The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (5 page)

“What is this?” Myranda asked, pointing to a
shape with some runes beneath it on the map, located deep within a
mountain range.

“I am not certain. Why?” he replied.

“I don't know of anything there. No town. No
fort. Nothing. And it looks the same as this other mark, here in
these mountains. That was where I found Ivy. And the same mark
here, where we just left,” she said.

“The D'karon forts!” He said, unfolding the
map fully.

The sight they beheld was chilling. They were
everywhere. Like black stains on the map, every valley, every
mountain, every place far from prying eyes was marred by one of the
marks. Several forts she had known of, Northern Alliance forts,
bore the mark. Worst of all, the black mark rested on the capital
itself. There was even one far to the north of it, at the very edge
of the map. The fort that they had just toppled had nearly taken
her life, and now there were dozens more.

The unfortunate revelation put a renewed
urgency in their minds. Deacon was lucky until now. He'd not yet
faced one of the generals, and had had only the merest brush with
their creations, but Myranda knew all too well the things that they
were capable of, and to know that their roots were so deep was
terrifying to her. She fairly ran, her mind only on securing the
means to catch up with the others. Deacon kept pace, stumbling now
and again as he tried to keep one eye on the ground and one on the
mound of indecipherable notes. Aside from the assortment of sheets
and artifacts orbiting before him, there were a handful of other
items he had draped over his shoulders and tucked under his arms,
each featuring familiar symbols along side foreign ones. These
might prove the key to unlocking the secrets of the language,
offering some manner of common ground between the languages.

The dull light of day came and went, with the
last of its glow lingering at the edge of the western sky as they
approached a tiny town. One needed scarcely a glance at the town
from afar to see that the destruction of the fort, a fort that may
well have been a mystery to them until the black smoke rose from
the field the day before, had put the town into an uproar. The
place was far too small to have soldiers patrolling it, but the
streets were alive with the sturdiest townsfolk serving as a
makeshift town guard. It was clear to Myranda that this was not the
time to come walking in from a field looking as she did, even if
she wasn't an increasingly well known enemy of the state. Worse,
there didn't appear to be much in the way of a stable. Likely the
horses of the town were the property of the residents and visitors.
To deprive a person in a town as small as this of their horse, be
it through sale or theft, would be to maroon them here.

Myranda stood for a few moments,
contemplating what to do. Deacon at first took the opportunity to
devote his full attentions to the latest in the stack of Demont's
notes, but quickly became aware of Myranda's look of concern. At
his prompting, she explained the situation to him. The source of
the difficulty clashed repeatedly with the life he was accustomed
to in Entwell. There, if you needed something you merely asked for
it. Indeed, even that was seldom necessary. All was provided. He
similarly was not certain why they would be distrusted for arriving
on foot, looking as though they had been through the ordeal that,
indeed, they had. Above all others, one confusion could not be
cleared.

“But you are Chosen. You are trying to return
to the other Chosen Ones and return to the task of saving the
world. Surely the townspeople would gladly offer you anything you
need,” he said.

“The prophesy is something of a child's tale
here,” Myranda explained.

“I . . . see,” Deacon said, attempting to
process the statement. “Well, nonetheless. This should not be a
concern for you. If you cannot risk showing your face in the town,
then I shall do what needs to be done. Tell me what you require and
it shall be attained.”

“Deacon, I am not certain that you are ready
for this. We will just need to find a different town,” Myranda
said, her mind working hard at the problem.

Deacon looked Myranda in her eyes and spoke
earnestly. “Myranda, I came here to be useful to you and I mean to
do so. Tell me what you need and tell me where to meet you. You can
trust me.”

Myranda hesitated, but relented.

“Be careful, and put the crystal away. There
are very few wizards about. Don't use any magic if you can help
it,” she warned before listing what was needed.

