The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  The clarity and intellect dropped away.

  "What am I doin' here? I was sent here by Gen'ral Teloran. She said I was ta see what was goin' on here. Said that when places like this get sold quick, some fella named Desmee-res or somethin' is behind it. Said he would be tough ta beat, might have a tough bodyguard," he said.

  He walked to the door. For a moment, Myranda thought he might be leaving. Instead, he closed the damaged door and propped a chair against it to keep it shut. The burning in the pit of her stomach flared unbearably. Whatever he had in mind, he didn't want the other soldiers to see.

  "Well, as you can plainly see, there is no person by that name here, nor is there a bodyguard," she said.

  "Oh, I see that. No bodyguard. And here you are, just like all o' the other rich people. Lookin' down yer nose. Usin' yer big words. And no one ta fight yer fight for you," he said, approaching her menacingly.

  "I don't know what you are thinking, but you can just stop now. I am a Tesselor. Do you have any idea what I can do to you? What I can have done to you?" she threatened in as convincing a way as possible, backing away until she reached the wall.

  "They won't do nothin' 'til you say, and you won't be sayin' nothin'," he said, pressing the pole of the halberd to her throat. "You won't be sayin' nothin'."

  Myranda managed a gasp before her air was cut off. She struggled and squirmed. Her mind raced as she fought helplessly against the weapon. Behind her, just on the other side of the wall, was Desmeres. She didn't know him very well, but what she did know of him suggested that he would probably stay hidden rather than offer aid. This was up to her. She tried to pull the tattered and panicked remains of her mind together. She'd learned magic, hadn't she? It hadn't been just a dream, was it? Her staff was on the table. In the state her mind was in, there wouldn't be much she could do without it.

  Just as the gulp of air was almost spent, Myranda managed to cast a spell of fire on the handle of the halberd where the monstrous man gripped it. Her mind was in a frenzy as she tried to channel her desperation into the spell. There was a hideous sizzle and a horrifying smell, but barely any reaction from Arden. Slowly a smile came to his face.

  "Magic? Ha! Pain? Ha! Magic is nothing. Pain I can ignore. Goodbye," he said, pushing the pole harder.

  The world began to fade. She released the spell. The black metal of the halberd was beginning to burn her neck, and she needed what little of her mind was left to stay conscious. Her vision darkened. Struggling was becoming more difficult. Distantly, she heard a shuffle of feet. Desmeres had finally decided to take action. He rushed behind the hulking man, brandishing a rather meager-looking dagger. With a neat thrust he struck at Arden's back.

  A lesser blade would have plinked uselessly off of the thick plate armor, but this was one of Desmeres's masterpieces. The narrow, sturdy point pierced the plate, the leather, the mail, and easily an inch of flesh before its momentum gave out. This surely crossed the threshold of pain to be ignored and injury to be acknowledged. Sure enough, Arden released the halberd with one hand and, with speed and power that even out of this behemoth seemed surprising, knocked Myranda's would-be rescuer hurtling across the room and into a wall. The brief decrease in pressure against her throat allowed Myranda a second gasp and a few more moments of life.

  She renewed her struggles and searched her mind for something else that might ward off her attacker. Nothing was forthcoming, and it was not long before she sensed the world slipping away from her again. In a last, desperate effort, she tried to pry his fingers away from the weapon. As soon as her left hand touched his right, he pulled quickly back. Myranda drew in a long, pained breath. She scrambled away, or tried to, but the same absurd speed that he had displayed before reappeared. In the blink of an eye, his expression turned from shock to anger and she felt his hand latch onto her shoulder. His grip was like a vice. She fell to one knee and cried out. In the distance, almost immediately, she heard the shatter of glass and rising wind.

  A flash of red and gold streaked across the room and collided with the monstrous man. He was staggered by the clash, and suddenly he could be heard grunting in anger. Myranda crawled to the table and clutched her staff. Jumping to her feet, she turned. Myn was there, her jaws clamped down on Arden's leg. The teeth couldn't pierce through the armor, but the pressure was more than enough to cause pain that would cripple a normal man. This brute seemed unaffected, merely frustrated by the sprightly creature's heroic effort to both evade his attacks and throw off his balance. Finally, the bounty hunter caught the little dragon by the neck.

