The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (28 page)

The dragon continued onward until the first
rays of the sun peeked over the mountains. With the brightening
sky, the clever beast knew that it would not be difficult to spot
her. She picked out a dense stand of trees and touched down on the
ground. As gently as a mother caring for one of her own, Myn placed
the shivering form of Myranda on the ground. She sniffed nervously
at Myranda. The young wizard tried to pat the creature
reassuringly, but she could not stop herself from trembling. The
massive creature stood over her ailing friend and lowered herself
carefully to the ground, folding her claws over the human's form
and gingerly pulling her closer in a sort of embrace. When Myranda
was properly nestled in her grasp, Myn let loose a burst of
flame.

Myranda could feel the heat rush through
Myn's veins, taking the chill instantly from her. Surrounded
utterly by her friend, hearing only the distant, deep thump of the
massive creature's powerful heart, Myranda for the first time in
ages felt something she thought she would never feel again. She
felt safe. She drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep. Myn released
what could only be described as a sigh of contentment as she felt
the tiny form of Myranda slip into slumber. A deep, fundamental
happiness filled her as she too drifted into a blissful sleep,
finally whole again.

#

Deep in the capital, far to the north, a
feeble old man sat in a large, ornate chair. On his head was the
crown worn by his forefathers, the Crown of Three Kingdoms. For two
generations now, it had been the only crown of the North. It was
the very one that had adorned the head of the King of Vulcrest on
the fateful day when he lost his life just a few paces too far
south and began this endless war. Rescuing it from the Tressons had
been the first, and in many ways the last, great triumph for his
people in this war. Now it sat on his head. To his people, it was
the symbol of his power. For the sake of hope, they were allowed to
believe it. Within the castle walls, though, there was no doubt
where the true power could be found.

The great doors of the entryway were pulled
open by the team of masked soldiers that stood guard. Through the
towering doorway passed a small, meticulously dressed man, a pair
of silver staffs adorning his back and glinting with the gleam of
gems. The king watched in silence as the man known to him as
General Demont marched through the great hall. The sound of his
purposeful footsteps echoed off of the vaulted ceiling of a hall
designed to be the site of vast celebrations. Save for the
occasional honored funeral, it had been unused since the
coronation. The General, a stern look in his eye, quickened his
pace, walking past the king without so much as a glance. A few
steps more brought him to a door.

Demont opened the door, finding the room
beyond pitch black. He closed the door behind him. A dozen candles
hissed to life, casting their yellow glow on the form of Bagu, his
face a scarred mass of anger. His eyes gazed intently at a massive
sand timer. An unnatural, halting stream of grains tumbled toward
the bottom. Only a few healthy palm-fulls of sand had yet to fall.
Whatever the device measured, it was nearing its end.

“Well . . . “ he said, fury dripping from the
word as it left his mouth.

“The dragoyle riders were defeated. Myranda
is out of our grasp,” Demont said.

Bagu's fingers locked around the arm of his
chair, the wood groaning under his grasp.

“A Chosen one . . . just seconds from death,
has escaped. What do you have to say for yourself?” the senior
general fumed.

“What do
I
have to say for myself?
This is none of my doing!” Demont objected.

“None of your doing? You had in your stables
a dragon that belonged to the Chosen One, and you didn't think it
was worth mentioning?! You allow me to reunite a divine warrior
with a powerful ally and the resulting escape is none of your
doing?!” Bagu raged.

“If the intelligence provided by your
precious Epidime is to be trusted, then that could not possibly
have been the Chosen One's dragon. She traveled with an infant
dragon, the size of a dog. The beast my creatures brought back to
me was adolescent if anything, nearly full grown. There can be no
confusion on that matter. And as for allowing you to unite them,
I
warned you
not
to use the black dragon. It was not
a weapon, it was a target! A brute! A blunt instrument! I plucked
that beast from nature and shaped it to my needs to serve as fodder
for proving my beasts. It was never under control. It was never
meant
to be controlled. This is on
your
head. You
were the one who wanted an example made of her,” Demont stated.

Bagu released a long, angry noise somewhere
between sigh and hiss.