A few moments later, Deacon was on his way to
the town, stuffing items into his bag. He knew that he needed at
least one horse, preferably two, and enough food to last a week. He
had no clue how he would attain them, but for him, it was beside
the point. Myranda watched nervously as she skirted around the edge
of town to the other side. Deacon was every bit a capable person,
but he was well out of his element. She set her mind to the dual
task of escaping whatever mob was sure to come sprinting behind
Deacon and reaching the others quickly.

#

Deacon approached the nearest entrance to the
city. Standing guard was a frail looking older man. He looked as
though he could have been a grandfather, gray hair peeking out from
beneath a war-torn helmet that had no doubt served him well in his
youth. The rest of his armor fit poorly, a relic from an earlier
life in the military. He bore no proper weapon, brandishing instead
a recently sharpened shovel. He looked haggard, as though he had
been at his post for far too long without relief. As Deacon drew
near, he straightened up.

“Halt. What is your business here?” he
demanded in a very official tone.

He squinted a bit, trying to get a good look
at the curious sight before him. Deacon had neglected to stow the
materials he'd hung on his shoulders for further study, and without
magic to lend an extra hand, he was having difficulty keeping them
together.

“I am in need of supplies,” Deacon said,
simply.

“Where is your horse?” he demanded
suspiciously.

“A horse is among my required supplies,”
Deacon answered.

“Where are you coming from without a horse?”
the makeshift guard growled.

“That direction. I'm not certain of the name
of the place. One moment,” he said, burrowing into his bag,
attempting to reveal the map.

One of the artifacts that had yet to be
stowed, a strap of leather with a rather ornate medallion on it,
stubbornly refused to stay in place on his shoulder. It dropped for
a second time as Deacon tried to keep from dropping the papers
under his arm.

“I am terribly sorry. Would you hold this for
just a moment?” he asked, snatching it from the ground and holding
it up to the soldier.

“Get that out of my . . . “ the soldier
sneered, trailing off when his failing vision finally focused on
the seal on the strap.

He took the strap and looked it over. It was
a general's seal. One of only five. This one bore the name Demont.
He remembered it, even from his youth. Soldiers seldom met face to
face with the generals. He'd gone from recruitment to retirement
without seeing even one. Could this young man be Demont? Either he
was or he was skilled enough to kill or steal from him. It didn't
matter. Regardless, this was not a person to be trifled with.

“Th-this way, please,” he stammered.

“Oh, thank you,” Deacon said, having only
just managed to stow the loose papers.

He took back the strap and looked it over as
he was led to what must have been the general store for the town.
Slowly he realized what was happening. The misunderstanding was
greatly in his favor, but it was dishonest to allow them to believe
that he was someone that he was not. From the youngest age he'd
been taught that dishonesty was the first step down a road that
ended very poorly for deceitful wizards. Magic users tended to
attract the attentions of, and occasionally draw strength from, the
spirits around them. Deceit was one of many things that twisted the
soul, and a twisted soul attracted twisted spirits. After a short,
one-sided debate in his head, Deacon conceded that he would allow
the misunderstanding, but he would not foster it. The weathered
soldier opened the door and held it as he entered the store. After
a harshly whispered exchange, the woman minding the store looked
nervously to Deacon.

“I can get anything you need right away,” she
offered shakily.

“Provisions for two people for seven days,”
Deacon requested in an even tone.

As the storekeeper hurried off, gathering
armful after armful of provisions, the soldier turned to him.

“Why might the general favor us with a visit
today?” he asked, nervously.

Deacon silently thanked fate for the awkward
phrasing.

“A fort of great value was destroyed in the
field I came from. I am pursuing the individuals responsible,” he
replied. It had been destroyed, and he was indeed seeking those
responsible. No word a lie.

The answer was quite enough for the soldier,
now certain that it was the general he stood beside. Pride welled
inside of him at being graced by his presence. Deacon, on the other
hand, was simultaneously berating himself for allowing this
disgrace to continue and fighting heroically to keep the
nervousness and shame from his face. In less time than he would
have thought possible, the shopkeeper dropped not only food, but
blankets, bandages, and a dozen other things on the table.

