The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (51 page)

In a single smooth motion, Ether transitioned
to stone, gently brushed Myranda aside, and clashed against the
door before her momentum had begun to dissipate. The collision
neatly knocked the heavy wooden construction from its hinges,
sending it sliding a short distance into a particularly ornate
hall. Myranda pulled herself from the floor and clutched the
growing lump where her head had met the wall. A gentle brushing
aside from a stone form moving at blinding speed was, indeed,
anything but gentle. She'd barely brought the thought of healing
the injury to mind when her new staff obligingly dipped into the
filled to bursting reserve crystals and did so for her.

Ether stalked into the tall, elegant chamber
beyond the door, but clearly something was wrong. She walked as one
through a storm. The magic that merely slowed Myranda hit her like
a hurricane gale. Finally she reluctantly took on her human form.
As the focused mana turned to mundane flesh and bone, the arcane
pressure parted around her rather than pounding against her. The
expression on her face was one of determination and concentration.
The human form was useful for many things, but battle was not one
of them. If her elemental forms were vulnerable in the presence of
this magic she would need an alternative. She mentally searched
through the handful of forms she'd managed to memorize from the
samples Deacon had stolen. Surely one of them would be adequate for
an indoor clash . . .

Myranda hurried in after her. One of the
generals was near, she could feel it. What little light there had
been in the hallway gave way to utter darkness in the massive new
room. The light from her staff glinted off of hints of gold and
silver in the blackness. The hall had a luxury to it that was felt,
even if it wasn't seen. Slowly, carefully, as though she might not
be ready for what it would reveal, she coaxed more light from her
staff. It fell upon portraits in gilded frames, ornamental and
ceremonial swords, shields and daggers . . . and a throne.

Myranda dropped to one knee and lowered her
gaze, managing. “Y-your majesty.”

Somehow Myranda hadn't thought she would find
him here, that she would have found instead one of the generals in
the throne, gloating, with the crown of the empire upon his head.
Instead she found a man. Though frail and old, he seemed to be
authority and wisdom itself. Even with her eyes averted, she could
feel him looking at her.

“Rise, child. I deserve no such reverence.
Not anymore,” he spoke in a voice to match his position, rising
slowly and stepping down from the throne as he did.

“But you are the King. The Emperor. You rule
this land,” Myranda said.

He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“A ruler has power and wisdom. Power I never
truly had. Wisdom . . . wisdom I had only believed I had. I
realized too late that even that was not so,” he said. “Now stand.
You are Myranda, I believe. Myranda Celeste. My generals would have
me believe you mean only harm for my kingdom.”

Myranda stood.

“The generals. Sire, you must understand, the
generals are . . . “ Myranda began.

“I know. I know more, perhaps, than you.
You've made a valiant effort, but you are too late,” he
explained.

“That is not your decision to make, human.
Now reveal the generals. Bagu is near,” Ether growled.

“Ether, please this man deserves respect!”
Myranda scolded.

“Yes, Ether. Where are your manners?” came a
voice, seemingly from everywhere at once.

The words echoed around the room, masking the
slow, deliberate opening of a door. From within emerged Bagu. His
scarred face bore an arrogant expression, an expression of extreme
satisfaction. In his hands was an hourglass. Myranda raised her
staff, Ether took a step back, settling on one of the more
aggressive forms she could remember. With a burst of wind she
assumed the form of a tiger. Massive teeth bared, plate sized paws
sprouting finger long claws, the shape shifter pounced.

“Enough!” Bagu shouted, raising a hand.

A pulse of energy knocked the heroes
back.

He grinned, continuing. “This is a momentous
occasion. It is for your benefit that I allow you to live to see
it. You see, you are about to witness the death of your world.”

