The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (30 page)

She turned her mind to Ivy. Myranda had found
her mind before. It was after one of her transformations. She was
weak then, and still her mind had smoldered, bright and clear. Now
there was nothing but a galaxy of broken spirits drifting though
the void. Myranda fought thoughts from her mind. Could it be? Had
they been killed? No. She'd found Myn even after her soul left her
body. They were being hidden somehow. Her focus began to waver as
fatigue set in. She'd hardly recovered since the ordeal in the
arena, and without her staff she had to work twice as hard at the
concentration. The icy cold wind that swept around her body was
beginning to filter through to her mind.

Suddenly there was a flash, like a bolt of
lightning. A brilliant gold sparkle in the distance. It shifted to
a still brighter red, then just as suddenly vanished. It was sharp,
pure, and unmistakable. It was Ivy. Myranda locked onto the
indistinct point in the distance where the intense light had
pulsed. In the ever shifting currents of the astral plane it was
maddening, but she could not fail. Everything hinged upon this. She
had to succeed. In her mind she felt the cold, dark valleys of the
north slide slowly beneath her. Another flash came, this time
beginning in red and ending in gold. She crept closer. Finally, she
came upon something she'd never felt before. There was a sharp,
penetrating cold and a deep, fundamental darkness. Not a spark of
warmth. Not a flicker of light. Not a whisper of life. She pulled
together all of the concentration she could muster to scour for
some trace of a soul. She felt something like a heat. She drew her
mind closer. Then it came. An eruption of gold. Myranda could feel
the power rush over her like a tidal wave. It permeated her spirit,
infusing it and surrounding it. She felt every ounce of strength
she had lost pulse, powerful and alive in her very core. Then it
shifted to red, and the nourishing warmth turned to a searing heat.
She was boiling in an ocean of crimson light that threw her
back.

Myranda's eyes shot open. The chill should
have taken its toll on her, but all she felt was the heat. Her hand
sizzled against the snow as she climbed to her feet. The tree she
had leaned upon was black and smoking. After a lengthy search, her
mind should be a tatters, but it was sharp as it had ever been. The
period of gradually coming to terms with the physical world again
was absent, unnecessary. For a fraction of a moment, her mind had
touched that of Ivy, sharing some fraction of the power she flowed
with during one of the outbursts. It was awesome in the purest
meaning of the word. Her eyes turned to the sky. The sun was doing
its best to break through the near constant clouds overhead, and
was having brushes with success at some points, turning thin
patches of gray clouds a brilliant white. If they flew now they
would surely be seen. If they didn't . . .

Myranda climbed atop Myn's back. There was no
choice. They had to move now, while their target was still fresh in
her mind. While the strength lent to her, purposely or not, was
still coursing in her veins. The mighty creature could feel her
excitement. She took a few steps and thrust herself into the air,
massive wings unfurling and catching the wind. Myn rose into the
sky, circling ever higher.

“That way. West. And hurry!” Myranda
proclaimed.

Myn shifted smoothly, her movements fluid and
graceful, as though she were born in the air. Myranda's eyes were
wide as the sights that had rushed past her in a blur the night
before now found their way into a mind that could truly appreciate
them. Forbidding forests and treacherous plains became gray, green,
and white patches on an endless painting. Icy rivers became ribbons
of silver. Where once there had been half deserted cities, now
there were intricate patterns of streets and buildings, laid out
like carvings. It was a view of wonder, of beauty. No wonder the
gods made their home in the sky. From here, all of the fear, all of
the sorrow sunk away. There was only freedom. Even the icy chill of
the wind seemed far away, so tightly did the spectacle seize her
mind.

Myranda tried to imagine herself on the
ground, looking up. How small did they seem? A vague form, perhaps
mistaken by all but the keenest eyes for a bird? She could only
hope. There was a long way to go. Even as hours of travel swept
below her in minutes, the place Myranda felt Ivy's spirit
struggling was far. She did not know what she would find. She could
not plan. All she could do was drink in the peace, breathe deeply
of the thin air, and watch as the setting of her life drifted by
beneath her in miniature. She saw the thread thin roads that
connected the towns. The same roads she had trudged down since she
was a little girl. She saw the Low Lands. The sheer size of
Ravenwood took on a new meaning at this height. It dwarfed cities.
Even the mountainside seemed to be little more than the beach on a
frosty green sea.

