The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (58 page)

“Stop!” pleaded a voice that mixed with
Bagu's own tones with a fractured, echoing chorus of others. “If
you destroy me, you destroy yourself!”

The wall reached the dome of magic and flowed
over it like the ocean flowing over a pebble. The energy of the
shield buckled but held, albeit tenuously.

“You would destroy my world,” Lain
replied.

“Wait! Your world is lost already! The wall
cannot be stopped,” the form struggled to say as the protective
shield pressed closer. “Join me! I can take you to one of our
worlds. You could rule a kingdom. A whole plane of existence! I can
give you anything you desire! Death is nothing for us! I can
restore your race!”

Lain hesitated. Among the still echoing
voices, some turned again to the eldritch words of the spell he'd
interrupted. Lain drove his weapon home. At once all of the voices
united in a single cry of pain. The shield vanished. The wall swept
in.

Myranda, Ivy, and Ether suddenly felt the
wave of energy crest, as though a vast portion of it had been
sloughed away. A final mad surge of power seemed to roll over
itself, the wall nearly spent. They redoubled their efforts. Ivy's
fear raged. Ether drew in and poured out untold amounts of mana.
Myranda's mind was focused entirely on the spell pressing against
the wall. The thunder of beasts trying to escape the approaching
cataclysm rose to a roar. Myn forced them back until the area
between the heroes and the wall was completely covered with them.
The bulging edges of the wall threatened to surround them. The
light was fading, the fringes of the wall dropping like a curtain.
There was the wail of wind rushing to replace where the energy had
been. The three fought to hold their focus. Each was ready to
break, but still they held. Just a few moments more. The last of
the wall slipped forward, a whisper away from Myn. Just a heartbeat
more . . . Darkness.

An eternity might have passed in that
darkness. The three linked minds were snuffed out like candles when
the energy gave out. The rumble and wail was replaced by a
deafening silence. The blinding light was replaced by a dense
blackness. One chaotic extreme had shifted instantly to another.
The tightly coiled souls relaxed. The horribly taxed bodies
collapsed. The only sound was a long, heart wrenching wail of
sorrow that could only have been Myn. It was a mournful sound of
pure sadness, but it only just reached their minds. They hadn't the
strength or will to care. They had nothing. If this was death, it
came as a friend.

Myn had taken to the air. In a frenzied burst
of anger, the dragon had utterly destroyed every beast that might
even venture close to her friends. Now her eyes were fixed on the
weak glow of street lanterns in Northern Capital. She flew with a
heavy heart and a set mind. There was only one creature in the
world left who she trusted. He could do many things she didn't
understand. Like Myranda, he knew magic. Like herself, he cared
about Myranda. If anyone could do something, it was he. And he
WOULD do it.

#

The fact that Deacon was standing in front of
a large group of people helping Caya to calm them and assure them
that the worst was over made little difference to the dragon when
she arrived at the capital. She darted out of the air, snatched him
up, and headed back to the battleground.

“Myn! It is wonderful to see you! I am so
glad you've survived . . . though you may have hurt my credibility
with the townspeople,” he said.

He struggled for a moment to try to get to
the dragon's back, but it quickly became clear that she had no
intentions of carrying him anywhere but tightly clutched in her
claws.

#

The faint glow of dawn colored the eastern
edge of the sky by the time Myn reached the battleground. Deacon's
eyes widened at the sight. There was a vast, roughly heart-shaped
chasm. No bottom was visible, just an infinite well of blackness.
Its edges were straight, as though they had been carved with great
care, and yet, this failed to be the most astonishing sight. That
honor was bestowed to what waited within the chasm. It was a galaxy
of small islands. Some stood rigid and still. Others drifted like
icebergs in the sea. They ranged from barely the size of a carriage
to hundreds of paces across. Nothing held them aloft. Even more
bizarre was their variety.

Many were simply the same icy gray rock that
made up the landscape, cleaved free and floating of its own accord.
The rest represented a spectrum of impossibility. There were
magnificent forests populated with trees that should not have had a
chance to grow in such icy weather. There were clumps of earth that
looked to have been shifted entirely to silver and gold. One island
spouted a river with no possible source, dumping it as a long
waterfall unto a large lake that rippled blissfully unaware that it
had no banks. On some of the larger islands, dense thickets of
foliage rustled with the motions of animals that no world had ever
seen before.