As Myranda struggled to her feet, the last
grain of sand slid with painful slowness into the bottom bulb. It
struck the pile. Instantly there was a rumble like continuous
thunder. The ground began to shudder under their feet. The roar
grew steadily until antiques rattled from their shelves and smashed
upon the ground. Dust and mortar sprinkled from the walls and
ceiling. Bagu laughed. It was a dark, demented laugh, dripping with
evil. The sound stabbed at Myranda's mind. The young wizard
steadied herself on the shaking ground. No. It would not end like
this. Not here. She charged. Bagu raised his hand again. A wall of
magic shimmered into being, crackling with energy and strong enough
to stop a stampede. Myranda did not slow. As she came to the wall
she slashed at it with the D'karon staff. The impenetrable barrier
rippled and spread apart like the oily surface of a swamp, Bagu’s
spell countered by one of the same design. She hurdled through the
gap. The wizards clashed.

Outside, those soldiers who had not managed
to reach shelter before Deacon struck were left with an image that
would linger in their nightmares for the rest of their lives. The
whole of the first attack occurred in an instant, but that instant
seemed to last an eternity. A sphere of light had burst out from
around Deacon. Those creatures nearest to it were simply undone.
First their body divided into separate pieces, heads, limbs, wings,
and segments of tail and neck hanging in midair. Then they too
disassembled, hide, flesh, blood, and bone pulling apart, not in a
gory way, but as though they were simply components that were being
dismantled. Then, somehow, even these things seemed to divide
further into whatever constituent parts made them up. It continued,
further and further, finer and finer, until nothing remained at
all, the whole sequence analyzed by Deacon with a cool, scientific
eye.

Those luckless beasts who found themselves
just outside of the sphere suffered the same fate, albeit to
varying degrees of completeness. They remained in such a state when
time finally came flooding back, some clattering to the ground,
others dissipating like a cloud, still others spattering as a
liquid, and the rest in some horrid combination of every stage.
None lasted for long. All told perhaps ten beasts remained fully
intact when the moment had passed, those fortunate enough to have
been slower than their brethren.

Deacon's mind was fragmented, with each part
working feverishly on its own task. One aspect stored the wealth of
information gleaned from the dissection of the dragoyles. Another
skillfully navigated him to the ground. A third carefully tallied
the remaining threats and tasks at hand. The largest part was
taking special notice of the effects an overdose of moon nectar
seemed to be having. The mystic energy he'd consumed was greater by
many orders of magnitude than he was able to contain or control.
Were it a more traditional type of energy the effects of would have
been brief, immediate, and messy. Instead, the power he could not
contain was escaping. It was not like his own strength, nestled
inside and waiting to be harnessed. This power was pouring out of
him, slipping through his mind and soul like water through a sieve.
Whether he gave it form or not it slipped away, crackling and
baking the air as it did.

As each facet of his mind finished its task
it merged with the rest, until finally there was but one Deacon
within his mind once more. He was busy debating on what to do next.
This power would be gone soon. The bulk of it was gone already.
Briefly he considered joining the heroes and striking down what
foes he could, but he knew it would not last, and there was no
telling what state he would be in when it ran out. The outside
world, having recovered from his onslaught, made its presence
known, quickly putting any other prospective tasks to rest. The
ground was shaking, a mysterious blue light was painting the clouds
to the north, and he was surrounded by nearmen.

Their numbers, despite the long battle
against superior foes, were still in the hundreds. The creations
had been imbued with a carefully measured amount of intelligence.
They were smart enough to identify him as the chief target, but not
so clever as to determine their odds of victory. Fear and common
sense existed in precisely edited forms so as to ensure that orders
were followed no matter the cost and no matter the risk. They
raised their weapons and rushed at him.

Deacon's mind was still floundering in energy
enough for an army of wizards, but it was rushing out rapidly.
Already he knew that any attempts at the reality defying
manipulations he'd managed moments ago would fall short. What was
called for now was conventional magic . . . in massive quantities.
He attempted a quick assessment of the surplus of energy but failed
miserably, the constantly shifting effects of the overdose having
evolved into a sensation akin to looking into the sun while
simultaneously another sun was looking out from the inside. This
was a situation that called for successive approximation.

