The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (49 page)

A blur of black and white burst from the
streets to the rooftops. Lain was sprinting. What few soldiers
could get in his way offered little resistance to his sword, and as
unholy bodies flashed to dust, the crystals of his weapon drank
deeply of whatever arcane energy fueled them. His eyes were set on
the castle. Like Myn, it was instinct that drove him now, but a
different kind of instinct. An instinct learned rather than innate.
His blade swept of its own accord, guided by training so deeply
ingrained that it existed beneath the level of thought. He was on
the hunt. His prey was within the castle. He'd not seen him, heard
him, or even smelled him yet, but he knew just the same. Some sense
unique to the assassin burned the image of his target into his
mind. It was Bagu he would find.

In the streets below there was a barely
noticeable ripple moving through the densely packed streets nearly
matching Lain's speed. Ivy was insinuating her way through the
horde of soldiers virtually untouched, fluidly sidestepping,
shouldering, and squeezing past before most realized she was
present. At a swift glance it almost appeared that she was trying
to hurry through a crowded street of uninterested bystanders. That
illusion was dashed when she came upon a shoulder to shoulder wall
of soldiers with swords raised. She made a quick, panicked swipe
with her as yet untested weapons. The keen edge passed through
weapon, armor, and nearman alike. Had she taken the time to notice,
Ivy would have seen the gems in her weapons take on a dim glow. She
also would have seen the blades become a measure stouter, roughly
in proportion to her confidence. Instead, she launched herself
through the opening and continued her sprint after Lain.

There was a thundering sound in an adjacent
street as one particularly dedicated dragoyle trounced into a
courtyard. Demont's creations were in full force there, tainted
versions of nature's most vicious creatures. For a moment the beast
paused to survey the abominations. Those D'karon soldiers with
minds keen enough to determine that the dragoyles were no longer
allies set about hacking and slicing at the creature. When a blade
finally cracked the rocky hide, it was not black blood that rushed
forth, but a hiss of air. The hulking form wafted into a screaming
gale that scoured across the ground of the courtyard. First the
smallest creatures, then the largest were caught up in the tornado.
When every last creature was bouncing, struggling, and scrabbling
against the icy cobbles and aged edifices, the wind erupted
skyward. As the dark creations rained down on their brethren and
shattered against the architecture, the wind coalesced into the
form of Ether, satisfaction in her eyes. She looked across the
rooftops from high above. Some of the dragoyles were heading toward
her.

“Something is wrong,” Myranda struggled. “I .
. . I can feel them slipping away from me.”

Myranda was pouring all that she had into
fueling the spell that controlled the dragoyles. The stolen staff
was beginning to smolder and warp.

“The generals are taking them back?” Deacon
asked, his own efforts beginning to take their toll, though not
without benefit. The roof beyond the shield was piled high with
deflected arrows.

“No . . . they . . . they are cutting them
free. The spell that controls them is being undone. No one is
controlling them!” Myranda cried as the last of the creatures were
released from their enchantment.

The change was immediate, and horrific. The
beasts were never meant to be uncontrolled. Their minds were not
crafted for it. The fragments of consciousness and crudely formed
instincts and reflexes that were etched in their minds were firing
randomly. Suddenly gouts of miasma were sprayed at the slightest
movement, friend or foe. Those creatures in flight flailed madly
until they collided with a building or each other. As soon as one
of the creatures made contact with anything, mad convulsions
consumed it until the unfortunate creature or structure was no
more.

“We've got to stop them, and warn the
others!” Myranda cried, turning to her faithful dragon skimming the
rooftops. “Myn!”

The mighty creature, half a city away and
surrounded by chaos, pulled a tight turn and charged toward Myranda
at the sound of her name.

“Myranda, wait. Leave the city to the
Undermine and I, you've got to stop the generals. They are
desperate now,” Deacon said.

“But-” Myranda began.

Deacon took her hand and placed his casting
gem in it.

“Take this with you,” he said.

“How will you-” Myranda attempted again.

“Don't worry about me. Just go,” he said,
guiding her hand to click the gem into the vacant socket on her
staff as Myn arrived. “And survive.”