  "You put her down!" Myranda ordered.

  She held her staff at the ready, and her mind equally so. Arden threw the dragon with all of his unnatural might. The little creature might have been injured, had she not struck the recently recovered Desmeres first. The impact sent them both flying backward and into a cabinet filled with expensive plates. Myranda's anger flared. There was no point in keeping up the charade now. He would kill her regardless. She summoned to mind a spell, a quick burst of wind. It would bring this man quickly to the ground. Once he was down, she would have more options, provided she could keep him there.

  Myranda knew that she was far from an experienced spell-caster, and this situation called for the one thing she had yet to manage--speed. If this spell was to do her any good at all, she would have to put all she had into it to ensure it would have the strength it needed in the time she had. There were two things she failed to factor in as she poured her mind like a waterfall into the task. The first was the fact that she was terrified, angry, and desperate. She had not yet learned the discipline to keep these emotions from fueling the spell. Second, the staff she held had been altered by Desmeres.

  The result was, to say the least, sufficient. The wind tore through the room with the scream of a banshee, pulling in windows and tearing open doors. When it struck Arden, he was not merely knocked down, he was launched. His massive body soared across the room and shattered the chair propping the door closed, as well as the door itself. The exit was not a clean one, as the tumbling body struck and splintered the door frame. Arden spiraled through the night air and rolled to a stop fifty paces from the doorway.

  Myranda was trembling from the exertion and the emotion of what had just transpired. She normally would be helplessly spent after the monumental spell she cast, but still she stood--winded and dizzied, but steady. Slowly, cautiously, she walked through the doorway. Myn limped quickly after her. Desmeres followed on his hands and knees. For a long moment, all was still. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Impossibly, Arden stirred. First, he rolled to his knees, then stumbled to his feet. He stooped to retrieve the halberd that landed nearby. Myranda held still, waiting for what was next. With the weapon in hand, he stood and turned to her. One arm hung horribly twisted. Calmly, almost serenely, he popped it back into place with a wet snap audible even from the doorway where Myranda stood. Once he was recovered, Arden's face shifted quickly into a grimace of fury and hatred.

  "Kill them! Kill them all! I order you to kill these traitors!" he howled.

  The Elites! She had forgotten that he'd had an escort. Myranda's eyes darted all about. No men charged her. None even stood. Here and there, amid a splash of crimson, lay a lifeless soldier. Myranda was both horrified and relieved by the sight. Lain had not been idle while Arden had been inside. He'd eliminated the entirety of the escort. When the bounty hunter realized that no help would come, the unnervingly serene expression came to his face once again. His eyes took on the clear, keen, intellectual look they had shown earlier.

  "Yes, yes. Things are moving, aren't they? The coming months will be quite interesting indeed. I am afraid I must withdraw for the time being. One of you has got a nasty sting that I was ill prepared for. Not to worry--the general will be by shortly to collect," he said, turning to walk away.

  "Oh no she won't!" Desmeres called out, suddenly finding the strength to stand. He 'rushed' at the warrior, though his hob
bling gait was anything but swift.

  Lain's silent appearance was considerably more threatening, Desmeres's bravery intended only to conceal it. He swept silently across the courtyard toward Arden, seemingly from nowhere, as the savage wind continued to tear across the plain. Arden did not see him, he couldn't have, but still he raised the halberd. The gem mounted in the blade darkened, almost seeming to invite the black of night inside. He swung the weapon in a wide arc. The gem left a dark scar across the air in front of him. Quickly, the streak of black rippled like a wave through the courtyard, growing wider and thicker as it moved. By the time it reached Lain, it was like a wall.

