The response was immediate. A shaft of light burst skyward, sending the leader reeling back. Myranda rushed to the horse and was scooped onto its back by Leo's one good arm. Chaos erupted as General Teloran tore the bag from her waist and threw it down. Her orders were swift and clear.
"Retreat!" she cried, loading fallen men to the back of horses before sharing one herself.
Like a blur, Myn launched herself after Leo and Myranda. As quickly as the horse would carry them, the trio fled south. A monumental burst of light shook the forest from end to end with a force that tore leaves from trees. A white heat burned behind them, bringing the hiss of wind and sizzle of trees to an otherwise silent burst.
Leo leaned low to the horse's ear. Instantly, the same fear that had caused the other horses to abandon their riders subsided from the animal, and they rode on, steadily and purposefully, eyes constantly on the woods behind them.
Chapter 17
After a few tense minutes the massive mouth of the cave came into view.
"Are you certain that this is the one?" Myranda asked, as a dozen ancient signs swept by too quickly to read. "There is no stream."
"Not now, but there has been. Look at the ground," he said.
They leapt from the horse's back and rushed inside. The dim light of the night sky revealed signs in every language plastered on the walls. Age had made them all but unreadable. Those few words that survived were far from encouraging. There were a dozen or so racks on the walls holding ancient unlit torches for any adventurers brave enough to venture on. Leo grabbed as many as he could carry and instructed Myranda to do the same. Between the two of them, they managed to take all of the torches.
"Do you think we will need all of these?" Myranda asked.
"No, but they will. Don't light one until I say. I want to be sure that they cannot follow us," he said.
In total blackness, the trio shuffled along. Leo led the way, with Myranda cautiously following his echoing footsteps. Myn was completely at home in the cave. Now and then she would spark a burst of flame, casting a fleeting glimpse of the gray, craggy walls. After squeezing through an endless array of narrow passages led only by the water-smoothed floor, Leo seemed satisfied.
"That is quite enough. It will be days before they stumble upon the path we have taken. Light a torch," he said.
Myranda fumbled with her flint, brought out of fear that she would not be able to coax Myn into lighting her fires, and struck out a few sparks. The oil-soaked rags caught, and soon the claustrophobic little alcove was bathed in a flickering yellow light. The walls were a stark gray with a sparkle here and there. Around them was the constant echo of trickling water. Stalactites hung like teeth above the uneven floor. It was warm, with a thin layer of water coating every surface. Myn curled up between the two travelers and resumed her gnawing on the helmet. Despite the madness that she had been through, she refused to drop it.
"Well. That was quite an ordeal," Leo said.
Myranda stared into the light of the torch she had laid on the ground. There was a serious look on her face.
"You seem quiet," Leo said.
"Do you . . . Did I . . . kill someone?" Myranda asked
"With any luck, you killed all of them," Leo said with a laugh. A moment later he regretted his choice of words. "That is not the answer you were looking for, I take."
Myranda was silent.
"She would have killed you. She would have killed us both," he assured her.
"I don't believe that. She . . . she could have killed you time and again. And she could have killed me. She didn't. I really believe that she meant what she said. About fighting beside us. You saw how she remained long enough to collect the injured," Myranda said.
"I know how difficult it is to take your first life. I won't try to soften the blow. There isn't enough sugar in the world to take the bitterness from the act, but perhaps your sorrow is not necessary. My way of life leads me to the wrong side of the law often enough to hear tales of Trigorah. She is as capable a warrior as any that has lived. If anyone could have escaped that blast, it would be her," he said.
Myranda sighed.
"I know . . . she is my godmother," she said.
"What!?" Leo shouted, his voice echoing.
"I remember her from when my father used to visit. Back when I was very young. She seemed so kind then. My father worked with her, and he trusted her with his life. When mother was killed, she was supposed to help raise me," Myranda said.
"Well, she broke that vow," Leo said.
"She couldn't have known I survived the massacre. And my uncle told me she was dead . . . I should have known he would lie about that. He hated the Alliance Army with a passion by then. He would rather die than have me live in her care. Now she is the closest thing I have to family, and I may have killed her," Myranda said, a tear running down her cheek.
"Dwelling on it only makes it worse. You shouldn't sleep with those thoughts in your head. You won't enjoy your dreams. Are you up to any more healing?" he asked.
"I . . . perhaps," she said.
"My shoulder is not particularly pleased with the way I have been treating it," he said, trying to distract her from the subject.
"Remove the sling," she said.
He did so with great difficulty. The injury had swollen considerably. It reminded her of her own affliction, but in this case the problem was within. She pulled a few tatters of cloth aside to see how far the swelling had spread. It was severe, no doubt aggravated by the battle. As she surveyed the swelling, she noticed something odd on the left side of his chest. It was distorted, smudged with blood and charred, but there was no question. There, against the cream-colored chest, was the all too familiar curve and point.
"What . . . what is this?" she asked.
"What? Ouch! I can't see," he said.
"Here, on your chest. There is a mark," she said.
