The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (48 page)

“Ooh, what's that?” Ivy asked, snatching up
the last of the items on the mat.

The equipment was indeed meant for her, and
she slipped discretely out of view behind Myn to try it on. She
emerged transformed. They were quite like Lain's equipment, though
entirely white. The back of the cloak had a slit up half of its
length and the body suit was measure more form fitting, no doubt to
permit a more full use of her preternatural agility. As the first
clothes she'd ever worn that were made specifically for her,
wearing them made her instantly seem older, more serious, and more
formidable. Gone were the saggy, shredded cloak and charred gloves
and boots. Where there had stood a childish, seemingly harmless,
silly little creature before now stood an individual to be dealt
with. She hung her new weapons on the straps she found on either
side of the leggings.

“Do you like it? I feel a little strange,”
Ivy said, trying to look herself over from every angle.

“You look like a warrior,” Myranda said.

“Oh. Well, I like it, anyway. Not quite as
comfortable but lots easier to move in,” she said, attempting a few
graceful turns, leaps, and pirouettes.

Myn sniffed at the new outfits and their
unfamiliar scents. Myranda looked over her friends, and herself.
Each dressed in new white, they seemed to be wearing a semblance of
uniform. Of the Chosen, only Myn was unchanged, Ether having
quietly altered her clothing to match theirs. Myranda thought hard.
The greatest battle of their lives lay ahead. Surely there was
something to help Myn. It didn't take long to realize that there
was.

“Deacon. The charm from Myn's neck, do you
still have it?” Myranda asked.

“I ought to,” he said.

He removed a sequence of items from his bag.
A bundle of papers, a bottle affixed to a long length of thin
chain, and finally the charm. The piece had once adorned the helmet
of the now deceased Trigorah. It carried a powerful enchantment
that protected its wearer against nearly all magics. Myn had worn
it when she was small, having snapped it free of the late general’s
helmet with her own teeth.

“What is that vial?” Myranda asked as she
removed the dragon head figure from its tattered thread.

“I don't know,” he said, picking it up and
gingerly removing the stopper. The scent was potent, and
familiar.

It
seemed
to be something he'd
encountered during his brief discussions with the alchemists in
Entwell, but it couldn't be. There had never been more than a few
drops of it, and this vial seemed to hold perhaps a quarter cup. He
stoppered it again and began to put it away.

“Do you need the chain? I think we may be
able to use it,” Myranda said.

Deacon nodded and attempted to unhook the
chain, only to find it fused to the vial. He conjured a simple
spell to break it, but somehow it was not enough. Only after
summoning an intense heat, one hot enough to make the chain glow,
did he manage to unravel a single link and free the chain. Whatever
this vial was, it was
very
valuable, and
never
intended to leave the chain. He gave the sturdy chain to her, only
to have her hand it back, with the addition of the charm, to have
its ends connected. He managed it, and carefully stowed the
vial.

“Come here, Myn,” Myranda said.

The dragon turned and inspected the trinket,
seeming to recognize it. She offered her head. The loop of chain
allowed it to hang against her chest comfortably. Once adorned, she
stood again, radiating pride. The addition of the long absent
ornament gave her a regal bearing, and she stood tall, with the air
of one who has just been knighted. Ivy turned and beamed a broad
smile.

“Look at you! Now that just leaves . . . oh.
You're dressed like us now!” Ivy said, realizing Ether's change for
the first time. “This is incredible! You actually changed to be
more like us! You are acting like we are a team, instead of just a
bunch of people you tolerate.”

“Only you could read so deeply into a simple
act,” Ether sneered.

“Uh huh. You look nice, anyway,” Ivy said,
the excitement rising in her voice. “We all do. What are we waiting
for! Let's go!”

“What do you say, Deacon? Are we ready to
go?” Myranda asked. Deacon did not answer. “Deacon?”

