by Joseph Lallo
"Myranda! I knew when I saw you that things would soon change! You are a godsend!" Caya declared, snatching a sword from Tus' latest conquest and looking dejectedly for a foe that would not come.
"You aren't angry? You are here because of me," Myranda said, confused that no apology had been demanded of her.
"I would have eventually found my own way to a place like this. But thanks to you dozens of others did!" she said excitedly.
"I don't understand," Myranda said.
"No one believes what the army is capable of. What this war has turned us into! These people will be angry, hurt, disillusioned, and they will have nowhere to turn. That is the recipe for an Undermine Soldier. Our ranks will be doubled! And I have you to thank," Caya said.
"But weren't you tortured?" Myranda asked.
"Not for more than a few minutes, if you call that interview in the chair torture. In fact, once you were brought in, that fellow with the halberd ordered these beastly guards to feed us better. He said he wanted us healthy and full of life," she said.
Myranda shuddered. Epidime had wanted them to be healthy when he killed them. He wanted their deaths to cause all the more pain to Myranda when he finally won.
"Let us go. If Tus left anyone for me to kill, I will see to it that you are not touched until we have made good our escape," Caya declared.
"No! I can't go with you," Myranda said.
"But you must!" Caya said.
"No. They may not want you as a captive anymore, but Epidime has a personal vendetta against me," Myranda said. "We are both better off if I am alone."
"Fine then, but we will meet again," Caya said.
"You will be my wife," Tus stated.
For a moment the trio was silent.
"You already have a wife, Tus. Henna, remember?" Caya reminded him.
"You will be my new wife," Tus amended.
"Move, Tus. We've got recruiting to do," Caya said.
Tus agreed and the pair hurried back up the stairs. The fort had maintained a full complement of nearmen. They were vicious soldiers to be sure, but a frenzied mob that outnumbered them ten to one was more than they could handle. In minutes the heavy doors were forced open and prisoners had run off in every direction. No more than ten guards survived the chaos. These survivors took up arms and searched the fort thoroughly. The other prisoners were nothing, but Myranda would have to be found. When every cell and the whole of the courtyard had been scoured, the nearmen took to the surrounding fields. All that had been found was a trail of blood drops leading to a discarded torch near the doors. Hundreds of trails would have to be followed to their end. Myranda would be found. The soldiers marched into the setting sun on foot, the horses taken by the first of the prisoners.
For several minutes there was no sound but the wind, and no motion at all. Finally, there was a stir in a dark corner. In the stable, little more than a simple shed beside the stronghold, Myranda struggled to push aside a feed tray filled with oats and crawled from her hiding place. She made her way to the water trough, broke the layer of ice on top and scooped greedily at the water. When her thirst was slaked she turned reluctantly to the oats. She needed some sort of food. Raw oats would have to do. Reaching into the tray, suddenly she felt a cold, sharp, familiar sensation against her neck. A blade.
"Don't try to look. Where is the girl?" a harsh whisper demanded.
Myranda hadn't the energy to be afraid.
"You've found her," she answered, defeated and too tired to panic.
"Myranda?!" came a voice she recognized.
"Desmeres?" she said, turning weakly when the blade was removed.
"You caused all of this? What sort of a damsel in distress manages to escape on her own?" he said with a laugh of disbelief.
Desmeres was dressed in a white hooded robe with a white bag slung across his back. In one hand was a knife, the other held a much bulkier sack. The contents of the sack seemed to be churning violently.
"Desmeres, you can't turn me in again, I need to warn . . . " Myranda began, her voice wavering.
"I am not here to put you back in, I am here to get you out," he said, helping her to her feet and leading her to a window. "Did you lose weight? You feel lighter than . . . oh my heavens . . . Myranda, if I didn't know it had only been a few weeks since you left us, I would swear it had been five hard years."
In the light he could see the results of the captivity. She was visibly thinner, pale, and ragged. Her clothes, hands, and face were smudged with dirt. Her right hand was clenched in a white knuckled grip around a wad of her tunic surrounded by a growing red stain. Every word was slurred, and she seemed on the verge of unconsciousness.
