The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  "Good morning, Ayna. The first to send the other to the ground is the winner. I will be using a training sword, you may use your proper sword if you wish," he said.

  Her opponent did not seem intimidated, or indeed as though his blood was racing with the prospect of combat, but that was little concern to Ayna. It simply meant that she had the advantage.

  "Two paces back, and set your sword," Ayna said. She pulled her sword free, took two tiny steps back and jabbed it lightly into the wood of the fence post.

  Blin paced back and planted his sword, driving its blunt end into the soil with little effort. The crowd parted to give them room, and silence fell over the battlefield. Ayna watched her prey as he stood stone still, his arms crossed. She thought back to his training, and to the battle with Martin. He was a tricky one. He wanted her to act first. She waited, watching him. The moments crawled by. Ayna did her best to be patient, to let Blin make the first move, but he simply stared at her evenly. She smiled, her face hidden behind her helmet. If he would not act first, then she would get the drop on him.

  In a blur, she snatched her sword and launched toward her foe. He plucked his sword and raised it, swatting through the air. She bobbed below it, feeling the breeze rush across her, and angled her sword.

  A slice across the chest, she thought. Good impact to throw him off balance, then hook around behind the knee.

  He stepped back and twisted, attempting to move out of the way of her blow, but she adjusted her flight and slashed hard against his chest. Her weapon barely made a mark in the tough cloth of his training pads, and the impact didn't so much as cause him to stumble. No matter. She would continue her maneuver. A good hard jab to the back of the knee should--

  With a crack, she was sent tumbling downward. The strike was so swift she was stuck more by the surprise than the pain. It slapped against her legs, thumping hard against the leather of her armor with enough force to rattle her bones. Ayna hesitated to think what might have happened had she not been wearing armor. She desperately got her feet beneath her in time to plant them on the ground and leap back off, deftly evading a follow-up attack and flitting out of range to regroup. She turned and found him quickly closing the gap she'd created, his sword held high. Her mind still reeling from the blow that had nearly cost her the match, she didn't have the wits about her to be frightened or angry. She simply reached desperately into her mind for anything that might help her. What she found was one of the first bits of practical instruction Blin had given. She raised her weapon in a perfect defensive pose, even angling her dangling feet as though set against the ground.

  As perfect as her form had been, the block did little good. His sword met hers and she was batted aside like a child's ball. The blow knocked the wind from her lungs and the weapon from her hands, twisting her helmet sideways. She was unarmed and blind now, but she was still aloft. She'd not yet lost. She frantically worked her wings to bring herself to a stop, then grasped her helmet with both hands to try to right it. She could hear Blin charging toward her, and without her vision she knew she would never be able to dodge an attack.

  The wind curled around her. She felt it with her skin, with her mind, with her spirit. As she had so many times before, she read the wind, allowing it to tell its story. She felt it swirl and compress, a wave of it curving toward her, washing over her. She worked her wings harder, raising her legs and twisting aside. The tip of Blin's sword passed near enough to graze her wings. She felt the rush of air pushed along by his body now, the wisps brushed outward by his legs, the breeze fanned by his arms, the breath rushing from his nostrils. An open hand was plowing through the air toward her. She dropped and pivoted as it swatted by. She could feel his position now, picture it in her mind. There was an opening. Even without her weapon she had to take it.

  Ayna worked her wings for all they were worth, straightening her spine, stiffening her neck, and driving herself bodily into the hollow of his throat. The blow to his windpipe staggered him, sending him stumbling backward. Had she been better prepared, Ayna might have been able to capitalize. A swipe to the knee, a jab to the foot, and he might just have struck the ground. As it was, the blow had dizzied her far worse than it had destabilized her foe. She was now drifting in the air woozily, fighting with her helmet and reading the breeze for some idea of her opponent's state.