Jutting out toward the center of the sea of
impossibility was a narrow, tapering crop of untouched land. At its
very end, motionless about a mystic circle, were three of the other
Chosen. Myn landed and dropped Deacon. The wizard got to his feet,
still dizzy, and approached them. Myranda, Ivy, and Ether were
motionless, but weakly alive. Standing in the center of the circle
was the staff Desmeres had crafted. Where once it had been
immaculate, straight, and true, now it was gnarled and blistered
like an ancient tree root. His own crystal and the one that
Desmeres had provided, remarkably, seemed to have survived whatever
gauntlet the tool had been put through. Plucking it from the earth
proved difficult, as its tip seemed to have been fused into the
center of the circle, which had a vaguely glassy look to it now.
Finally he pulled it free and breathed a sigh of relief as clarity
and focus worked their way back into his mind. A few words and a
few thoughts brought Myranda to consciousness again.

Her eyes fought to focus, finally coming to
rest on Deacon. A moment later Myn pushed him aside and stared into
Myranda's eyes. Before the girl could speak, a tongue like a rasp
dragged across her face. Myn then placed her head gently on
Myranda's chest. The freshly awakened wizard scratched at her
dragon.

“Are you . . . “ Deacon began.

“See to the others,” Myranda interrupted.

Deacon nodded and turned to Ivy. A similar
application of magic brought her around as well. She managed to sit
up, looked around, and then looked to Deacon.

“Did we do it?” Ivy asked, blearily.

“Of course,” Deacon answered.

“Oh, good . . . I'm going back to sleep,” she
mumbled, leaning back to the ground.

“You've certainly earned it,” Deacon
admitted.

Finally he turned to Ether. This might be a
challenge. The shape shifter was completely rigid, her expertly
crafted beauty now locked in a form composed entirely of the very
same type of crystal affixed to the end of the staff. He pondered
how best to undo such a change. He knew any number of spells
designed to restore the proper form of a being, but for a creature
such as Ether every form was equally proper. He ruminated on the
possibilities. Finally he reached down, touched her on the
shoulder, and passed a bit of his own strength to her. The form
stirred and slowly began to shift to flesh again. Deacon smiled
proudly.

“Where is Lain?” Myranda asked, Myn helping
her to her feet.

The answer came as a mournful gaze. Myn
padded to the edge of the outcrop and stared down what had once
been the mountainside. A short distance away, floating above the
yawning chasm, was a patch of rock. Driven into the stone was a
sword, Lain's sword. Beside it, scored into the stone, was a pair
of footprints. A blackened shadow stained a silhouette around the
sword's base. Aside from a few shreds of cloth and a few drops of
blood, it was all that remained of the assassin and his final
target.

“It can't be . . . “ Ether whispered.

“It
isn't
, right?” Ivy said, rubbing
the sleep from her eyes and staring at the evidence incredulously.
“This is . . . this is like the other times. When Myranda died . .
. right? He's . . . he's coming back, right?!”

“No . . . no he . . . “ Ether stuttered,
another new emotion spilling over her. Sorrow.

“Fate has made its choice. Lain's life for
our world,” Myranda said sadly, consoling Myn with a hand on the
neck. “He began his life hated. In life he came to earn the hate,
becoming what the world believed him to be. In death he's earned
redemption. In death, he is truly a hero.”

The remaining Chosen took their place atop
Myn and the dragon slowly plodded along, picking up the stone form
of Myranda's father from its place behind the mystic circle before
taking to the air. Ether remained for a time, eyes resting
painfully on the sword. She stood perfectly still. In all of her
existence, she had always had complete control over her form, body
and soul. So long as she had the strength, if she wanted to do
something, she would do it. If she did not, she simply didn't. A
pain deeper than any she had felt before sliced through her, and
she could not put it aside. Thoughts of the things said and unsaid
seized her mind. Unwanted and yet at the same time cherished
memories asserted themselves. When she was finally able to pull her
eyes from the scene, a tear trickled down her cheek. She did not
wipe it away.