With nothing left to say, Myranda nodded,
throwing her arms about him and sharing a kiss before climbing atop
the dragon and taking to the sky. It may have been Deacon's
crystal, or it may have been the knowledge that the whole of this
ordeal had been leading to this moment, but Myranda's mind had
never been so focused. She secured the D'karon staff to her back
and willed her new staff to her side. Arrows from the few archers
that remained were not merely deflected but snatched up and hurled
at the largest threats. Myn blazed forward, now high above the
city. Tiny, hawk-like beasts of Demont's design flitted around her,
mere insects in comparison, but insects with a powerful and deadly
sting. An intense swath of flame turned them to plummeting cinders.
The castle loomed before them, an imposing and seemingly
impenetrable fortress. It had withstood uprisings, invasions, and
generations of the harshest winters. Now it faced The Chosen.

Deacon allowed himself a few moments to watch
her as the warmth of her embrace slowly faded in the winter cold.
Finally he turned. There was work to be done. Without his crystal
he was at an immediate disadvantage, but it didn't matter. He'd
been trained properly. Drills in unaided spell casting had been a
part of his weekly regimen. Now it was time to put those skills to
good use. He pulled the gray blade from the bag and it whirred to
life. A leap and a surge of levitation brought him swiftly and
safely to the streets below. The dragoyles had punched vast holes
in the tide of nearmen. Caya and her men had pushed far forward,
but now the gaps were filling, and the battlefront was retreating.
Deacon carved his way to the nearest cluster of Undermine. The
ragtag soldiers, on the strength of surprise, confusion, and
Desmeres’ weapons, had made their way to the center of the city, a
vast courtyard. Deep in a sea of slashing swords was Caya, barking
orders with frenzied energy.

“Caya! The dragoyles are out of control! Stay
away from them!” Deacon cried out as his blade sparked and buzzed
against a thickening throng of armor and weapons.

“That won't do!” Caya managed between
clashes. “If they are not with us, they have GOT to be
neutralized!”

“There are too many, and they are attacking
anything that catches their attention!” Deacon said, finally
forcing his way to her.

“Shift their attention elsewhere, then!” Caya
ordered, Deacon now just another of her soldiers.

“I will try!” Deacon cried.

“Don't try! DO IT! NOW!” she bellowed.

Deacon's eyes darted about the landscape. An
idea presented itself. Without a word he shredded a path to the
ancient, ornate doorway at the north end of the town square. After
a heave against the heavy doors that served only to knock a crust
of ice from them and injure his shoulder, he whispered a few words
and wrapped his flagging mind about the beam that was bracing the
door from the other side. It reluctantly slid aside and he forced
his way in. It was the church, a building second in age only to the
castle itself. A building containing a tower that was a match for
all but the castle's tallest. A tower that contained a bell . .
.

In the distance a white form scaled the wall
around the castle as effortlessly as a ladder and launched itself
over the moat, clearing it by inches. A crusted-over stone
plummeted into the icy pit, sloshing aside the half frozen water.
It contained no beasts, but it needed none. Salt kept the water
liquid and far colder than nature intended, making it deadlier than
any beast. Lain did not attempt the doorway, nor did he scale the
walls in search of windows for entry. This was a castle built not
to show wealth, but to stand against any army. Windows were scarce,
and those that could be found were little more than barred slits
that would barely allow a finger to slip through. Outer doors were
heavy, well secured, well guarded, and led only to other doors. A
scattering of nearmen, heftier specimens no doubt created expressly
to defend these walls, attempted to pursue the intruder, but no
sooner did he turn a corner than he was lost to them.

Lain knew precisely what was needed to enter
this place. He'd had targets within the castle before. Silently he
stalked to a tiny barred opening at the base of one of the castle
walls. It was ancient, corroded, and to the trained eye, carefully
bent. The castle guards never guarded it, because it did not lead
into the castle. The assassin surveyed his surroundings one last
time before wedging himself through, dropping lightly into an inky
black and burning cold cell. It was the dungeon. This particular
cell no longer had an occupant, not because the north hadn't enough
prisoners to fill it. It was because an uncovered window to the
frigid night and bed with no blanket was as effective, if not as
efficient, as any executioner. After a moment of his skilled
efforts, the cell door swung open and the assassin sprinted down
the labyrinthine hallways.

