The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  What followed was maddening. The end of the tunnel was tantalizingly near, but they had to maintain speed, lest they be heard over the hoofbeats of their pursuers. The opening ahead crept closer. The breeze from outside became steady, until the air in the tunnel took on the frigidness they had become accustomed to in the mountains. Until then, it had not been obvious just how much warmer the inside of the tunnel was without the wind bearing down on them.

  Myranda took another deep breath, anxious for just a whiff of the fresh air that was so near, but what she drew in was anything but fresh. The stench was horrific, worse than she'd ever smelled. It was the scent of death magnified. It caught in her throat. She could taste it in her mouth. Her lungs urged her to cough it out, but she could not risk the sound. She could only focus on moving forward, wherever that may lead her.

  Chapter 8

  Another eternity passed, and finally it was over. The group of heroes emerged from the tunnel. It emptied into a valley. The mountains towered around them. Great circular platforms had been carved like steps around the irregular floor of the place, providing flat areas for the same structure repeated exactly on every spare inch of space. Each was a vast building with no windows and a single wide door. They were stone, a few stories tall, each topped with a tall, sloped roof. At each peak was a crystal, the very same type that accompanied everything the D'karon put their hands to, with identical ones at each corner.

  There were dozens of the buildings, perhaps a hundred, arranged in ring after ring. Only the center of the valley and the road leading to it were free from one of the structures. The center of the valley bore a wide stone platform, stained black by a thick and seemingly ancient coat of grime. Despite the staggering amount of architecture, it seemed that Deacon's translation had been accurate insofar as the degree to which it was guarded. There was not a soul to be seen.

  The heroes hid themselves in an alcove beside the tunnel entrance and waited. They attempted to remain silent, but it soon became clear that the odor that permeated the tunnel had come from this place. The air was thick with the smell of death. Myranda managed to keep from gagging, but only just. She felt sorry for Lain and Ivy. Their sensitive noses could only compound the torture. The horses were visibly uneasy as well. Only Ether seemed unaffected, no doubt owing to her ability to forgo the senses as she saw fit.

  The sound of echoing hoofbeats grew louder until, finally, their pursuers exited the tunnel. It was a vehicle all too familiar to Myranda: the wretched black carriage. She'd been unlucky enough to spend some time in one before, as a prisoner of the Alliance Army. The windowless sides of the carriage made identifying the unfortunate occupant impossible. A pair of horses pulled the carriage, guided by a single driver.

  Myranda heard something drop to the ground beside her and looked to see that Lain had deposited his sword there. In a flash, he was streaking across the ground toward the carriage. He dove at the driver, tearing him from the seat and throwing him to the ground. As he opened his mouth, revealing his vicious teeth, Myranda turned away, covering Ivy's eyes.

  A few moments later and Lain was beside them once more, a familiar black stain upon his mouth. He wiped it off with some snow and retrieved his weapon. The body of the driver, clearly a nearman, lay twitching on the ground, blood running from beneath its mask. Normally, the mockeries of humanity turned to dust when they died. That this one remained suggested that Lain had left him alive, suffering.

  "Why didn't he use his sword?" Ivy asked as they followed him to the carriage.

  "I am not certain I want to know," Myranda said.

  The remains of the nearman finally collapsed into empty armor and dust as they approached. Myranda leapt from the saddle and rushed to the doors of the carriage. She undid the latches and pulled them open, only to recoil in horror.

  "What is it? Oh . . . oh . . ." Ivy said, turning away.

  The carriage was filled with soldiers. Dead. They were stacked like a cord of wood, blue-armored soldiers of the north and red-armored soldiers of the south alike.

  Myranda closed the doors. She'd heard tales of this. That the dead were being loaded up off the fields. She had more than her share of memories of funerals for the fallen soldiers of the many villages she'd drifted through after Kenvard was destroyed. Seldom was there a body to grieve over. It was believed that there simply was no one to spare to return the dead to their homes, but there were those who said that the black carriages hauled them off of the battlefield.