  Finally, she twisted her helmet properly. Blin was on his feet, his sword ready, and heading toward her. She spied her weapon on the ground and darted for it. Her breath was heaving now, her heart pounding in her ears. What little strength she had was almost gone. If she didn't end this battle soon, the fatigue of maneuvering in this armor would do her in just as surely as his attacks. She fetched the weapon, landing briefly and leaping toward him. His sword whistled through the air, but she twirled aside to dodge. No sense going for anything so glancing as a chest blow. Every strike had to count. She darted for his face and put her weapon to work.

  To the onlookers, it must have appeared that Blin was being attacked by a nest of angry wasps. Ayna's attacks were wild and had little strength behind them, but they were plentiful. She cut shallow nicks across his cheeks and forehead, slicing away a lock of hair and cutting a divot from his eyebrow. He grimaced and swatted twice at her, but when her weapon nearly found his eye, he reached his limit, with an angry claw of his hand, he swatted a third time. She was too tired to react in time and the hand caught her squarely in the chest, knocking her sword away again. Before she could so much as begin to dream up a possible counter, he had forced her to the ground.

  For a few seconds they remained in that position, Blin crouched with his palm pinning Ayna to the ground, Ayna panting and trying to gather herself. When the rush of battle faded enough, Blin slowly lifted his hand and turned it palm up, offering it for aid. There was a smattering of applause and more than a few nods of surprise and appreciation.

  "You fought well," Blin said, "but the battle is mine."

  Ayna gritted her teeth and pushed his hand away. "I," she panted, "demand a rematch. Without the armor. If not for... this armor... I would have defeated you."

  "If not for the armor you would have been in the hands of the healers after the first blow."

  "You don't know that," Ayna said. Tears were running down her face freely now, fueled by rage, pain, shame, and embarrassment. "If I hadn't been weighed down you never could have touched me. Let me shed this armor and catch my breath, and I demand you fight me again!"

  She fought the armor from her back and stumbled toward the sword. "I demand it! I demand you fight me again!"

  "Ayna, look at me," Blin said.

  The fairy turned viciously toward him, sword in hand.

  "You fought well today. I'm not too proud to admit you fought better than I'd expected. But this can't continue. The best of your blows could barely scratch a suit of armor, and as fast as you might be it would take only one lucky strike to slice you in two. I will teach you all I can, train you to the best of my ability, but when it comes to true swordcraft, I know of no way for you to prove yourself in combat without the aide of magic, which would prove little of your skills in a true battle. Perhaps, with time, you will find a way to overcome your shortcomings, but as you are now there are simply limits you will have to accept."

  Ayna panted, the thrill of combat slowly dropping away and leaving behind the burning pain of fatigue and the blows that met their mark. She shut her eyes and painfully took to the air, throwing down her sword and darting toward her home.

  #

  Never in her life had Ayna wished she were smaller, but in this moment she wished she would vanish entirely. She had curled up in a knothole of her tree, back to the world and weeping quietly in the darkness. All she wanted was to be gone, to never have feel another pair of eyes staring at her. She thought of her family, and of how she would never see them again because she was too weak and frightened to make the journey home again, and would only be a burden to them if she did. Her mind churned with images of the faces
of her captors, many of whom had seen her make a fool of herself in her battle with Blin. All of it was her fault. For all of her training, for all of her delusion, she was as hopeless and worthless now as when she'd been trapped in the jar.

  "Ayna..." called a voice from the mouth of the knothole. It was, of course, Fiora. "Are you hurt, child?"

  "No." She curled up tighter. "Go away!" She whimpered. "I don't want you to see me like this."

  "Like what, sore after a rough trial? You can scarcely turn a corner around here without finding someone like that."

  "This wasn't a rough trial. It was a disaster. I'm a laughingstock!" Ayna said, turning her tear-soaked face to the older fairy.

  "A laughingstock?" Fiora said. "No one was laughing, I assure you."

  "Not on the outside," Ayna said, reluctantly sitting up as Fiora drifted inside. "But I proved to them I was exactly what they all expected me to be. I'm a weakling. A bug."

  "You proved to them that you are a remarkably driven young student with more enthusiasm than patience. And yes, that is indeed exactly what they expected you to be, because we all begin that way. Here, you forgot to take this when you left," Fiora said.