The gems mounted in Ivy's weapons were
burning like radiant sapphires. As she drew nearer to the castle
she'd been forced to put them to use more than a few times, and
each time with a dash more precision. A mind honed to rhythm and
grace had carefully entered the weight and shape of the blades into
its many equations and made the proper adjustments. Leaping turns,
diving rolls, hand springs, and slides all returned to their former
flawless state and now carried a deadly bite. Any fear at all was
lost in the exhilaration. The nearmen were now little more than
sluggish and rather fragile obstacles to her, no longer a cause for
concern. Alas, her artful navigation of the narrow alleys and
crowded streets had not gone unnoticed. With a force that shattered
the cobblestones of the street, one of the dragoyles struck the
ground before her.

Having emotions with consequences as
significant as hers had quickly taught Ivy a single mindedness that
would have been the envy of any wizard. To avoid being overcome by
fear or anger she devoted her whole mind to the task at hand, in
this case following Lain and reaching the castle. Thus, the
rampaging and out of control change that had seized the dragoyles
had managed to escape her notice. In her mind these beasts were
still under Myranda's control, a misconception strengthened when
the monster's first act of business was to trample the nearmen
between them. The unsuspecting hero attempted to simply slip past
the hulking beast. A heartbeat later it was only through the
combination of sensitive hearing and razor sharp reflexes that Ivy
avoided having her head ripped from her shoulders by a powerful
swiping claw.

“Easy, now, Myranda, it's me!” Ivy said as
she backed away from the beast.

A second monster dropped down behind her.

“What . . . what is this?” Ivy stammered.

Fear had managed to catch up with her and was
making its presence felt both in her blue aura and her weapons. The
blades began to reconfigure themselves to suit the emotion,
curiously curling and twisting until they resembled the long curved
blades of a scythe. Both dragoyles snapped their maws open
mechanically and hissed a stream of black acid. Ivy crouched and
sprang into a long, graceful back flip. She peaked just over one
beast's head and carefully shifted in air, crossing her blades and
lowering them. At the same moment she landed she crouched, planting
her feet on the back of the creature's neck and hooking her blades
around it. Before the momentum of the flip was spent she stood
again, carrying herself into a second flip and neatly shearing the
monster's head free.

The malthrope landed and watched as the
dragoyle dropped lifelessly to the ground. Ivy's mind treated
itself to a brief surge of amazement and joy before it allowed the
image of the remaining dragoyle, mid charge, to be processed. The
beast hadn't managed a second step toward her before the fear
finally took hold. She turned and bolted toward the wall of a
rather tall building, now little more than a fear crazed streak of
light. The newly curved blades made the purpose of their shape
clear as they bit into the wall, permitting a streak along the
ground to become a streak ascending a wall. She reached the top of
the wall and continued upward, the momentum of the climb carrying
her into the air above the city like a beacon. A beacon that gave a
single target to the crazed minds of the remaining dragoyles.

There was a very strong, very precise wind
tearing through the streets below. It dashed silvery centipede-like
creatures against walls, hurled insect-mawed panthers into the air,
and even churned up the earth outside the gates to tear apart
spider-legged worms. Ether had decided that Demont's lesser
creations must be destroyed. The nearmen and dragoyles were
atrocities, but they at least did justice to their stolen forms.
They had a perverse sort of purity. The lesser beasts burned at
Ether's mind. They were combinations, unions of one creature and
another, or of a creature and an element. The hybrids were small,
evasive, and they sullied nature. The humans and other Chosen might
have overlooked them, but Ether would not. Indeed, she had not. As
she gathered herself into a vaguely human shape and swept the city
one last time, she felt only the dragoyles and the nearmen left to
be dealt with. However, within the castle, she felt something more.
Something that had turned her away once before. Something that
needed to be dealt with. She whisked toward the castle.