"Oh, that. That has been there since I was a child. I suppose it's a birthmark," he said.
"Look. Here! On my hand. I have the same mark! Remember the burn from the sword?" she said, holding out her hand.
He took her hand and looked over it.
"What in the world?" he said, sitting forward and taking real interest.
"It was all over the sword," she said. "I showed you. Don't you remember?"
"I remember how much it weighed, how well it was balanced, but I couldn't care less about how it looked. That is the least important thing to me," he said.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"How should I know?" he said, perplexed.
"I got the mark from the dead soldier's sword, so that explains that, but what are you and a fallen swordsman doing sharing a mark?" she wondered.
"I haven't a clue," he said, bewildered.
"Well, maybe he was a relative. Maybe he had the same mark, or knew you in some way," she offered.
"I honestly cannot think of a single other person who has even seen my mark since I left the orphanage," he said.
"Then perhaps it was one of them," she said.
"Perhaps, but I cannot see how anything I did might have left an impression on one of the other orphans. Certainly not an impression big enough to have one of my blemishes adorn a sword that must have cost a fortune to make," he said. "Unless it isn't a blemish. The caretakers branded me with a pair of marks, this could just be a third that I didn't remember. If that is so, then the others could have had it as well."
"Do you suppose that one of your fellow orphans might have been proud enough of his orphanage to advertise it on his equipment?" Myranda asked.
"I have heard of stranger things. Well, with your godmother and our matching marks, this has been a very revealing night," Leo said.
"Indeed, the hand of fate has--" she began, but the smoke of the torch was burning at her already tortured lungs. She launched into a long, painful fit of coughing.
"That doesn't sound good at all. I thought you looked a bit off," he said, concerned.
"It is nothing," she managed. "It happens every year."
"Well, do you know how to cure it?" he asked.
"Of course," she said.
"Then what are you waiting for?" he wondered.
"Well, I haven't the strength to care for my cough and your shoulder. I will tend to myself tomorrow," she explained.
"Nonsense. I won't hear of it! You say whatever words you need to make yourself well and worry about me another day," he demanded.
"But the pain must be terrible," Myranda said.
"Please. I have had a dozen more serious injuries a dozen times each, and all I've had to heal them was time. A night more won't kill me," he said. She began to object again, but he cut her off. "You saved my life. I wanted to give mine for yours just a few hours ago, but you denied me. The least you can do is stay healthy long enough for me to repay my debt."
Myranda sighed, stifling another cough. Reluctantly she spoke the variant of the spell of healing sleep that would do its work upon the caster.
As the spell of healing took effect, Myranda's surroundings retreated and a soothing darkness poured over her and into her mind. A moment later a light flickered before her. She briefly thought that she had reawakened, but soon the truth became clear. The cold, thatched ground was not that of the cave, and the white, wavering light was not that of the torch. She had slipped into a dream. The light seemed to come from no source at all, merely a ball of brilliance floating before her. It formed a circle on the ground and a tight sphere of visibility. She strained her eyes desperately into the darkness. Slowly, a figure formed, somehow a still-darker silhouette against the pitch of her surroundings.
"So I have found you," came a voice from the form. It seemed to be her own voice. Hearing it whispered from the unseen lips of another was profoundly disorienting.
"Who are you?" Myranda asked.
"We need you," came the answer.
"Need me for what? I don't understand," she said.
"Do not resist me. I come to guide you, and in turn you may guide me," the voice said.
"How?" Myranda asked as the cold wind began to gust more forcefully.
"You are strong, and the path you follow is closed to me. You are nearly out of my reach. You must choose. Take my hand and the way will be made clear," the voice whispered.
The figure's hand seemed to reach out. Myranda reached for it, but something inside of her resisted. She turned to the light and grasped at it, as though it were a lantern. It remained, but a part of the eerie light trailed along with her hand. She moved her glowing fist to the figure, but it recoiled.
"Reject it. Light is sorrow. To tremble in the light is to be extinguished with it. The brightest candle burns only briefly. Darkness remains eternally. Accept the darkness and endure," the voice demanded, somewhat twisted.
The cold became intense and the darkness pressed in about her. The light fought valiantly, but the walls of oppressive blackness moved closer and closer. This was wrong. She backed toward the light, but it was withering. In a matter of moments, it was no more. The earth beneath her seemed to drop away, and she was afloat in an abyss of darkness. It felt as though the blackness itself was tearing at her.
In a last effort to fight against that which consumed her, Myranda held up her arms defensively. When she opened her hand, a burning ember of light was revealed. As the remnant of the light she had scooped up smoldered in her palm, she could barely make out the form bearing down on her. With a scream, the terrified girl lashed out with the illuminated hand. Her fingers raked the featureless face and a second, piercing, spine-tingling mockery of her cry mingled with the original.
She felt hands clasp her about the shoulders and shake her as the light rushed back. Myranda screamed again, the second scream joined by a third and fourth as her voice echoed off of the cave walls. The light was from the torch, and the hands shaking her were those of Leo. The dream was over.
