. Some secret that
will keep that crystal from us if you die . . . “ Demont remarked,
thoughtfully. “This is an occasion when Epidime's talents would be
useful. He could extract what we can use from your mind. Perhaps
you'd best be kept until he is through with his work elsewhere . .
. “

“I think that sound's like a splendid idea,”
Deacon said.

“I suspected you might. We shall see if you
continue to feel that way once Epidime has forced his way into your
mind,” Demont said, turning to address the nearmen. “In the
meantime, I've work to do for Bagu elsewhere. Remove every last
item from the bag. If you find a small fragment of a large, refined
thir gem, alert me. And if he shows any signs of escape, disable
him and alert me.”

The nearmen nodded. With that, Demont paced
out of the room, shutting the cell door behind him and disappearing
down the hallway. The telltale sound of a portal opening and
closing signaled his departure. Deacon watched as the nearmen
removed an assortment of Demont's items and his own from the bag.
Every so often, they would pull something out of the bag that he
was certain he had not placed into it. The first was a bundle of
papers. The second was an odd figurine. The third was a vial of
some sort attached to an extremely long, fine linked chain. His
mind began to work at how and why his bag had begun to produce
objects on its own. What aspect of the flawed transportation spell
had brought that about? The thought of the malformed spell reminded
him of another side effect of it. He began to struggle to reach one
hand with the other.

#

Far away, Myranda's overtaxed mind faded in
and out of consciousness for a time. She was vaguely aware of being
loaded into the back of one of the black carriages, and later being
carried through stone hallways. The only thing that was constant
was the blinding pain in her left arm. As her mind slowly
recovered, even if her strength didn't, Myranda looked over her
surroundings. There were shackles on her wrists and ankles, studded
with the blasted crystal that the D'karon seemed to have an endless
supply of. These were attached to chains that were similarly
studded, leading off into the darkness. Bars that led from the
ceiling to the floor surrounded her, forming a small cage with no
door. The only light came in a steady glow from the many crystal
studs which traced out the path of the chains along the floor as
they led to four larger crystals well outside the bars.

With no light from the outside, it was
difficult to gauge the passage of time. For hours, perhaps days,
Myranda fought to gain any sort of focus, if not enough to cast a
spell, at least enough to think. Perhaps then she might be able to
work out where she was, and how to get out. It was no use, though.
The crystals were a constant draw on her spirit, keeping her weak,
and the throbbing of her arm occupied what little of her thoughts
remained. As time crept on, new concerns began to coalesce in her
tortured mind. She'd not been fed in all of her time here, a fact
her stomach reminded her of frequently. Neither was she given any
water. Indeed, the only evidence that there was anyone even aware
of her was the rare occasion when someone would step into the dim
glow of one of the larger crystals to replace it with a fresh
one.

Faint memories of her last detainment drifted
to the surface of her murky mind. She'd spared herself the pain of
the collar they'd placed on her by forcing her strength down deep.
Perhaps that would help here as well. Gathering what little she
had, Myranda did so. It was not long before she was sure it was
working. The glow of the larger crystal ceased to increase. Her
mind cleared a bit too, though it did little good. Her eyes brought
her nothing useful, and what she could hear did little to help her.
Mostly, there was the periodic sound of plodding footsteps
approaching to check the gems, then retreating again. The only
other sounds were distant, muffled noises that sounded like the
roars of animals.

With nothing but her thoughts and her pain to
occupy her, Myranda began the long, difficult task of sorting
though the events that had happened in the valley. The D'karon had
known precisely what was needed to defeat each one of the Chosen.
Her own refusal to kill humans, Lain's reliance on his sword to
defend against magic, Ether's weakness against crystals and her
tactics to combat them, and the gem that controlled Ivy. Everything
had been planned out from the start, and each hero had played into
the traps perfectly. Her own manipulation had been masterful.
Epidime had managed to make her reunion with her father the most
painful moment in her life, instead of the moment of joy it should
have been. And Trigorah . . . all of this time she'd been the last
of the original Chosen. All of this time she fought to defeat, to
capture, those who should have been her allies, and each success
was another nail in her coffin. Somehow that band had protected her
from the retribution that fell upon the divinely Chosen when their
loyalty strayed. Myranda worked it over in her mind. The swordsman
had fallen, Ivy had been transformed, Trigorah had been subverted,
and Lain and Ether remained. The intended five were all accounted
for.

More time passed. The strength sequestered
deep in her soul grew stronger. Her mind grew sharper. She was
beginning to administer small doses of magic to the wound on her
arm, healing it slowly so as to not be overtaxed. It had only just
been reduced to a dull ache when the click of boots on the stone
floor approached again, this time coming much closer, and
accompanied by the glow of a torch. The face the torch revealed was
anything but a welcome one. It was General Bagu. On his face he
wore a look of superiority and triumph.