The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence

by Joseph Lallo

  "I sincerely doubt that you are capable of doing so. But until I can determine a more appropriate method, you shall have your attempt. Listen closely. The smith is named Flinn. You must speak directly to him. If the sword is allowed to be taken by a go-between, it will not be returned quickly, if at all. Inform him that payment will be rendered upon completion of the repair. Under no circumstances should you reveal that you are Chosen, use violence, or threaten violence. Most importantly, do not appear to be anything more than a human," he warned.

  "An act of the utmost simplicity," Ether said.

  She made her way toward the city. When she was far enough that Ivy knew she would not be heard, she spoke.

  "Do you really think she can do it? " Ivy asked.

  "No. But the scene she is certain to make will serve as an adequate diversion. Stay here, and stay hidden," Lain said.

  He vanished swiftly into the darkness. Ivy giggled lightly, eyes trained in the direction of the town, eagerly anticipating a furious Ether storming back defeated. Every so often, however, something distracted her. Her ear would twitch, and she would look over her shoulder. There was a sound occasionally, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the wind. A horse. Ivy crouched a bit further behind the drift.

  Lain crept lightly around the outskirts of the city. He had never come to this place himself, but it was clear which of the precious few buildings was the proper one. Already the raised voice of Ether could be heard berating the young woman who greeted patrons. Lain moved swiftly to the roof. There were no windows to speak of, but near the sharply sloped peak there were vents to let the smoke of the forges out. A screeching clash of wills was taking place. Right now, all that he had to do was listen. Observe. It would be a simple act to find Flinn and offer him his life in exchange for this service, but he had long ago learned that a task performed on pain of death tended to result in a poor outcome. Indeed, confronting Flinn himself would end badly. Men such as he conducted lives separate from the public. They had go-betweens, front men. It was these individuals that must be the first targets. Through them a proper meeting could be arranged. One that would leave the primary target at ease, prepared.

  As he listened, memories of a hundred such nights flashed through his mind. Prior to his acceptance of the assignment that led him to Myranda, this was the norm. This was how he conducted business. The crunching footsteps of an approaching horse prompted him to make a cautionary shift away from the road. The wind blew toward the sound. He pulled in a long slow sniff. No scent from the horse or rider, but amid the burning wood and sizzling metal there was a familiar smell. One of the women inside. The smell wasn't precisely familiar, but he had smelled one like it. The blood wasn't the same, but the bloodline was. It was difficult to determine which woman it was, but there were only two inside aside from Ether. A moment later, after a blistering assault by Ether on the human race as a whole and the greeter in particular, the shape shifter stormed out, followed shortly by the young woman. Her scent thus separated from the rest, he could be sure. It was she. She, then, would be the target. The screaming continued in the snowy road for a minute more before the young woman finally slammed the door on Ether.

  Clutching the blade of the sword in a furious grip tight enough to prompt a dribble of blood, she set off toward the edge of town where Ivy was waiting. As she did, a man on horseback rode by her. The man's eyes lingered on the sword for a moment. The glimmer of recognition was unmistakable. Lain's eyes narrowed. The man's eyes were the only things showing, so bundled was he against the cold. He wore a suit of armor, its surface unmarred by a single nick or gash, only caked with the blown snow. The helmet hung from his saddle, as the thick hood and scarf could not be worn beneath it. Lain scanned the street once more. No one in sight, and all doors closed. The man guided his horse to a small stable behind one of the buildings. Lain leapt silently to its roof. When the man emerged Lain leapt down and pulled him behind the stable, dropping him on his back and placing a foot on his throat. He pulled the scarf from his face.

  "Desmeres," he hissed.

  "Been a while," Desmeres croaked.

  Lain removed his foot from his neck and pulled his former partner to his feet.

  "You have been following me," he said.

  "You couldn't know that," he said, looking at Lain incredulously.

  "Do you deny it?" Lain asked.

  "No, but you couldn't know that. Steps were taken . . . unless. You felt it, didn't you? That bizarre sensitivity to being watched. I'd forgotten about that," Desmeres realized.

  "Why are you here?" he demanded.

  "Look at me, Lain. If it isn't obvious, I have been remiss in my duties," he said.