#
"Easy, now. Come back to me," Leo said, steadying the terrified girl as the nightmare slowly lost its grip.
Myranda caught her breath.
"I warned about those dreams," he said.
"It was awful. I don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep," Myranda said.
"I should hope not. You have been asleep for ages," he said. "I think your dragon was beginning to get worried."
Myn was already on her lap, sniffing and licking at her face.
"How long have I been asleep?" she asked.
"Well, it is difficult to tell without the sun or stars to go by, but these torches usually last about a half a day, and I had to light a new one after I awoke about an hour ago," he said.
"It only felt like a few moments," she said. "That is a very potent spell."
"So it would seem. Well, we had best move on. You will be pleased to hear that I can hear our friends scratching about on the other side of the wall. You must have missed a few," he said.
"Are we in any danger?" she asked, getting to her feet, free of stiffness and pain for the first time in weeks.
"Not yet. I would say that it will be at least a day before they can even find their way back to the wrong turn they must have taken, and then another few hours to reach us. So unless you decide to sing your lullaby twice more, we should have no trouble staying ahead. However, if you have any words that can relieve me of this little malady without a lengthy nap, I would appreciate it," he said, indicating his shoulder.
"Of course," she said.
After a clutch at her locket and a few choice words, the injury was healed and the swelling eliminated.
"Ah. Remarkable. You do fine work!" Leo commended, as he gathered up the unlit torches. Now that he was healthy, he could carry them all. The spent torch was stripped of the charred rags and used as a walking stick as the trio marched on.
"If there was something wrong with your legs, you should have told me," she said.
"There is nothing you can do. They are healed already. Not quite the way they ought to have. A handful of fighters I've known had the same problem. Nothing they could do either, healers or no," he said in a disarmingly cheerful tone.
"How terrible," she said.
"Shed no tears for me, my dear. Where we are headed, no ailment will endure," he said.
"That sounds familiar," she said, the flowery prose stirring her memory.
"A play, One Final March, spoken right before our hero heads to a battle he cannot hope to win bearing a wound he cannot hope to survive," Leo said.
"That does not speak very well of our destination," she said.
"Don't worry. Some of my fondest memories are in the land that lies ahead of us. But enough about that. It must be seen to be believed. Frankly, if you don't mind, I would dearly love to hear what your life has been like since our last meeting," he said.
"At the usual rate, though. I'll trade you my story for yours," she said.
"Naturally," he said.
As they made their way along the slick, uneven path, Myranda spoke of the events of the last few months. She told the tale of her capture in the church, and her clash with the mysterious creatures in the field, and her escape with the aid of the Undermine. Leo nodded, chiming in at times with insightful comments. He really seemed to care what happened to her, a quality that she found wholly absent in society at large.
By the time Myn's appearance and the time spent under Wolloff's training had been described, she felt as though she was talking to her oldest friend. In a way, she was.
"Good heavens," he said. "That is quite a tale. You lead an eventful life."
"It hasn't always been that way," she said. "But enough about me. You have a story of your own to tell."
"So I do. Fair is fair. Let me see," he began. "I saw you off and headed into Melorn. The hunting was a bit thin, but adequate. Before a week had passed, I decided to find my next tournament, so I nosed around a bit further north. Things were quiet, but eventually I caught word of a small submission tourney nearby. It was informal, a handful of Alli
ance veterans and soldiers on leave trying to see just who was best at the art of battle. Admittedly an outsider, they were reluctant to allow me entry, particularly with my unwillingness to meet face to face. Luck would have it that one of the soldiers was called back to duty, and I filled the vacancy. One of the organizers caught sight of me. He pulled me aside as I was placing a bet on myself.
"I was in my fighting gear, so he couldn't tell what I was, but he told me that he had seen me fight before, and that he knew I could win this easily. I thanked him for the compliment. He went on to explain that one of the other combatants, a big fellow, was something of local hero. He'd been a part of more winning battles than any other soldier in years and had even earned his way into this 'Elite' squad. In all likelihood, I would be facing him in the final round. Even more likely was my victory. He dangled a sack of silver under my nose and mentioned that a spirited victory would be a tremendous boost to the morale of the people.
"I stood to earn a good deal more by taking the fall than collecting on my own bet, so I agreed. It wasn't the first time. The fighting started and the first few rounds were laughable. There was an old man who wanted to see if he still had what it took. He didn't. Then was a green newcomer who was fresh from his first tour and somehow hadn't seen a battle yet. He went down fairly easily. Finally I found myself face to face with this Elite character.
"I won't lie, he was a formidable fellow. A mountain of a man. He outclassed me in size and strength by a fair amount. Slow, though. If I wanted to, I could land a half-dozen blows in the time it took him to miss one. That and he was, if you can believe it, too well-trained. It was as though I was fighting a textbook. I've read the manual they use to teach these men, so his technique couldn't have been more obvious. I found myself ten moves ahead of him, watching him play into every attack. I would let him get in a glancing blow here or there to keep it interesting, but before long, he started to tire, so I knew it was time to act.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 21