#

Below, the atmosphere in the cities had been
growing steadily worse. War brings with it a tension. It permeates
the mind of every man, woman, and child. In time, though, the
tension becomes first tolerable, then comfortable. A constant in a
world with so few of them, it can be relied upon. Just as the mind
comes to accept it, though, so too does it become sensitive to it.
The slightest change is amplified. News of a battle gone badly can
almost be felt before it arrives. Messages of lost loved ones
seldom come as a surprise. It is intangible, indescribable, but
undeniable. Those things that affected the war affected the people,
and made themselves known to the people without words. And
something indeed was affecting the war.

People paced uneasily in the streets, gazing
into the fields at patrols moving too quickly, and too early. Black
carriages strayed from their solemn routes. Large groups of very
quiet soldiers passed through towns, stopping for neither food nor
rest. Black forms in the skies . . . Until recently stories of them
were rare and easily dismissed. Now they were frequent and
detailed. Creatures like twisted dragons sweeping through the sky
in formations. The keen of eye swore they saw men on their backs.
And then there were the tales from Fallbrook. The town was ravaged.
A swath of the main street bore still visible scars from some
manner of substance observers claimed burned without fire.
Buildings were left in ruins. The black dragons had been there, the
quiet soldiers, the empty cloaks. All under the command of the
generals. And there were others . . . Wizards, malthropes, and an
elemental popped up in accounts of the carnage. Tales differed
greatly, and no one completely believed them. There was one thing
for certain, though. Something was happening. Something
important.

#

Perhaps it was the strength that was thrust
upon her during her search, perhaps it was the anticipation, but
Myranda could still feel the power crackling through her. Hours had
passed and the day had long ago given way to night. Myn had flown
without rest for these many hours, and she was showing no sign of
fatigue. Myranda gently refreshed a spell against the cold. The air
was biting, to be sure, but not nearly so dangerously as it had
when the flight had begun. They were quite far south now, and quite
far west. Farther than Myranda had been in years. Just at the edge
of her vision, at the horizon, the Western sea could be seen
lapping at the land. A cold realization crept to Myranda's mind.
She knew where she was headed. Already it was visible in the
distance. A high stone wall encircling a half demolished city. The
ruins of Kenvard.

In all of her travels, in all of her
wanderings, Myranda was never able to bring herself to come back.
Even after fifteen years, the thought burned at her mind. She drew
nearer, the jagged, fallen shapes becoming recognizable. The school
. . . the temple quarter . . . the market district . . . they all
stood as shadows of their former selves. Husks destroyed by siege
weapons and eroded by time. The castle, small and sturdy, was the
only thing that stood in any meaningful way. No attempt had ever
been made to rebuild. It was too near to the front, the Alliance
Army decreed, too dangerous. The thought was madness. The city of
Kenvard had stood through a dozen wars. Wars against the old
Kingdoms of the north. Wars against the lesser provinces of
Tressor. Even today the walls stood proud and strong. No. Myranda
wondered how she had ever believed that the Tressons could have
taken it so quickly and so completely. The doors had been opened.
Her people had been betrayed.

At Myranda's signal, Myn began to circle
slowly down. The forms of the city became more distinct. She'd last
seen this place when she was no more than six, but the memories
stirred bright, vivid, and agonizing. The ghosts of her life stood
before her. Once busy courtyards had decade-old trees pushing their
way through the cobblestones. Vines grew over doors and windows.
The sight was painful enough, but slowly a more searing realization
came. There were buildings that were whole, buildings that had not
been there before. Paths had been worn here and there by foot
traffic. Signs of life…

Thin black smoke curled from the chimneys of
the new buildings. They were squat stone structures that bore more
than a passing resemblance to the forts that she and the others had
fought their way into and out of time and time again. A sharp blast
on a horn rang out over the countryside and soldiers streamed out
into the streets. There were dozens of them, hundreds even. In
moments, arrows were hissing through the air toward them, but
Myranda brushed them astray with a wave of her hand. She felt a
pulse from Ivy, even without searching. It was viciously powerful,
a shift from joy to anger. It came from the castle.

