The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (7 page)

“Agreed. This situation is threatening to
escape our grasp. Demont, despite your consistent and damaging
failure, I am giving you another chance. Any resource you need is
yours. I want something that they can't beat. Epidime, they are
working too well together. Fix that, but do not forget that we need
them all in the same place at the same time,” Bagu dictated.

“Intriguing. If I interpret your commands
correctly, you wish for me to destroy their unity without
compromising their proximity,” Epidime said.

“Do it,” he hissed.

The orders thus laid out, the trio parted
company. Bagu lingered in the now pitch black room, drawing in
another puff on the pipe before marching off after them.

#

Deacon tried desperately to drift off, but he
could not push from his mind the fact that so many figures of
legend, beings anticipated even before their own birth, were in his
presence. Ether, apparently satisfied with the degree of her
recovery, stepped from the fire and assumed her human form.

“A second human. This is just a replacement
for that lizard she lost,” Ether said with disgust, referring to a
young dragon named Myn who had been a valued companion to Myranda
until a battle took the creature’s life. “Her stubborn reliance on
lesser beings is sickening, and a threat to us all. How much will
this one slow us before it is destroyed?”

“I will do everything in my power to be a
benefit to you,” Deacon said, opening his eyes from the latest
failed attempt at sleep. “And I would respectfully request you not
blame Myranda for any delays or troubles I may cause. She does care
deeply for others, and though I can scarcely imagine why you find
this a fault, I assure you that in this instance the choice to
accompany her was my own.”

“You are in no position to make requests,
human,” Ether said, not even remotely apologetic.

“Certainly not,” Deacon said, hesitantly
adding. “But as a firsthand observer of the speed that Myranda has
shown in her development, and the skill she has shown in her
execution, I do not believe that it is fair or right for her to be
viewed as anything other than an asset. She is a truly remarkable
person.”

“And what of you? What do you add to our
cause besides your refreshingly well adjusted sense of worth?”
Ether asked.

“Well, my mystical skill would normally be
that which I consider my most valuable asset, but in the presence
of a being such as you I feel it pales. However, I
have
unlocked a number of the secrets of the D'karon language, and more
than a bit about their peculiar style of magic that I think may be
of great use,” Deacon offered.

“Doubtful,” Ether replied.

“The map,” Lain stated.

“Yes, of course,” Deacon said, quickly
retrieving the rugged piece of parchment.

It was unfurled before Lain and his eyes
poured over it.

“These marks are D'karon forts. I am certain
of it now. The other makings, here, are some sort of ranking
system, a priority or value, and these others have something to do
with classification. I haven't fully determined their meanings.
This mark is an identifier, not a name, but some sort of
designation. I've been able to determine that the D'karon consider
the Northern Capital to be a key stronghold, but it is second in
importance to something a fair distance north of it,” he
explained.

Lain's finger traced downward along the map.
In his mind he counted off the days, weighing the roughness of the
terrain against the likelihood of their discovery. In his years of
traversing the land unseen, he remembered encountering many of
these forts marked on the map. Alone he'd seldom had to give them a
second glance, but with the others . . . and while they were being
actively sought . . . It was unlikely that he could risk straying
near to any of them. What was left was a razor thin path that was
midway between cities and forts, at times dangerously close to
each. Deacon could not help but notice the route he was planning,
and he had been told of Lain's desire to take Ivy to safety by
bringing her to the far south, past the battlefront and, he hoped,
out of the reach of the D’karon.

“I know you worry about Ivy. If she truly is
Chosen, then her place is by your side. You cannot leave her behind
and expect to succeed. You must trust in fate,” Deacon urged.

“Fate has done quite enough for my kind,”
Lain stated.