  Lain drew to mind what he had seen earlier, but kept his eyes locked on those of Desmeres. The half-elf knew him better that any other creature in this world, and at the moment it was not clear that he could be trusted any longer. Aside from the immaculate armor, he recalled a familiar shield had been hanging from his side, and a more familiar hilt protruded from his sheath. A sword hung, in its sheath, from his belt. It was the sword. The one that had begun this crusade. He was dressed precisely as the fallen swordsman in the field had been, the one he had found and watched Myranda approach. The one that had sealed her fate.

  "Why would you pretend to be chosen?" he asked.

  "Misdirection. Adding a dash of truth to a cauldron of lies," he replied. "A highly effective tactic."

  "To what end?" Lain asked, patience wearing thin.

  "To aid my new partners, of course," he said.

  Lain's hand went to the grip of one of the stolen daggers.

  "Then you have become a tool of the D'karon," he said.

  "Surely it doesn't come as a surprise to you. Wasn't it to be expected? It takes the D'karon - indeed, the entirety of the Alliance Army under their control - to equal the skill and opportunities afforded by yourself as an individual. I approached them and offered my services. Doing so without being killed proved an interesting task. They were quite open to the idea, once my allegiance was established. Another challenge, might I add, but one I rose to. They eventually embraced my presence. All save Trigorah. Still bears a bit of a grudge I am afraid. They have her on a rather short leash, however. She's been removed from active duty and confined to the capital. Odd. Regardless. I shared with them a few choice pieces of information, and proposed the idea of posing as a Chosen. I would appear to be on the side of the Alliance, thus making the public less likely to believe that the true Chosen might be opposed. In addition, it was believed that by appearing to be a genuine Chosen One, my presence might flush out the rest of you," he explained.

  "Why follow me?" Lain asked.

  "Why would they accept me into their fold if not to find you?" he asked.

  Lain drew his weapon and placed the blade against Desmeres' throat.

  "And tell me. What is it that you intend to do, now that I am found?" he asked.

  "Very little," he answered.

  "Why should I believe you?" Lain asked.

  "One would hope that years of partnership and familiarity would be enough," Desmeres offered with a weak smile.

  The blade pressed harder.

  "You aren't worth enough, Lain," he added.

  Lain twisted the blade slightly.

  "I am serious. They have no interest in only one or two of you. And they certainly don't want you killed. They were sparse on the details, but they want no less than four of you, five if possible, and simultaneously. And under no circumstances must any of you be killed!" Desmeres said urgently.

  Lain removed the blade.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "They wouldn't tell me. All that they did was give me the names and descriptions of who to watch for," he said, rubbing his throat. "You, of course. They know a great deal about you. They also targeted the shape shifter, and something they called 'The Fourth,' another malthrope. She was with you. And I suspect the shape shifter as well. Conspicuously absent is Myranda. If you were to a
sk me, I'd say their plan is to take on the full force of the Chosen as a whole. I can't imagine why."

  "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you," Lain said.

  "I could refer to the aforementioned years of partnership, but more convincing is the fact that I have the ability to feed disinformation to your many enemies within the Alliance Army. They gave me an object through which I am told to keep them updated on my actions. I recently informed them that I would be checking this town for you. It might be useful to you if I were to report that I had found nothing and was moving on. Less useful would be a missing followup that might indicate the need for closer inspection," he warned.

  Lain considered the statement.

  "I can't say I know what they have planned for you. Having been in their clutches before, I imagine you know what to expect. One would assume another capture would result in more of the same for both yourself and the others," he added.

  "How have you been following me? How is it that I was unable to detect you?" Lain demanded.

  "The D'karon mystics have a number of rather unique specialties. Most wizards concerned with stealth deal exclusively with attempted invisibility. The odd eccentric has tinkered with rendering one's motions silent. Once accepted into their cloister, I found volumes of runes and enchantments dedicated to rendering one undetectable to all senses. Vision, smell, even senses I have never heard of. Indeed, senses I cannot fathom. And the crystals, Lain. The possibilities they afford," Desmeres gushed enthusiastically. "They are truly inspiring. I have been able to infuse your weapons with passive defenses, but these crystals can fuel active, aggressive spells. And the techniques they have can produce weapons so quickly. This sword is a replica of the masterpiece the swordsman had carried. I managed it in days. Not weeks, days! I have got a few blades in the works . . . it pains me to be away from them. Revolutionary. One in particular belongs in no hands but your own, Lain. When it is complete, you shall have it. No one else could do it justice. It is the pinnacle of my art, Lain. I don't care if it finds its way to my throat a heartbeat after it reaches your grasp. This is a blade worthy to taste my blood."