The young wizard was looking over the bundle
of pages that had accompanied the vial with puzzlement. It was
strange . . . the language was his own shorthand, but he didn't
remember writing it. It was describing, with a very grim tone, the
inevitability of the coming of something he called “The Age of
Ignorance.” There were numerous mentions of the perpetual war, but
they were all in the past tense. Near the bottom of the page, the
text stopped abruptly and a single message, written in plain
northern and covering the entire bottom edge of the page, took its
place. It read. “Stop reading. The knowledge will come in its own
time.”

“Deacon!” Myranda called, finally drawing his
attention. “Is something wrong?”

“Err, ah, no. I do not believe so. I . . . I
suppose I've gotten a bit ahead of myself. What was it you wanted?”
he asked.

Before she could answer, Lain, Ivy, Ether,
and Myn all turned as one to the northern horizon. There was a
blotch of black forms against the red sunset.

“There are a lot of them. Looks like . . .
maybe ten dragoyles. I think they have riders,” Ivy said, Myn
nodding in agreement. “I don't think . . . no. They aren't heading
toward us.”

“They are going to start where the battle was
and search out from there, no doubt,” Deacon said. “We should have
little trouble avoiding them.”

“No . . . “ Myranda began, an idea forming in
her head. “No, I think we can use them. I never let you look at the
D'karon staff, did I?”

“No, I suppose not,” he said, catching it
when she tossed it to him.

Instantly a look of awed realization came to
his face as the spells of the staff revealed themselves to him.
Ideas poured through his mind. It didn't take long before a plan
began to form. Myranda could tell by the look in his eyes that they
were of one mind on the subject.

“Can it be done?” Myranda asked.

“Almost certainly. It will take a bit of
effort. I dare say the most difficult part will be convincing the
Undermine soldiers,” Deacon said quickly.

“Leave that to Caya,” Myranda said. “Ether.
Would you be able to attract the attentions of that search
party.”

“Instantly,” Ether replied.

Without another word Ether flashed into the
air. Myranda quickly pulled aside Caya and explained the plan. A
grin came to her face.

“Attention Undermine!” she began. “This war
has seen its last sunset! . . . “

#

Northern Capital was uncharacteristically
silent. Despite the fact that it was the northern most city in the
empire, its streets were seldom quiet. So far north the air carried
a deathly chill year round, but fate, geography, and climate had
conspired to produce a small patch of land spared of the brunt of
the arctic freeze. The people of the north, never ones to let a
windfall escape them, perfectly ringed the anomalous region in
stout walls and founded the castle town of Verril. Those were the
days before the war, before the empire, when words still had the
benefit of history and soul. Now it was simply Northern Capital, a
sterile description that fell well short of capturing the bustle
and clatter of what had become the largest and most wealthy city in
the empire. As simultaneously the furthest place from the front and
nearest place to the king, the capital was home to the richest and
best born the north had to offer. There was no shortage of young
men and women of age for military service here, their position
affording them the privilege of a civilian life. Now they passed
their days overseeing the constant trade in goods and information
that filled the streets with people, and the air with commerce.
That is, until today.

A pair of generals stood in a watch post as
the massive wood and iron doors were drawn closed for the first
time in decades. Ancient hinges protested and teams of horses
strained against the mounded snow that was pushed steadily ahead of
the closing gates. The people had been ushered indoors, the sounds
of trade now replaced with the march of boots as nearmen filled the
streets. Dragoyles and nearman archers lined the roofs. There
clicked among the cobblestones of the streets the footsteps of
scattered other beasts, creations of Demont. Rocky wolves, gleaming
metallic hawks and centipedes, and all manner of other beasts
lurked in shadows once lit by torchlight. The doors creaked shut
like a coffin lid. The horses and their drivers were quickly and
wordlessly sent to the stables, and the ground outside the walls
boiled with the movement of Demont's blind worms. The residents of
the city locked their doors. The D'karon owned the city now.

“Explain again why we've closed the doors,”
Epidime asked, still in the body of Myranda's father.

“You yourself said that they had troops now,”
Bagu said.

“What do we care if they have troops? Unless
I am mistaken it is the Chosen
themselves
that we fear,”
Epidime quipped.