“Leave him. You say that you have determined
something about their magic. What is it that you believe that you
have learned?” the shape shifter asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said, sitting down on the
ground and rummaging through his bag. “I've spoken to Myranda about
this. These crystals, they have the peculiar property of drawing in
any source of mana; the souls of the living, even ambient elemental
sources. Once filled, they can be treated, such that when broken
they consume the energy while bringing about a desired effect.
Conversely, they can be coaxed to release their stolen power either
through a conduit engraved with their runes, or another crystal, or
even one of Demont's creations. It would appear from the notes he
has taken concerning their creation that . . . “

“Yes, yes. The beasts almost universally draw
their power from the crystals. I am quite familiar with his
creations,” Ether said, losing interest.

“But, the most disturbing thing about their
magic as opposed to ours is that our spells merely re-purpose
existing forces, eventually returning all magic from whence it
came. The D’karon spells actually consume it, convert the mana
completely into the effect, never to return again. Any spell upsets
the balance, however slightly. If such spells were rare, then time
could repair the damage, but if they are allowed to continue . . .
“ Deacon explained.

As Ether listened, her expression grew more
grave.

“And you are certain of this?” she asked.

“Most certain,” Deacon assured her.

Ether became visibly angered.

“There is no end to the abominations that
they unleash upon this world,” she hissed. “What more did you learn
from Demont's workshop. What more did you take?”

Deacon began to slowly but surely empty the
contents of his bag out for Ether to inspect. Most repulsed her,
but one item drew her attention. It was a case filled with vials.
The slender glass containers were tiny, and many. Each was labeled
with a word or two of the D'karon language. She opened the case and
removed a vial, opening it and looking over the liquid within.

“Blood,” she said. “Of a lion.”

Each vial was a small sample of the blood of
another creature, except for the case of some of the smaller
creatures, when the entire creature was stored in the vial. Ether
systematically sampled each. The usefulness of having a sample of
so many beasts could not be overstated, as each sample was another
form she could swiftly assume, another weapon in her arsenal. None
of the other things interested her. When contact had been made with
most of the samples, Ether returned them to the case and returned
the case to Deacon. When it was stowed he removed his book and
stylus and eagerly began to ask Ether questions regarding the
nature and extent of her powers. Perhaps out of the desire for more
of his endless praise for her, she indulged him, but her patience
for such things was short, and before long she ordered him to be
silent. Deacon thanked her and began to expand upon the notes he'd
taken on her answers. Perhaps an hour passed without a sound aside
from the hushed rustle of the northern night and the scratch of
Deacon's stylus.

“Deacon,” Lain said, breaking the
silence.

The young wizard's head snapped up
instantly.

“Yes,” he said, scrambling to his feet.

“Armories. Barracks. Have you identified
which marks might indicate them?” he asked. It would be more
important to avoid such places on their path south than mere
fortified buildings.

“Not with any certainty. I believe that I am
close to determining that. Might I ask why you wish to know?”
Deacon said, glancing over the words on the map once more.

“This. This is an armory. I have seen it,” he
said, pointing to one of the black marks.

“Ah . . . so this . . . and here. They have
the same marks. Perhaps armories as well. And . . . “ Deacon
began.

“I believe that troops are trained here,”
Lain said, indicating another fort.

For several minutes Deacon combined Lain's
observations with his own, and it became clearer and clearer what
each mark meant. Before too long, Ivy awoke and groggily approached
them. She'd been in the healing sleep for much of the last day and
could not sleep any longer.

“What are you doing?” she asked, curious as
to why the pair was hunched over a map.

“Well, the D'karon have a very strange
language. We are hoping to determine what the markings on this map
might . . . “ Deacon began to explain.

“Troop production. Troop production.
Research. Prisoner retention. Research. Prisoner retention . . . “
Ivy began to recite, pointing to various marks on the map.

Deacon stared at her in disbelief.

“You can read this?!” he asked in wonder.

“Uh huh . . . you can't?” Ivy asked, tilting
her head.

“Teach me,” Deacon said, pulling out his book
and setting one of the more cryptic sheets before her.