  Ayna looked to Fiora curiously, as she was not carrying anything, but a wave of her hand brought a sliver of metal into view outside the knothole, held aloft by a swirling breeze. It was her sword. The younger fairy turned away.

  "I don't want it. I don't need it anymore. I'm never going to be a warrior."

  "Maybe you will, maybe you won't, but there's no reason not to keep it. I even reforged it for you. It got a bit bent in the fight."

  "You keep it then."

  Fiora sighed. "I watched your bout, you know."

  "Of course you did. Everyone did. So they all know how poorly I did."

  "Let me ask you something. When your helmet was turned aside, could you see?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then how did you dodge his attacks? And how did you target his throat?"

  "I just... I felt the wind. The way it moved. The same way I found my way through the cave."

  "Did anyone teach you to do that?"

  "No, it's just... I don't know. I've always known it. Since I was a baby. Can't you do it?"

  "Well enough to find my way through a cave, but to dodge a sword? Heavens no. Do you know what it is to be attuned with something?"

  "I... I think."

  "You are attuned with the wind. All fairies are, but if you could read it well enough to fight half of that battle blind, then you are better attuned than most."

  "What good does it do me? I can't cast any spells, and I'm still just a fairy. Who cares if I'm a bit better at feeling the wind than others?"

  "Ayna, you don't understand how important magic is to fairies. Magic is a part of almost every creature that lives, but for few is this more so than for our kind. It pulses through us. It entwines with us. And the stronger our connection to it, the stronger we are. If you never learned to work magic at all, if somehow you never learned the secret of conjuring the breeze, you might live to see twenty springs. I've learned to focus my strength and expanded my knowledge, and I've seen over a hundred. I'm stronger, healthier. Even if you'd won your battle today, even if you'd been the most gifted student of the sword that Entwell has ever seen, I would have continued to coax you toward magic, if only to give you the stamina, the strength, and the constitution to let you live a long, full life."

  "It doesn't matter. None of it matters. You heard what Blin said. There's just no way."

  "Tell me, why did you want to be a warrior again?"

  "Because they are brave and strong. And because they are respected and feared."

  "Well, you just faced a seasoned swordsman many times your size after only a few weeks of training. No one can claim you aren't brave. And if you want strength, fear, and respect? Follow me."

  "I don't want to--"

  "Oh, hush. What are you going to do instead, burrow yourself into this little knothole forever? Now come with me. You're going to wash your face and you're going to see what I have to show you. After that, if you want to come back here and sulk in the darkness, I'll leave you be."

  Ayna wiped her nose and stared at Fiora, a bit stunned. It was as near to harsh as the matronly old fairy had been since her arrival. Something about a normally gentle voice speaking sharply has a way of making the words all the more meaningful. Numbly, the young fairy drifted on aching wings after Fiora. At a nearby basin of water that Ayna suspected Fiora had arranged to be brought, she washed away the dirt and tears from her face and hands. Then they continued toward the mountain until they reached an unassuming glade with a circle of students dressed in yellow tunics.

  The students forming the circle were of all ages, and many races. There were a few other fairies like herself, but there were also humans, dwarves, and elves. At the center of the circle was an elf who had to be ancient. The race was known to be incredibly long-lived, and yet this one was bent nearly double with the weight of the years. He was thin to the point of being gaunt, and his knobby and skeletal fingers clutched an elegant white staff with a yellow jewel. White hair fell sparsely from this head and draped across his shoulders like a cape, nearly reaching the ground behind him.

  "If you want respect, strength, and fear, look no further," Fiora said reverently.

  "Who, him?" Ayna said, feeling as though her time had been wasted.

  "He is Highest Master of Wind Magic, Master Clescale. He is one of the five strongest mages we have, and thus likely one of the five strongest mages the world has to offer."

  "He is a master of wind magic? But it looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over!" she said.