“Can you track the beast?” he asked.

“Faintly, and not at all if she manages to
remove the enhancements,” Demont replied.

“She will seek to free the others. Have you
recovered the soul gem from the other human?” Bagu asked.

“The largest piece, yes.”

“Kill him.”

“We've not yet located the smaller piece.
Without his aid-”

“Kill him!” Bagu demanded.

“ . . . As you wish,” Demont relented.

#

Elsewhere another figure navigated a large,
dimly lit tunnel. There was the overpowering stench of brimstone
and a thick coat of soot clung to every surface. Ahead, a faint
glow signaled the end of the path. Desmeres approached a nearman,
his face undisguised and his hands gripping a staff that marked him
as one of the rare spell casting variety. It was guarding a web of
bars that crisscrossed the tunnel with no apparent door. After
flashing a medallion emblazoned with a handful of indecipherable
symbols, the creature gave a nod. The staff was raised and the web
seemed to come alive, shifting and twisting like a family of
serpents until the way was opened. Twice more he was forced to
reveal the medallion and await the parting of bars before he
finally reached a large, natural cavern. The air was thick with
smells that burned the nose and stung the eyes, and combined with
the stifling heat it made it difficult to breathe. A channel had
been carved into the stone floor of the cavern from which an
ominous red glow radiated. Thin black wisps of evil smelling fumes
hinted at what lie at its bottom. The channel formed a ring around
an irregular shaped stone spire that jutted up from the molten rock
below. Attached to the spire was an assassin.

Lain's hands and feet were not secured to the
stone. Instead, they seemed to disappear into it, as though the
spire had swallowed them and hardened. His head hung limply, his
chest painfully drawing in the occasional wheezing breath. The
telltale lines of a whip's lash stripped his flesh. Wounds
trickled, and blood-soaked bandages cocooned the upper part of his
chest and one shoulder. As Desmeres approached the edge of the
channel, the head lifted to show faded, cloudy eyes that tried and
failed to identify his blurry form. A weak sniff brought nothing
but fumes that burned at the lungs.

“It is me, Lain. Desmeres,” he said
solemnly.

Lain's form shuddered almost imperceptibly at
the sound of the name.

“It . . . looks as though they have finally
found a cell you can't escape from,” he remarked, venturing a peek
at the magma shifting along the distant floor of the channel over
which Lain hung.

A painful breath left Lain.

“You and I knew it would end this way for one
of us. It will please you to know that you did manage to teach them
their lesson. I was paid in full for my services,” Desmeres
said.

“You won't live long enough to spend it,”
Lain wheezed.

“No one could live long enough to spend that
much gold,” he replied.

“Why did you come here?”

“We spent seventy years as partners, Lain. I
owe you at least a final visit,” Desmeres answered.

A raking cough shook Lain.

“ . . . the others?” Lain asked.

“Captured. All of them,” Desmeres stated.
“Although . . . “

Lain's eyes shifted to him.

“They don't trust me, Lain. As is to be
expected. They only tell me what they think I need to know. Still,
it would take a fool to miss the fact that something is going on.
Troops are moving, reinforcing forts. It must be the forts where
the others are kept. They are all being carefully protected . . . “
Desmeres explained, stopping suddenly.

His eyes turned to a half seen form in the
shadows, then to the bandages on Lain's chest.

“Everyone except for you . . . Something has
happened and it has got them worried. I've got a feeling that they
will soon have a new task for me. Hopefully it will be a few days
more before they contact me. I've nearly finished some . . . items.
Things my wife convinced me to make. It would be a shame if they
moldered in one of the storehouses rather than finding some use,”
Desmeres mused.

Lain released another breath and let his head
lower once more.

“Well. I'd best try to find what there is to
find about this final Chosen. I don't suppose we will meet again.
Good luck to you,” Desmeres said.

He quickly set off, his back tingling with
expectation for a blade.