  "What is this place?" Myranda asked.

  "If I understand correctly, the map labels it 'Final Reserve,'" Deacon said.

  "What could that mean? There is no one here! Why would they bring the dead to this place?" she asked.

  "Maybe the reserves are in those buildings," Deacon offered.

  "Trust me. There is nothing alive here but us," Ivy coughed.

  "Do you feel any magic about?" Myranda asked.

  Deacon grasped his crystal tightly and slowly scanned the area.

  "Nothing active," he replied. "Those crystals have something potent in them, but I can't quite place what . . . wait . . . there is something more."

  He raised his finger to the night sky. A black form against the faded gray clouds emerged a moment later, bursting from the clouds where he had indicated. It seemed close, judging from the size, but as the seconds ticked on, the bat-like form took up more and more of the sky. By the time the flapping of the wings could be heard, a horrifyingly large section of the sky was blocked out by them.

  It was a dragoyle--or, at least, that was what it most closely resembled. The size was at least triple that of the largest such beast they'd yet faced, and it seemed far stouter overall. The neck was slightly shorter and much thicker, as were the legs. The tail was covered with spines that grew longer and broader along its length, until they ended in a near morning star. Its head bore similar armor-plating, and in place of the cruel beak that normally adorned such beasts, this one seemed to have a jagged, tooth-like serration. At the sight of the creature, the horses bolted, vanishing into the tunnel.

  Lain readied his steel. Ether shifted to her flame form. Both wizards held their casting stones at the ready. Ivy stared in open-mouthed awe, not having gotten a firm enough hold on her wits to be afraid yet.

  The monster descended into the valley. The wind from the massive wings was a constant gale. When it touched down, it did so with enough force to shake free much of the snow that had clung to the steep slopes of the surrounding mountainside. Instantly, the tunnel behind them was hidden in a cascade of rocky ice and snow. All were prepared for a monumental struggle. Oddly, once it landed, the massive creature held its ground, each foot planted just outside the stone platform, not making the slightest motion of hostility. Slowly, it lowered its head. As it opened its mouth, the heroes scattered, expecting a torrent of the wretched miasma the similar beasts had spewed--but none came. Instead, what looked to be a wooden treasure chest fell to the ground. Slowly, the chest opened.

  "Steady, everyone. Some sort of spell is activating. A weak one," Deacon warned.

  A pale blue mist stirred from within the chest. Slowly, it coalesced into the form of a man. Ivy and Myranda stiffened at the sight, and Ether's fiery hide flared. They had encountered this man before. It was the most senior of the generals, Bagu. He appeared to be reclining in a chair that had not fully appeared along with him. As the mist took on the appropriate hues of his flesh, he stood.

  "You kept me waiting. This beast has been circling over the clouds for some time," he stated.

  "Who is that?" Deacon asked, fascinated by the act of magic he was witnessing.

  "General Bagu," he replied. "You must be the newest thorn in my side. The human foolish enough to associate with the Chosen."

  "Incredible! An illusion coupled with communication . . . brilliant," he admired.

  "Listen, Chosen. I am certain you know a great deal about me--but, I assure you, I know a great deal more about you. I have been gathering informatio
n on some of you since before your births," he said. "I was concerned that you were functioning too well as a unit, but I realize now that I could not have been more wrong. You all fight for a single cause, perhaps, but your motivations are your own. I am the focus of your fury because you believe that my defeat will provide you with the goal you crave. You are mistaken. I do not stand between you and your desires--your own foolish beliefs do. I am the only one that can offer you all what you seek. And all I request in return is for you to lower your weapons and allow me to finish my work--or, if you prefer, join me and see this conflict to as bloodless an end as you like."

  "Don't listen to him!" Myranda cried.

  "The wizard . . . What is it that you want? An end to this war, and perhaps a taste of revenge in exchange for the price your homeland had to pay. Do you really believe that this war will end simply by killing me? There will be others to take my place, I assure you, and others to replace them. You blame the D'karon for keeping this war alive, but it is your own people, and the people of Tressor, that will allow it to continue. Join me, and I promise you this war will end tomorrow. I will issue the order to cease hostilities. Negotiations can begin. If you join me, the next drop of blood could be the last," Bagu said.