  "Looks are the last thing that should be used to judge anything," Fiora said. She raised her voice to be heard over the murmuring of the students. "Master Clescale, if I may?"

  The elderly wizard looked to her with the expression of vague comprehension the elderly seemed to wear almost by default, as though the whole world was a bit of a riddle and they hadn't quite solved it. When he spotted Fiora, a grin came to his face.

  "My friend here believes she might do well to one day be your apprentice, but she's uncertain your element has the power she seeks. Might you give us a small demonstration?"

  He nodded, again with the sort of look on his face that suggested he didn't quite understand what was requested, but understood that this was a moment when nodding was appropriate. Despite this, at the sight of the gesture the circle of students dispersed, some nearly in a panic, into shelter of the surrounding trees. When they were clear, and Fiora had gently coaxed Ayna to a similar distance, he began to stir the air with his staff.

  Instantly, a strong breeze seemed to follow it. As his stirring increased, so too did the breeze until it was nearly enough to pull Ayna from the ground. Fiora, who seemed oddly anchored despite her similar size, held Ayna tight as the wind continued to grow in strength. Soon the branches in the whole of the glade were creaking as though they were in the depths of a terrible storm. Dirt and stones were drawn into the air, and the whole of the village seemed lost in an apocalyptic whistle. Still he stirred, speeding the wind further, but with the other hand he beckoned, urging the wind to draw closer to him. It obeyed, the terrible gale tightening and intensifying, wrapping around him until it existed only as a towering column just barely wider than his shoulders.

  He was nearly hidden by the dust and stone drawn into the tornado around him. Some of the rocks drawn up from the ground were the size of fists. With the merest twitch of his hand, the column shifted, moving now beside him, with each rock obligingly avoiding him as they twisted through the air. He then looked with interest around the clearing, turning eventually to the mountain, he spotted a sizable boulder just visible in the distance. He pointed, and like an attack dog waiting to pounce, the twisting wind obeyed. It carved a line across the landscape, rushing toward the boulder. When it reached it, the enormous lump of rock was swiftly lost within the twisting winds.
For a few seconds, it continued to churn and grind, then with his permission, it dispersed. The boulder was entirely missing.

  "What? Where did it..." Ayna began.

  He held up his hand, then pointed to the sky. A speck of black against the mountains was plummeting earthward. It was almost too high to be seen. As it fell it grew larger, before long growing near enough to be recognized as the boulder unfortunate enough to be his target. Nearly a minute later, it came whistling down, and just before it struck the center of the clearing the master held his hand out, palm up, as if to catch it. A wind so intense it could be seen, even without dust and stone to give it form, coalesced beneath the boulder, slowing it until it came to a stop just above the ground. He then tipped his hand aside and the wind vanished, dropping the boulder at his feet with a thump.

  With that, he released a contented sigh and shuffled away. The glade looked like it had been through a whole storm season in the space of a few minutes. Despite this, not a hair on his head had been disturbed by the gale, and not a speck of dirt clung to his tunic. He offered a wordless gesture, and the students who had taken shelter snapped quickly to action, summoning their own, lesser winds to begin to clean up his mess, sweeping together displaced soil and replanting grass and saplings pulled free.

  Ayna's mouth hung open, her eyes gleaming.

  "I could be as powerful as him?" she said.

  "With time, perhaps more powerful. Fairies are practically one with the wind, and you more so than most."

  "But... but warriors forge legends. Could a wind mage in Entwell ever truly be legendary?"

  "Ayna, in the world you were taken from, a war is raging. It has been raging for longer than most can even remember. Some say it is a war that won't end until the world is lost to it. Legends tell of a group of warriors who will rise to stop this terrible conflict and those responsible. And those same legends say that those warriors will find shelter, training, and strength in Entwell. One of the students here may be one of the chosen force who will save this world. If you remain here and rise in the ranks, you will make a mark on this world. You may train beside such a hero. You may teach such a hero. You may summon such a hero. You may be such a hero. It is practically written in the stars that greatness must first prove itself in Entwell, and look where fate has guided you."