“Let's see. 'The energy requirements of ' . .
. uh . . . well, this word sort of means poison and acid . . . and
disease, all at the same time . . . I'll just say poison acid . . .
‘poison acid production are . . . very high. A second' . . . this
isn't a word that translates. It is just what they call those
crystals. Thir,” Ivy said, uncertainly at first.

“Fine, excellent. Continue, please” Deacon
said, almost overflowing with enthusiasm.

Ivy smiled. Happy to be helping, she
continued. “ 'A second thir crystal will . . . help spread the load
. . . but will . . . make for a single point of failure . . .
'“

When Myranda finally could not bring herself
to endure the nightmares any longer, she awoke to Ivy merrily
filling in the gaps in Deacon's knowledge.

“No, they aren't numbers. Well, they are like
numbers. But they are like measures of . . . distance? It isn't
distance, but it is,” Ivy struggled to explain, indicating another
component of the labels for the forts.

“What is going on?” Myranda asked.

“Ivy can read their language! The D'karon
language. I think that I almost understand it now,” Deacon
said.

“How can you read D'karon?” Myranda
asked.

“I don't know . . . I just know it. I don't
think they taught me. But I know I didn't know it until they
started teaching me,” Ivy tried to explain. “But I've been helping!
Look!”

Myranda looked over the nearly fully
translated map.

“It looks as though your newest lapdog is not
completely without merit,” Ether said.

Myranda's eyes widened at the near compliment
coming from so unlikely a source.

“Enough,” Lain said. “We need to move.”

The loose papers and gems were quickly
gathered, horses were mounted, and the group moved off. One horse
bore Deacon, the other Ivy and Myranda. Lain and Ether traveled by
foot. The latter, for reasons hardly inscrutable, took the form of
a snow fox. Lain stayed a dozen paces ahead, straining his senses
to be sure that they were not followed. Once again the emptiness of
the north was in their favor, and travel, though slow and cautious,
was uneventful. Deacon, with the language he'd been grappling with
all but unraveled, found himself with his mind unoccupied, a rare
occasion that he sought to avoid. His eyes turned to Ivy.

She was riding behind Myranda, arms wrapped
around her to steady herself. She could not have looked more out of
place among the solemn group of warriors. Her eyes were lively and
excited. A smile was on her face, thrilled to be with the people
that cared about her. He only truly knew what he was told about
her, and precious little of that. He reached down into his bag.
There was more to be learned, though he hesitated to do so. It was
Demont's workshop he had liberated these notes from, after all. He
was her creator. Surely she was mentioned. It wasn't long before
the bundle of pages devoted to her emerged. Now that the symbols
had meaning, the coldness of the process became clear. Notes were
carefully taken, speaking of vastly different earlier revisions.
Flaws were noted, addressed. The variations from the basis, in this
case Lain, were outlined and recorded. It was every bit a recipe, a
procedure. Later pages skewed toward art, dealing with nuances and
coloring, clearly still left to be done when she was liberated. The
details of the connection between mind and soul were listed, with
potential difficulties. Finally there was a series of sketches of
the various stages of development. The nearest that the notes came
to discussing her as an individual came in the description of the
“extractor” that contained “Epidime's contribution.”

It was her soul. No name. No history. Just
another component in the final product. There was nothing
describing her as a person because, to him, she was never anything
but a concoction. The last few lines he scribed spoke of the level
of development when the “vessel” would be “sufficient.” This final
word, it would seem, assumed all of the wonder and splendor of
life. A body that was completed, able to support the evanescent
spark that was the spirit, was “sufficient.” As a student, always
eager for knowledge, particularly of a mystic nature, he had never
turned away from anything. This made him recoil. These things he
was doing were the tasks of gods, and yet he spoke of them with a
sterility and detachment.

A motion out of the corner of his eye
distracted him. Ivy had slipped off of the back of Myranda's horse
and was jogging over to his. He quickly began to stow the papers,
the last still in his hands as she hopped onto the back of his
horse. She noticed it and reached around to snatch it from his
fingers.