  Lain stopped short and held his sword defensively. The runes scribed on the blade burned like embers and a narrow slice of the black wave dispersed away, though not quite enough for Lain to escape unscathed. Myn, knowing that her teeth and claws would have no effect on this, dove behind Myranda for protection. The young sorceress tried to throw up a hasty shield spell and brandished the staff as she had seen Lain do. The black splashed against the pale, half-cast shield, easily shattering it. Her staff deflected a bit more, leaving only a wisp of black that licked across her leg.

  The sensation was entirely new to her--and agonizing. Everywhere the black touched felt cold and numb, unwilling to support her weight. Deeper, beyond her body and into her soul, came a searing pain, like the black was eating away at her very spirit. Unlike a normal wound that could be pushed aside, this pain seemed to seize her mind and would not let go. It was blinding.

  Slowly the affliction released her, though the numbness did not. Myranda opened her eyes to find that she had fallen to the ground. Myn, who had escaped the black wave, was on top of her, lavishing the affection upon her that she had been unable to show since the young girl had had to become a Tesselor. When the tide of black subsided, Arden was gone. Lain, seemingly unaffected by the onslaught, moved quickly inside the mansion. Desmeres had ducked inside earlier and similarly was unharmed. He and Myn helped Myranda inside. They huddled into the sitting room, the first room that had a door to lock, and tried to recover.

  Chapter 8

  "Well, Arden has picked up some new tricks," Desmeres said, brushing himself off as the intensity of the last few moments eased. "I didn't think him capable of casting a spell. It must be the new weapon. Where in the world did he find a weapon that can do an active mystical attack? I haven't even found a way to do that!" Desmeres spoke as lightly as though he were simply making conversation, turning to Myranda. "Good work with your spell, by the way. I wouldn't have thought you'd have it in you."

  "Your weapons need work," said Lain.

  Now that they were away from prying eyes, it was clear to see that while it had seemed he had escaped injury, such was not the case. One of his hands was curled like a dead spider and was shaking involuntarily. The fact that he was sitting betrayed something wrong with his legs as well. Desmeres launched into a defense of his weapon treatments, offering various excuses for the incomplete protection from the spell, though eventually admitting he would have to continue research in those areas. Myranda was about to offer Lain help when she realized that she had yet to deal with her own impairment, and was not sure how to do so. She set her mind to this. As she did, Lain closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, indeed, nearly stopped. Very slowly the shaking subsided and his fingers uncurled. By the time Myranda had managed to restore feeling to her own leg, Lain had recovered fully, and his breathing was beginning to return to normal.

  "We haven't much time to lick our wounds, I am afraid," Desmeres said, looking nervously out the window. "Whatever managed to spirit Arden away so quickly could certainly--"

  There was a knock at the sitting room door. Instantly, Lain slipped out the back door; Desmeres followed, whispering a quick recommendation that she answer it and call for help if it was trouble. Myn was coaxed from the room. Myranda picked up her staff and unsteadily approached the door. At this point, she didn't know what to expect on the other side. Holding the crystal at eye level and readying a spell in her mind, she pulled the door open. It was Udo.

  "Mistress Tesselor, what happened here! There are dead soldiers all over, the entrance is a shambles," Udo said.

  "Udo," she said with relief. "Are you alone?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "Come in. Please," she said.

  He did so, and she closed the door behind him.

  "Udo. I . . . I have to go," she said.

  "That much I might have guessed, Mistress Tesselor," he replied.

  "There was . . . I don't . . . it was the Red Shadow," she said, formulating a likely tale in her head.

  "The Red Shadow, Mistress?" he said, stunned.

  "Yes, he . . . he came to kill me. The Elites had followed and fought valiantly, eventually fending him off at the expense of their lives," she said, hoping that keeping it short and simple would keep it believable.

  "I didn't think he would come someplace like this," he said.

  "Where a Tesselor can be found, that monster is quite likely to follow. I must leave--now, before he returns. Do you suppose that you can handle this place by yourself?" she said.

  "Well, I don't know, I--" he answered.

  "I know you can. Take care of these people, and yourself. Now go," she said.

  It was by far the worst she'd done thus far at maintaining an image of wealthy superiority, but in the state she was in, it was quite the best she could manage. When he had left with more questions than answers, Desmeres, Myn, and Lain returned.