"Is Lain here?" she asked, worried.
"He ought to be. I . . . " he answered.
"And Myn?" she interrupted.
"Tied up in the sack. We were . . . " he attempted.
"Why?" she thwarted.
"She couldn't go with Lain, she won't listen to me, and I didn't want to leave her alone," he blurted before she could interrupt again.
"Why are you helping me to escape?" she asked.
"They didn't come through with the full price. Just a bit more than half," Desmeres said dismissively. "Myranda, what did they do to you in there?"
"Why would they . . . They know! Desmeres, tell me, where is Lain?" she demanded, suddenly with an urgency that cut through her weariness.
"The plan was for me to create a distraction long enough for him to slip over the wall and inside. I was weighing possibilities when that mayhem started, which we both agreed was a bit more distraction than we had hoped for. He had to wait until the guards went off high alert, then slipped over the back wall. Presumably he is still inside. Why?" he asked.
"They've been trying to get into my head. They know he is Chosen. They will try to capture him, or kill him, I'm not sure. That has to be why they didn't pay the full price. They knew he would come back to get me! We need to find him!" she said.
"Relax, Myranda, relax. Lain and I have been at this for a very long time. I am not so naive as to assume that this was a regrettable accounting error. We are prepared for every contingency. Now, I have some food here. I think you should eat something," Desmeres said, concern in his voice as he removed the bag from his back and began rummaging though it. Outside, the wind began to gust.
"Not now! I will not be responsible for another person being locked away in this place! We will find him and we will escape!" Myranda said.
A shadow darkened the doorway, drawing her attention. It was Lain, holding the bag Myranda had been carrying when she arrived.
"The sword isn't here," Lain said, similarly dressed. He tossed the bag to her feet.
"Lain! You have to leave this place! Run!" she said.
"That is the plan," Desmeres agreed. "But first, Myranda, open your hand."
"I am not hungry!" Myranda said, lying through her teeth for the sake of a quicker escape.
"But you are bleeding. Open up," he said, removing a thin glass vial from the bag.
She held the nasty looking injury out. Desmeres snapped the vial. Instantly Myranda felt as though he had poured boiling lead into her palm. She gasped and pulled it back.
"I am afraid that is supposed to happen. I am not particularly skilled at healing potions," Desmeres apologized.
When the pain subsided, Myranda opened her hand to see that the injury was closed, though the dried remnants of it still stained her palm. A moment later the trio stepped tentatively into the fading light of the courtyard. All was still. They approached the doors, still open from the mob's escape. Lain held out an arm signaling the others to stop. He took a long, slow deliberate whiff of the air. A hint of concern came to his face.
"Not satisfied?" Desmeres asked.
"This wind. It is circling around us. It isn't bringing me anything useful," he said, scanning the horizon with his eyes.
"Perhaps there is nothing to smell," Desmeres offered.
In response Lain locked
his eyes on a spot in the distance, his hands moving to the hilt of his sword. Whatever it was, it was approaching from the air, and very quickly. Between the fort and the nearest cover was a field of snow and ice. Lain alone might have succeeded in reaching it before the form in the sky was upon them.
#
Deacon ran to the small hut at the edge of the village where they housed their prophet. A pair of apprentices, one an older man and the other a young woman, were sitting inside. They were both clearly desperate for a distraction from their painfully dull assignment. The winded young wizard who burst through the door was thus a welcome sight to them.
"Master Deacon, is there something wrong?" the woman asked.
"No, no. I have come to relieve you Mera, and you Karr," he said, slowly regaining his breath.
"Oh!" Mera, the woman proclaimed excitedly, but drooped as a thought occurred to her. "But I've six more hours in my shift. And Karr has three."
"I believe I have the seniority necessary to give you your freedom a few hours early," he said.