  "You would never do such a thing," Myranda replied.

  "Are you so certain? Certain enough to allow another few generations to be cut short rather than risk trusting me? Or have you let the assassin's pathological distrust poison your mind?"

  Myranda was silent. Bagu turned to Lain.

  "And you, assassin. You don't even care about this war, do you? You want us dead because we threaten that precious little experiment behind you. Again, your blame belongs elsewhere. We did not kill your kind. It was the humans, the elves, everyone who saw them as inferior, as dangerous. If you kill every last D'karon, the murderers who took your people will still remain, and so will the threat to your precious race. You have accepted Ivy as one of your own, and she was not even complete. We created her, giving your kind another breath, and you seek to destroy us for it? Do as I say and I will have Demont resurrect your race. There will be hundreds, thousands of your kind again," Bagu offered.

  "You didn't create me! I don't remember everything, but I know I wasn't always this way," Ivy retorted, a flare of red surging around her. "Someone give me a weapon. I'll show him!"

  "The experiment. Your motivations are more difficult to determine. Do you seek revenge for being altered? Or do you simply wish to remain with the others because you have nowhere else to go? Regardless, you have nothing to gain by our defeat, and everything to lose. Everyone who knew you as you were is dead. If you seek answers, you need only return to our fold. We and only we can provide them," Bagu reasoned.

  Ivy tried to reply, but her mind was suddenly awash with conflicting thoughts.

  "And what would you offer me, fiend? I have no motivation, only a purpose, and that purpose is to rid this world of you and your kind," Ether interjected.

  "Yes, yes. The protector. Existing from the dawn of creation for one purpose alone, to fend off the threat to your world. And if you succeed? What then? If we are well and truly defeated, you are left with nothing. An eternity of hollow, meaningless existence. You can be more. This world is not the first we have sought. It will not be the last. As we pierce the veil, sweeping from realm to realm, you could have a new purpose by our side. You could be a conqueror. Or, if you must defend, why defend just one world? Join us, and when this world is ours, it will be yours to defend once more, and a thousand others besides. You are not our only enemies. There will be an eternity of meaning for you with us," the general offered.

  "It doesn't matter what you offer. Fate is not so flimsy as to even allow the heroes of this world to be corrupted," Deacon proclaimed. "The Mark will strike down any divine warrior that would betray its cause."

  Bagu turned his gaze to the young wizard. "The scholar of the group, are we? Listen, human. We have been at this game for a very long time. We are familiar with the rules, more so than you could ever be, and we are equally aware of their exceptions. It is well within our power to accept you safely into our ranks. It has been done before."

  "And what will you do if we refuse? Kill us? There are only four Chosen here. Without the five of us united, even if you could kill us, it would only delay our cause. New Chosen would arise. You are afraid of us. That is why you came to bargain with us. You are so afraid you wouldn't even come in person," Myranda said, gambling that the general did not know what she did--that the convergence had already occurred.

  "Afraid! You insignificant piece of flotsam! How dare you even think that you could instill anything but contempt in me? I have seen thousands more powerful than you crushed. You are nothing!" Bagu raged, before adding in a smoldering tone, "And as for not killing you? It is true we need you alive for now . . . but life is more loosely defined than you might realize . . ."

  The image of the general vanished. In a swift and sudden motion, the massive beast burst into the air. Astoundingly and mercifully, the dragoyle did not instantly bear down on them. It managed to heft its ponderous girth into the sky, spiraling higher and higher until its inky form merged with the equally inky clouds. For a few moments, where seconds ago it seemed certain there would be a titanic clash, there now was only an eerie stillness. The only hint that the unusual standoff had happened at all was the still-open chest in the center of the valley. Myranda cautiously approached it.

  "Careful!" Ivy urged.