“We fear
nothing
!” Bagu snapped.
“Demont is attending the portal. It will be open in minutes. Once
it is, this world is
ours
. The Chosen have already failed.
There is nothing that they can do.”

“Then why have we closed the doors?” Epidime
repeated.

Bagu released a slow, hissing breath and
tightened his grip about the handle of a sword that now hung at his
belt.

“Where is the force we sent to search out the
Chosen?” he asked with rigidly enforced steadiness.

“You would have to ask Demont. I never could
get much of a feel for his toys. All I can say for certain is that
they are alive. Most of them, at least,” Epidime said.

Bagu looked beyond the walls. There was no
moon, leaving the sky a shroud of black hanging over the field of
white. A few flakes of ice kicked up by the wind blew into his
face, stinging the black scars left by his last encounter with the
Chosen. Eyes adapted for the darkness picked out the thrusting
forms of Dragoyles approaching.

“They have come, and empty-handed. Come, to
the castle. I have a few words for the king before we attend the
portal's opening,” Bagu said.

The pair descended and strode up the long
central street of the Capital leading to the castle.

“My, but the dragoyles seem attentive
tonight,” Epidime mused.

Indeed, even after the generals had made
their way inside, the dragoyles stood alert, the eyeless hollows of
their heads universally focused on the handful of their brethren
that were returning. As the group of wayward beasts drew nearer, a
ripple of motion seemed to sweep through the creatures. They
stiffened and stood. Slowly, as if through great effort, they each
turned to the closest nearman. At the very instant the returning
squad touched down within the city walls, there was a flurry of
motion. A hundred jaws snapped at once, bringing a hundred nearmen
to a swift end.

Instantly the city was plunged into chaos.
Silence was replaced with maddened, inhuman cries. The freshly
landed dragoyles shed their riders, not nearmen but Undermine. One
oversized dragoyle leapt to a roof, two other forms climbing from
its back. The rocky black hide wafted away to crimson and gold. As
Myn took to the sky, Myranda clutched the D'karon staff tight. Her
mind was split in a hundred different directions, pouring all that
she had into the enchantment of the staff that made her the master
of the beasts.

The Undermine were carving thick swaths
through the nearmen that crowded the streets. Dragoyles lurched
awkwardly through the air under Myranda's untrained guidance,
crashing into the throngs of dark warriors choking the courtyards.
The weapons of Desmeres made short work of the enemies lucky enough
to escape the blunt attacks of the dragoyles, but for every nearman
that fell ten more seemed to rush in to replace him. The streets
were a sea of crude armor and flailing weapons, moving like a tide
toward the heroes.

Inside the castle, the Armageddon outside did
not fall upon deaf ears. Both generals rushed to the barred slits
that served as windows. Somehow a solemn silence that waited to
bring a swift end to any who threatened the capital had turned into
a storming battle in an instant.

“What has happened!? What is this!?” Bagu
demanded.

“It looks as though the dragoyles are
revolting,” Epidime replied. “And our guests have arrived.”

Bagu scanned the rooftops until his eyes came
to rest on a hated form.

“Go. Mind the gateway,” he ordered.

“I think perhaps you may need . . . “ Epidime
attempted.

“GO!” Bagu bellowed, twisting his fingers
into an eldritch gesture and coaxing a portal into being.

“As you wish, General,” Epidime said before
slipping through.

The portal clashed shut behind him, filling
the room with a splash of dark energy.

As Deacon poured his mind into maintaining a
shield against the torrent of arrows that rained upon Myranda from
all sides, Myn roared through the air. The wind hissed past her
wings as she cut and dove just ahead of the flurry of arrows. Her
talons slashed at archers, tearing through them without sacrificing
an ounce of speed. As more bolts launched into the air she dropped
even lower, here and there planting a foot on a roof for an extra
surge of speed. Ancient instincts of the hunt and battle set her
mind aflame as she dipped among valleys of buildings to scoop a
pair of stone wolves into the air and hurl them into a dense crowd
of soldiers. Fire billowed in her maw, but the last trace of her
mind that was under her control held it back. She was protecting
this city. Fire would destroy it.