The pair was quite happy to have the afternoon returned. Neither was so foolish as to ask why one of the usually self interested Masters would take such a fruitless job. Nor did they stop to mention the policy that at least two witnesses be present when monitoring the prophet. When they had left, Deacon positioned a chair before Hollow and sat. The old, frail figure showed no signs of life. His head hung limply down, his hands and arms clearly posed into some semblance of comfort. He gazed with the faded, cloudy eyes of a corpse. Despite all of this, Deacon could not help but offer a few moments of reverent silence. Finally, after a deep breath, he spoke.
"Hollow. Your connection to the spirits is unparalleled. I know that you only speak when the spirits direct it, but there is a matter of great concern at hand," he said.
The fragile figure sat motionless.
"I have been using my own limited skills to monitor a woman you spoke to directly during your last recitation. She appears to be in danger. I do not have the capacity to see for certain what is in store for her. I beseech you, oh great prophet, to speak on her behalf. Tell of her place on the path. Tell what the fates have planned for her," he said.
Silence.
"If I have read your predictions correctly, she could have a vital role in bringing the Chosen together. If she is in danger, the very prophesy may be in danger," he offered.
Silence.
"Listen to me . . . Tober," he spoke quietly, invoking the name that Hollow had once been called. "If there is anything left of you, you must believe me. I must know about her."
Silence.
"Damn it, old man! Listen!" Deacon cried, leaping up and hoisting Hollow from the chair by his tunic. It was like lifting a scarecrow. "I need to know! I need to know if she will be all right! I need to know that she will come back to us! That she will come back to me! This world cannot survive without her! I cannot survive without her! Speak! SPEAK!"
Withered fingers suddenly wrapped around his neck and he was wrenched into the air. Deacon grasped the old man's wrist and gasped for breath.
#
The forms in the sky grew nearer.
"Myranda, I think you and I had best slip inside until the threat passes," Desmeres suggested.
"I am not going back in there," Myranda said, pulling her staff and dagger from her bag.
The moment she touched the staff, a clarity she forgotten she could achieve seeped slowly into her mind. She was still weak, but she at least could think.
"Give me Myn," she demanded.
"Now is not the best time for a reunion. There is something on the way, and the only reason anything would be headed to this godforsaken place so quickly would be to kill one or more of us," Desmeres pointed out as he reluctantly lowered the bag to the ground.
"If there is fighting to be done, I don't want her to be helpless," Myranda said, cutting the bonds.
Myn instantly was on top of her, lavishing weeks of affection all at once. Myranda toppled to the ground.
"Yes. A helpless dragon would have been quite distracting," Desmeres jabbed sternly.
"Dragoyles. Two of them," Lain announced quietly, backing to the wall.
"No. Lain, I didn't bring my bow. The only time I have ever seen one of these killed was with a very well placed arrow," Desmeres said, the beginnings of panic in his voice. It was the least composed she had seen him since they had met.
"What is a dragoyle?" Myranda asked, leaning heavily on her staff to climb to her feet.
Lain leveled a finger at the sky.
The creatures were quite near, and dropping down for a landing. Each was gray as charcoal, nearly black. The hide had a crude, rocky appearance. In form they were like a malformed, bulky parody of a dragon, as though a sculptor who had never seen one had fashioned the dragoyles from vague descriptions. The limbs, tail and neck all had a segmented look to them, like pieces that were joined together rather than grown. On their heads, a crown of cruel looking jagged horns stuck out at random and unnatural angles. Hollow sockets were where their eyes should have been. In place of teeth was a serrated edge lining the jaws of the creatures, forming a lipless beak. Overall, the creature's head more closely resembled the skull of a dragon than the head of one. Only the bat-like wings seemed to be well shaped, though as they grew closer Myranda could see that even they were more coarse and angular than they should have been. These were undoubtedly the same type of creature she'd seen dead in the snow when she found the sword. Aside from a slight size difference and the placement of the occasional battle scar, they were identical. One was easily the size of an elephant, the other slightly smaller. On the larger creature's back was a rider, a woman Myranda didn't recognize, in a standard Northern cloak. In her hand was a halberd.
"Epidime had a halberd just like the one she is holding," Myranda warned.