  Myranda, staff at the ready, peered inside. There were a few crystals, now dull and lifeless. No doubt they had enabled the message to be delivered. The only other things in the chest were an assortment of gold ornaments. There were two oddly-shaped metal plates, a gauntlet, and a headband. She leaned closer. There was something familiar about them. The gauntlet in particular. She was about to pluck it out of the chest when she heard Deacon shout a warning.

  "Those spells are waking up," he called out.

  Myranda looked up. One by one, the gems on each of the roofs were winking to life. In the space of a few seconds, the dim light of the cloud-obscured moon was replaced by the pale blue-white light of the gems.

  "Did you hear that?" Ivy gasped, as Lain turned to the source of the noise unheard by the others.

  A moment later, it came again, louder. A low rumble, like the long, slow slide of heavy stone.

  "It can't be. They wouldn't," Deacon spoke in a deathly hushed tone.

  The irregular rumble began to grow and it mixed with a stirring from within all of the dozens of structures. A few of the doors rattled, shaking free their sheaths of ice and straining against the mounded snow that had gathered at the base of each. More doors followed. Soon the cacophony of countless doors threatening to tear themselves from their hinges was deafening.

  Lain stood resolute. He'd come here to destroy it, to take away whatever it was that the D'karon hoped to hide here. To punish them. Ivy's breathing was growing faster, her thus-far-heroic grip on her emotion showing the first signs of slipping. As she backed toward the carriage, the only hint of shelter in the whole of the chaotic valley, she stumbled over the remains of the ruined soldier. There, on its belt, was its unused sword. She scrambled to it, pulling it free and clutching it shakily.

  Finally, one of the doors gave way. There was a rush of stale, pungent air, and a stir of choking dust and fumes. When the cloud settled, what it revealed was horrifying beyond all measure. The dead. Hundreds of them, some surely a hundred years gone, or more. The cold, dry air had reduced them to little more than bone and leathery sinew, but still they shambled forward. Most still wore some shred of the armor they had fallen in, the heavy plates of metal tugging at rotten straps. Noses and ears, if they remained, hung loosely from skulls, eyes long ago rotted away. Yet, somehow, each sensed the intruders and trudged their way.

  "By the gods . . ." Myranda said.

  "The gods have nothing to do with this abomination," Ether growled.

  Instantl
y, she rushed at the shambling legion. They took eagerly to flame, their ancient flesh little more than kindling now for the flames of the shapeshifter's form. Ether continued inside the crypt. With a rush of hot air, the mixed roar of a thousand unholy wails, and the surge of a thousand flames, every last lumbering corpse inside took to flame.

  Myranda pulled what she knew of flame magic to mind, ready to unleash it on the next door that gave way, but from the glow of the crucible Ether had created, forms continued to flow. In flames, the undead continued. Even when the flesh fell entirely from the bones, the skeletons of the fallen continued their march. A second and third door crumbled away, unleashing hundreds more into the valley, a single one of them yet to be defeated.

  "Deacon. Do you know anything about this? The undead? Can you dispel this?" Myranda called.

  "Necromancers were few and far between in Entwell. I'll try what I know," he offered.

  He raised his gem and mumbled a few words, thrusting the crystal outward with the last of them. A thread of light swept out from the casting stone. As the twisting filament struck the burning revenants that had already grown dangerously near, they dropped to the ground. It was as though whatever will had given them life had been pushed away, leaving them to crumble into misshapen piles of remains. A smile and a glimmer of hope flashed across his face as he prepared to unleash another volley, but just as suddenly as the half-dozen or so that had been struck down fell, they rose again.

  "Blast it! Something is fueling the curse. It doesn't take a genius to determine what," he said, looking to the gleaming gems that adorned the roofs. "There is no reason to assume that this spell is any different from their others. Interrupt the source, eliminate the spell."

  "Then we have to destroy the gems," Myranda said.

  That was all Lain needed to hear.

  "Keep Ivy safe," he ordered, sweeping into action.