Myranda guided Myn in low. The air was heavy
with an evil smell, a smell that stung the nose and burned the
eyes. She'd smelled it in Demont's fort, but it had not been nearly
so strong. Myn swung low, her massive wings inches from the
rooftops. Myranda's eyes, tears of anger now streaming from them,
beheld the faces of the soldiers. Nearmen, every one of them. Not
so much as an attempt had been made to hide the fact. The streets
rushed by below her in a blur, Myn's claws dashing soldiers to
pieces below her. Myranda kept the arrows from them and set her
eyes on the great castle gates. They were closing.

“Get us through those doors,” Myranda
urged.

The dragon pumped her wings and they surged
through the air. Myranda leaned low and held herself tight to the
beast's back, her mind tightly flexed to the task of forcing away
the flying arrows. The great wooden doors drew nearer. The opening
between them grew smaller. At the last moment Myn shifted sideways
and swept her wings back. The pair of heroes burst through the gap.
Digging her claws deep into the stone and ancient carpet of the
floor, Myn screeched to a stop in the entry hall. The half dozen
nearmen who had been hauling the massive doors closed now began to
push them open.

“Keep the doors shut, Myn!” Myranda ordered,
leaping to the ground.

Myn made short work of the nearmen and forced
the doors shut against those outside. Myranda held out a hand and
focused on the brace, heaving it into place. The alert that had
summoned the nearmen outside had left the castle nearly empty. The
task now was to keep it that way.

“Good work, Myn. Keep those doors closed!
I'll be back as soon as I can!” Myranda cried as she sprinted down
the great hall and deeper into the castle.

Walls blackened by fire, great portraits torn
to ribbons, and magnificently carved doors whisked past Myranda as
she hurried through the castle's halls toward her target. As a
little girl she'd dreamed about seeing this place. Now she was
grateful that she hadn't time to linger. The state of ruin around
her, and worse, the corruption that showed itself at every turn,
dashed her dreams to pieces. She worked her way through the winding
halls. Her echoing footsteps mingled with those of the guards too
slow to answer the call in time. Flashes of magic made short work
of locked doors. Finally she found her way to a massive hall. The
throne room.

The vaulted ceilings towered over her head.
Moldering tapestries sagged on the walls. On either side of the
room, the walls had been modified. Where once were great arched
doorways leading to lavish gathering rooms, now there were rough
stone walls with heavy wooden doors. The first few were marked with
carefully engraved placards, etched with numerals one through five,
with the fourth door hanging open to reveal a closet sized
interior, empty. Beside each door, attached to the wall, was a
rack. One bore an intricately carved staff. Another, a massive two
handed sword. The last bore another sword . . .
the
sword.
The one that she had found with the remains of the swordsman. The
one that made this quest her own.

Myranda turned back to her task. There, at
the far end of the room, perched on a slightly raised platform
rightfully occupied by the thrones of a fallen kingdom, stood a
sight that boiled Myranda's blood. There was a cage. Inside was
Ivy. Fastened about her mouth and neck, and three each on her arms,
legs, and tail, were crystal chains. Not the crystal embedded iron
that had held Myranda, but pure, brilliantly glowing crystal. They
led through the bars to the walls where they were affixed first to
support pillars and second to head-sized storage crystals. Crystals
that even now pulsed with stolen energy. The chains were taught, so
much so that they suspended Ivy from the ground. A handful of
mystic nearmen, bearing robes and wands rather than armor and
swords, tended to the crystals, carefully replacing those that were
full with fresh ones.

Ivy's eyes turned to Myranda. Instantly they
were radiant with joy. She struggled and let out muffled screams of
excitement. The elation spilled off in scintillating waves of
golden light that were drawn ravenously into the chains. The links
leapt and danced at the sudden flow of power. The nearmen turned to
the intruder, others finally bursting through the door behind her.
A wand was raised and a crude spell hurled forth. By some horrible
twist, the churning ball of black magic was spared the hunger of
the crystals and sailed toward its target. Myranda tried to force
it away, but her own will was not offered the same protection. She
dove aside, dodging the spell.