Myn adopted a defensive stance. Desmeres pressed himself to the courtyard wall just beside the doors. Lain took a place on the opposite side of the door. Myranda and Myn joined him. The dragoyles landed with an earth shaking impact and the rider dismounted. Footsteps crunching in the snow could be heard advancing toward them for a few moments, then nothing but the whistling of the wind.
"You may as well show yourself, Lain. I know that you have come," the woman called out.
Lain cast a sharp look in Myranda's direction.
"I must say, releasing all of the prisoners didn't seem to me like the sort of thing you might do. And most of the soldiers are gone as well. You have been busy. No matter, I have reinforcements ready to deploy if I need them. Whether or not I do is entirely up to you, Lain. My orders are quite simple. Recruit you if I can, capture you if I can't, kill you if I must," she said. There was a quality to her tone of voice that chilled Myranda.
As she spoke, Lain was slowly sidestepping to the inwardly opened door. Desmeres did the same, both ready to push them shut. Myranda put her eye to the crack between the door and the wall. The woman was tapping her halberd on the ground and looking thoughtful. The wind was steadily growing more intense. It was whistling in their ears now. The woman had to shout to be heard when she finally found the words she was searching for.
"Lain does not know a single spell, does he?" she said. "It is just as well that the soldiers are gone. The cloaks will make a far better match."
The woman turned and began to approach the creature she’d been riding. At the sound of the retreating footsteps, Lain streaked out from the doorway. He timed his bounding steps with hers. Myranda turned away at the ring of his blade. A horrifying slicing sound was followed by the sound of a body dropping to the ground. Myranda cringed, but even her weary mind realized that something was missing. There was no scream. Myranda turned and looked through the crack. The woman was fairly intact, save the horrid gash that ran from her right shoulder to her left hip. She was hunched against the halberd, which was driven into the ground. The dragoyles were, mysteriously, motionless. Lain kept a watchful eye on the beasts while he kicked
the body to the ground and drove his blade through her heart. He then warily made his way back to the fort.
"Why aren't the monsters attacking?" Myranda asked.
"I have heard of this. They are either very well trained or mystically linked. Whichever it may be, they don't act without a rider giving orders. Lain once again proves why he is the field man of our duo," he says, a mixture of pride and relief peppering his voice.
"We need to move. Now," Lain ordered.
The others had no objection and moved as quickly as they could, which was frustratingly slow in Myranda's case. She felt like she had been awake for days, and quite likely had been. Her legs constantly threatened to give out on her. Myn slowed to keep pace. Lain was far ahead, with Desmeres midway between them. He turned when Myranda was too far back for her staggering footsteps to be heard. The captor-turned-rescuer called something out to her, but the wind had grown stronger still, and was screaming in her ears. He turned to repeat himself.
"If you do not hurry, I am going to have to carry you! And . . . Lain!" he cried. His eyes widened in disbelief.
Myranda and Lain turned in unison. The "dead" woman had reached up to the still standing halberd and was hoisting herself to her feet. If there had been any doubt that the sword had missed its mark, a dark blood stain, visible even at this distance, confirmed the killing blow. Myranda knew that Lain was fast, but the speed he showed now was beyond belief. He closed the gap between himself and his foe in the time it had taken for the woman to get to her feet and pull the halberd from the ground. He raised his weapon, but the woman blocked his blow with hers. A heartbeat later, a flash in the blade's gem threw Lain backward, sliding him across the ground a fair distance and separating him from his sword.
"I wish you hadn't stabbed the heart. I shall have to make this fight a swift one," she said, her face white as death, but managing to convey a smug look of annoyance.
As Lain rushed to his sword, the woman twirled the halberd for speed and struck the larger dragoyle's back with the blade. It clanged as though it had struck stone, severing the rope securing a pair of bundles to the beast's back. The creature, despite the blow that would have cost a man his life, remained motionless. A gust of wind caught the contents of the bundles and cloaks, dozens of them, were scattered to the ground around the creature. A second flash of the gem caused the lifeless things to rise. The wind fluttered the garments, empty yet clinging to outlines of unseen occupants. A second pair of bundles received the same treatment a moment later.