He drew his gray blade and spun it up to
speed and beyond, until the weapon was little more than a
shimmering disk producing a terrifying whine. He hoisted a sword
from the ground with his mind and set it spinning. It quickly
became clear that this was taking too long, and the circle of
nearmen charging toward him was growing nearer. Like birds rising
from a field, every stray sword left by a defeated soldier lifted
from the ground. There were dozens. One by one, in rapid
succession, the swords matched the speed of his blade. Deacon
nodded. This would do.

Across the city the thump and clang of blunt
blades encountering poorly made armor filtered and reverberated
through streets and alleys until it reached the motionless body of
Ivy as a chorus of dull percussions. She was sprawled on the
ground, barely breathing in the aftermath of her outburst of fear.
Desmeres’ blades were scorched but intact in her still clenched
fists. At some point they had resumed their original shape, but the
near blinding glow of the embedded crystals persisted. As Ivy drew
in a slow, shallow breath, there was a sudden, sharp pulse. The
breath came out as a scream. The stored energy forcibly and
painfully returned to its source, tearing Ivy from her repose and
restoring her to a wakeful, albeit dazed, state.

“What was that? Oh . . . Oh no. Where am I!
There were dragoyles! Are they gone? Hello! How long has it been?
Did we win?” Ivy stammered as her eyes darted around the
street.

Slowly she became aware of her surroundings.
The ground was littered with broken armor, flecks of black blood,
and gray dust. Debris was clattering about the cobblestones as the
ground maintained a constant, low rumble. The nearest sound came
from the north. She turned to find, a short distance away, a gate.
A smattering of nearmen were hacking at it with swords and axes,
and a few were in the process of scaling it using ropes hanging
from the top. Beyond that was a castle. Far in the distance behind
it there was a pool of white-blue light on the clouds.

With her investigations thus far offering up
more questions than answers, Ivy looked herself over. She was
certain she'd changed, and fairly certain it had been fear. That
usually cost her a few days and left her with scorched clothes. Her
outfit was none the worse for wear, and she was not nearly hungry
enough for days to have passed. There was something strange going
on, and she had a feeling Desmeres’ equipment was to blame, but
that didn't matter right now.

“We were heading for the castle, so that's
where I'm going,” she decided.

She ran to the castle gate, her head slowly
clearing. By the time she reached it she felt tired, but no more so
than after a long day of walking. She wasn't at her best, but she
was hardly at her worst. There was something very noisy happening
on the other side of the gate, something that clearly was far more
interesting to the nearmen than she was. Jumping from ground to
shoulder to rope, she managed to make it halfway up the wall before
a single foe noticed her.

“Off! Get Off!” she cried as one of the
soldiers grabbed at her foot.

A firm yank managed to dislodge the foe above
her on the same line, and moment later she was atop the gate. A
moment after that she was dangling from the edge, a column of
flames lancing over her head.

“Myn!” she scolded, peeking up. “It's me!
What are you . . . wow. You've been busy.”

At the base of the other side of the gate was
a mound of ruined armor and ruined soldiers as tall as Ivy. Myn
reared up and leaned against the gate, bringing her eye level with
Ivy atop it. The malthrope stepped gingerly onto Myn's head and
navigated down her back to the ground. Myn finished the remaining
nearmen with a sweep of flame down the outside of the gate. The
immediate threat gone, Myn looked with confusion at the streets
that were mysteriously free of nearmen. She gazed vaguely in the
direction of the city's center, where periodically what looked like
long metal insects flitted above the skyline, Deacon’s spinning
swords. The dragon looked in confusion to Ivy.

“Don't ask me, I just woke up! Where is
everyone? In there?” Ivy asked, indicating the splintered
doorway.

Myn nodded.

“All right. I guess you stay here. I'll try
to find them,” Ivy said, venturing inside.

The castle shook from a blast somewhere deep
inside.

“I don't think it will be hard,” Ivy called
as she disappeared down the hallway.

Myn watched Ivy go until she could no longer
see her, then padded uneasily about the courtyard. She pawed at the
smoldering pile of armor briefly, then plopped down to the ground,
huffing in irritation.