  "Clever use of Lain's alias, but points off for affection and concern. At any rate, we need to be as far from here as possible before sunrise," Desmeres said.

  "But where will we go?" she asked.

  "I might have a safe house near here that is still standing. It is our best hope," he said.

  "But--it is Trigorah that is coming! Perhaps you could reason with her. She might be able to get you your money. Then I could join her and--" Myranda said.

  "Out of the question. That woman is going to be seeing red when she arrives, most of which has been spilled from the veins of her Elites. She will be utterly unreasonable. No, I am afraid that you will have to come with us," he said, matter-of-factly, though in essence this was a threat of kidnapping.

  If Myranda had any more energy, she might have argued, but after the clash all she wanted was to get as far from this place as possible. She grabbed the simple cloth bag she'd brought with her, changed back into the filthy but less conspicuous clothes within, found a few horses, and was off. Myn and Lain chose to run. They had made a brief attempt to locate the horses that the soldiers had ridden in on, but the battle had caused them to run off, so they reluctantly chose the only other ones available. Thanks to the fact that the horses were draft horses, bred for strength rather than speed, the pair on foot was quite able to keep pace.

  They traveled east. Thoughts rushed through Myranda's mind as she trailed Desmeres's horse. A strong wind stirred the loose snow around them as they traveled, yet in the distance, both ahead and behind, all seemed still. Why did it seem to follow them? The Elites. Had Lain not killed them, they would assuredly have killed her. After all, they were with Arden, and were willing to allow him to do the same. She had convinced herself that the Elites, at the very least, knew of her role in the discovery of the other Chosen and would help her. Now it would seem that Trigorah alone knew.

  Myranda wondered . . . did she really? Or was all of this a delusion and the Army wanted her for another reason entirely? Indeed, did she even matter? She had done nothing of value in discovering the others since she helped conjure the other Chosen One, and that had been Lain's doing, not hers. Was it a coincidence?

  #

  Little did Myranda know she was not the only one concerned with her place in the world. In a tiny darkened room, in the depths of a trance, Deacon struggled over the same dilemma. He was staring longingly into the motionless heart of a crystal in the palm of his hand. Many days ago, he had delved through
his writings and refreshed his memory on every aspect of the spell called Distance Seeing. Much to his despair, this spell was as hindered by the confounding influence of the mountain as most others.

  Regardless of the monumental effort he'd put into catching even a glimpse of Myranda, he found it impossible to locate her. He spoke at length with anyone and everyone who might know more than he, and the only piece of information that was even remotely helpful came from the mouth of the Elder herself. If he wished to see someone through the impenetrable veil of the mountain, the target would have to make itself visible, like a beacon in the night.

  The problem with this solution was that there was no way for Myranda to know that he was trying to find her. The only way that he would be able to see her would be if she were to execute some powerful spell at the very moment that he was searching. From his point of view, this left only one option. He must look for her at all times, dedicating a small part of his mind to probing the outside world.

  This slowed his work immensely. Days passed with no benefit, but he remained vigilant. Finally, he was rewarded. A twinge at the back of his mind alerted him that there was something to see. He plunged his mind entirely to the task of seeking it out. Slowly, a flickering image formed. At first he thought he had made a mistake. The woman he saw was dressed in a manner he had only heard of. Elegant--even extravagant--clothes. It was not until the image reached its peak of clarity that he was certain that it was Myranda he saw. She was pinned to a wall, her life in danger.

  As she faded, so did the image. He watched anxiously as she recovered and struck back, and finally was struck by a strange magic he had never before witnessed. The image faded with Myranda on the ground, joined by Myn and a man he did not recognize. When it did not return, he released the spell.

  He had hoped that seeing her again would ease his troubled mind, but to see her in peril and not know if she had escaped only increased the burning. The few apprentices who studied the prophecy were not convinced that Myranda's purpose was as she thought. Opinions were split down the middle as to whether she was more or less important than she supposed, and few agreed upon the degree.