#

Elsewhere, under a slowly brightening sky,
Myranda stirred. Even after a short day and a long night, the black
pit of sleep was slow to let the world in. As her mind crept back
to her, thoughts clashed. She knew that she was outside, but why
was she so warm? She knew that she could scarcely be in any more
danger, but why wasn't she afraid? Her eyes opened and beheld the
answer. Myn was already awake. She held Myranda carefully against
her, all the while keeping a vigilant watch with every available
sense. Myranda pushed gently at the grip and the dragon obligingly
released it. The shock of cold air that reached her now that she
was no longer protected swept the last trace of sleep from her
mind.

The dragon stood, its head rising to nearly
the treetops. As the young wizard's eyes shifted over the
unfamiliar features of an old friend, the dragon suddenly
remembered that it had been ages since she had performed her most
cherished of duties. Instantly she vanished into the woods,
heedless of Myranda's calls for her to stop. The enthusiasm of the
bounding steps was the first thing, save the eyes, that Myranda
truly recognized about her friend. Trees swayed like tall grass,
accompanied by a creaking and snapping tumult that retreated
quickly into the distance. In barely a moment the earth trembled
with Myn's return, a deer clutched in her massive jaws. She dropped
it on the ground before Myranda and looked about for a pile of wood
to light. Seeing none and growing impatient, she turned to a
sizable young tree and, with frightening ease, reduced it to
splinters. The act had taken the merest swat of her massive claws.
No sooner had the pile of wood settled than a blast of flame set it
alight.

Myranda looked in awe at the results of Myn's
traditional morning errands scaled up to her new size. As the glow
of the vastly excessive fire cast its dancing light on the trees
around her, Myranda's mind began to work. She would need something
warm to wear, and quickly. For now she brought a few spells to mind
to take the edge off of the cold that the fire had not. Her stomach
reminded her vocally that she was well overdue for a meal, and the
fact that a suitable candidate now lay beside her greatly amplified
its complaints. That could wait a bit more. The gash that the worms
had torn in her arm had been reduced to an abrasion, and her ribs
and shoulder were sore but no longer broken. There were any number
of things about her body that could have benefited from immediate
attention, but none needed it. In short, she was in terrible shape,
but not in danger. This was fortunate, because even if she had been
at death's door, there was something else that was far more
important to her right now. She took a few steps back and looked at
Myn.

The dragon was massive, larger than her
mother had been on the fateful day of her birth. Her scales, her
claws, even the inside of her mouth were black as night. Here and
there a gleam of gold or a streak of red fought valiantly to be
seen, but the black by far overpowered it. There were things about
her that were out of scale. Muscles bulged in her forelegs and
neck. Her claws were long and cruel. In her great mouth, the teeth
ran the gamut from stiletto sized spikes to stout triangular white
spear heads. Each was accented with barbs that hinted that they
would not so much slice into something as tear into it. The row of
scales that ran along her spine seemed to have grown and twisted
into a vicious serration. At the tip of her tail was a veritable
morning star of spiked scales. Every inch of her was a weapon
now.

“Myn . . . my dear sweet little Myn . . .
what did they do to you?” Myranda whispered painfully.

The beast lowered its great head, easily as
large as Myranda. The young wizard wrapped her arms around the
noble beast's neck as best she could and squeezed tight, tears
rolling down her cheeks. Myn lowered herself to the ground and
angled her head pleadingly. Myranda knew what she wanted. She
reached over the dragon's head and rubbed and massaged as best she
could without cutting her hands to ribbons. Myn shuddered in
ecstasy, her long, powerful tail lashing about and putting deep
gashes in any tree unlucky enough to be in its path.

Suddenly Myranda's fingers found their way to
something that should not be there. It was cold and rough. The
flesh around it was swollen and tender, so much so that Myn pulled
away at even the light touch of the human's fingers. Myranda tried
to get a good look, but it was as black as the scales and hard to
make out. Still she tried. It was certainly metal. There seemed to
be a row of recessed holes around its rim, with metal studs
protruding from them. It reminded Myranda very much of a horseshoe,
save for the fact that the shape continued until it met in a point.
As the light of the fire and the strengthening sun fell upon its
surface, Myranda could just make out some crudely carved runes.
Even to her still recovering mind, the object resonated with
magic.