#

The days that followed were tense. A
generations old war is not ended in a single stroke. Even before
the orders reached the front, though, combat had reached a
temporary halt. Without the will of their masters to drive them,
the nearmen would no longer fight. The weakest of them collapsed
with a flash of light and a puff of dust. Others crumbled limply to
the ground. Those blessed with some semblance of a will of their
own dropped their weapons and fled. By rights, the Tresson force
should have swept over the broken remains of the Alliance Army, now
composed of what few human soldiers remained at the front.
Ironically, the very thing that had threatened to destroy the
Alliance, and indeed all of the world, is what held the Tressons at
bay for a time.

The southern force was not without its
wizards. They were a small but well trained and above all
wise
part of the military. The sheer intensity of the
unexplained power that had erupted from somewhere deep within the
heart of their enemy's land had convinced them that, for now
perhaps, caution was in order. Clearly they were in possession of a
vast power, one that should be carefully assessed before they
continued hostilities. By the time the first troops were readying
themselves to take advantage of the virtually unprotected
battlefront, flags were being raised requesting parley.

For the first time since the very earliest
days of the war, diplomats met. Discussions began, but progress was
slow. The truth of the five generals and their treachery was slow
to spread, and even slower to be accepted. Much of the blame for
the continued hostilities and lack of negotiation fell on the
shoulders of the Northern King. In time, concessions from each side
were made. The first was that King Erdrick III be removed from the
throne. It was a fate he stoically accepted. Leaders of Tressor
were adamant that his line never again be allowed to rule, and that
his successor not be chosen from the military. For those who
witnessed firsthand the liberation of Northern Capital, an event
that would be known for generations as The Battle of Verril, the
list of suitable replacements was a short one. The crown was
offered to two individuals. One of them accepted.

#

It was the day of the coronation. The actual
crowning had been a small, solemn ceremony, witnessed by a small
group of royal officials and clergy members. Now was the grand
banquet, the celebration of the crowning and the traditional
introduction of the ruler to the public. Assembled in the still
scarred Northern Capital were representatives of the oldest and
wealthiest families of the Alliance and, for the first time in over
a century, a small delegation from the Kingdom of Tressor. They now
found themselves carefully sorted among the tables of the Castle
Verril's enormous banquet hall. The elite of the kingdom sat
nearest to a broad dais at the head of the hall. The chief among
them occupied a coveted seat at the table itself. Each had been
carefully introduced, and now all eagerly anticipated the arrival
of the guests of honor.

For the honor of doing the introductions, the
highest ranking officer of the military had been sought out. So
much of the power of the Alliance Army had been derived directly
from the generals, their defeat had left the chain of command in
shambles. Only a handful of individuals had been given any
positions of power, and most had either been nearmen, or had
abandoned their position for fear of sharing the blame that had
been heaped upon the generals. Finally, a young elf by the name of
Croyden Lumineblade came forward. He had been a minor field
commander, but had steadily ascended the ranks, and was currently
the only remaining member of the Alliance Army willing to admit to
a rank higher than lieutenant. There were rumors that his estranged
mother had in fact been one of the five generals, but the lack of
detailed military files and his own silence on the issue left it
unproven. He now stood before the dais, parchment in hand. On it
was a very precisely written list of titles and instructions.

“Silence, please,” he requested. “as I
announce this evening's guests of honor.”

Conversations hushed to an excited
whisper.

“Announcing, Heroine of the Battle of Verril,
Guardian of the Realm, the great elemental, Ether,” he spoke.

There was a smattering of polite applause.
Ether was known, by name alone, to be one of the others involved in
the battle, but she'd not been seen since. Indeed, if not for the
application of the title of Guardian of the Realm, an honor greater
than knighthood and just beneath royalty, Ether might have received
no reaction from the crowd at all. The shape shifter walked toward
the dais and coolly surveyed those in attendance. After judging
them, she altered her gown, transforming it into a masterpiece
carefully envisioned to outshine the best the nobles and
aristocrats had to offer. This sent a wave of impressed whispers
and a second round of more genuine applause through the crowd. She
took a seat near the end of the dais.