“We have no horses for sale, I am afraid,
but, ah, I would be honored to donate my own steed,” the shopkeeper
offered nervously.

“If that is what you wish,” Deacon said.

“I too would like to provide you with my
steed. A fine, sturdy animal it is, too,” the soldier chimed
in.

“That would be most appreciated,” Deacon said
gratefully.

#

Myranda crouched behind a drift of snow near
the top of a hill, the rising wind whipping at her, anxiously
watching the rear exit of the city. She had only been there for a
few minutes, not yet settled upon what manner of action she would
take in response to whatever trouble Deacon managed to cause, when
she saw him lead a pair of heavily laden horses out of the town and
onto the road. When he circled around the hill, out of sight of the
town, she ran to him. He had everything they needed and far more,
but his expression was one of utter shame.

“This is remarkable!” she said, hugging him.
“What did you do?”

He handed her the medallion.

“This is . . . Demont's seal, isn't it?” she
said.

“I suppose the man is a recluse. At least
enough that his own people would mistake him for me,” he said.

“You managed to convince them that you were a
general?” Myranda said, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise.

“They managed to convince themselves . . . “
he said.

Myranda was quickly able to surmise the
source of his turmoil.

“Deacon,” she said, mounting one of the
horses. “I don't mean to make light of the situation, but there are
a great many things that may need to be done before our task is
complete. Some will be difficult. Some will fly in the face of your
morals and beliefs. Just know that, if it truly had to be done,
then doing it was the right thing.”

“I suppose,” he said, scarcely consoled.

He twice tried and failed to pull himself
onto the horse's back as he'd seen her do. A third try landed him
unsteadily in the saddle.

Myranda looked at him flatly. “You don't know
how to ride a horse, do you?”

“In truth, this is the first time I've even
seen a horse. They don't fair very well in caves, I understand, so
they have never made their way to Entwell,” he said,
apologetically.

What followed would have been an endearing
experience if not for the tremendous rush that they were in.
Myranda coached him along, teaching him the ins and outs of
horseback riding as they tried to make their way toward the others.
Fortunately, and not surprisingly, he was a swift learner, and
before long they were breezing along fairly swiftly. A few days
passed, traveling the route far from main roads. As day after day
passed without so much as a glimpse of another traveler, Myranda
became more and more aware of how empty the war had left her
homeland. The conflict with the massive southern country of Tressor
had been raging off and on for well over a century, and the years
of bloodshed had taken their toll. The north was nothing more than
a handful of roads connecting a handful of dying towns. All of the
rest was vast ice field after forbidding forest after rocky
mountain. There should be life here. There should be some hint of
the people of this land. Instead the people gathered into smaller
and smaller groups, ever more remote and isolated.

For a moment, at least, that isolation was in
her favor, a fact of which she repeatedly reminded herself. It
seemed that luck had momentarily begun to favor them. In her
ongoing efforts to bring the Perpetual War to an end, Myranda had
been branded a murderer and traitor by the five generals. She was
still not certain of the degree to which the Northern Army had
managed to spread her infamy, so any situation that kept them from
prying eyes without the need for stealth was quite helpful indeed.
Deacon, when his mind was in need of distraction from his slow
progress on the translation of the D'karon language, resumed his
instruction in the ways of the gray arts. A variety of useful
spells were taught and even practiced without the fear of being
noticed. Nightly, Myranda sought the others with her mind. She felt
herself drawing nearer. This road seemed to be ideal.

That notion did not last very long. After the
sunset on yet another day without so much as a trace of the others,
it became clear that the most direct path on a map is not
necessarily the swiftest. Long disused roads had eroded to little
more than patches of loose gravel for the horses to lose their
footing on. That, coupled with narrow passes made all but unusable
by years of uncleared snowfall, made the going painfully slow.
Before long it was not clear if the ample supplies that they had
managed to secure would be enough, particularly where there was
little food about for the horses.