  "Enough! How did you follow me?" Lain asked.

  "Intuition. Familiarity. A secret or two I choose not to reveal," he replied.

  Lain's eyes fell to his neck. Then back to his eyes.

  "Very well," Lain said, taking a step away.

  "Wait," Desmeres said.

  Lain lingered just at the edge of a shadow.

  "How did you break my sword?" he asked.

  "It failed me in battle," he replied.

  "Was it broken by another sword?" Desmeres asked, almost desperate for the answer.

  Lain stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  "It was broken by the hand of another Chosen," he said.

  Lain slipped fully into the darkness.

  "The Chosen . . . it took the spawn of the gods themselves to break it . . . I can accept that. Very well. But listen. Do not let that pretender, Flinn, charge you a copper for what he will do to that sword. The techniques he will steal from it will make him rich enough without charging a fee as well," he said.

  His request fell upon an empty darkness, but he knew Lain had heard it. He walked slowly back into the stable. As he did, he felt for something around his neck, finally pulling forward his chest plate to glance at where it had been. The tooth he had taken from Myranda, Lain's tooth, should have been hanging around his neck. It and the spell she had brought back were largely responsible for allowing him to track Lain so quickly. Realizing what had happened, he chuckled and shook his head.

  "He certainly hasn't lost a step," he said, readying his horse to move on.

  #

  Lain returned to the spot outside the town where the others were waiting. There were more questions that could have been asked. More warnings that could have been delivered, but time was short. It was unwise to leave Ether and Ivy alone together. When he discovered them, they were predictably exchanging harsh words, though mercifully in whispers.

  "There you are. Tell her what you told me. That you just wanted her to be a distraction," Ivy insisted, her teeth chattering.

  "Do not indulge her madness," Ether said.

  "It is true," Lain stated flatly. "You served your purpose. The situation is in hand."

  Ivy stuck out her tongue at Ether, who stood with a stern look on her face, speechless.

  "You relied upon my failure?" she scoffed. "How could you leave something of such importance to so remote a chance?"

  Lain ignored the statement, continuing. "Be silent until the weapon shop closes. One of the humans inside may be persuaded to help us."

  "That is spectacularly unlikely. All in attendance seemed unified in their desire to prevent the expedient repair of that weapon," Ether warned.

  Lain remained silent. He crouched and slowly lulled himself into the trance that had come to replace sleep for him. Ivy huddled near to him against the cold, finally placing her head on his shoulder and dropping off to sleep. After staring at the scene with growing disgust, Ether took a seat on the ground and shifted to water, and soon after ice.

  A few hours passed. His body at rest, Lain's mind remained active. He closed his eyes, his ears vigilant even in rest. Thoughts lingered in his mind. He thought of the dangers that he still faced, the tasks that still lay before him. Slowly, doubt began to grow.

  He should have killed Desmeres. He could not be trusted. He should not be waiting here, it was a waste of very precious time. He should have left Ether. She is unpredictable and uncontrollable. His judgment was failing him. His skills were failing him. The end was coming, and swiftly. For the first time in his life he had something to live for, something besides his vengeance to keep him going, but it was clouding his mind. He was making mistakes. If he continued to make these mistakes, he would be killed. If he was killed, Ivy would die. The last real hope for his kind, possibly the last living member of his race, would be gone.

  Lain tried to force the thoughts away. Doubts were a death sentence. If there was one thing he had learned in all of his life, it was that the past is past. The only thing that matters is the future. If one does not believe entirely in one's choices, then one has already failed. He had to stay focused on his tasks. The greatest danger in the warrior's sleep was the threat of being consumed by the darkest aspects of the mind, the thoughts that too often drifted to the surface. Those who slipped too far awoke to madness, or not at all.

  Distantly, the sound of a door opening signaled an end to the trance. Quickly his body awoke, fatigue reduced greatly. He rose to his feet, ignoring the stiffness and soreness. Ivy was jarred awake by the suddenness and gazed drowsily at her friend.

  "What is going on?" she asked.

  "Stay hidden. I will return soon," he said.

  Before she could object or reply, he was gone. Lain's movements were barely affected by his injuries anymore. A few more hours entranced would restore him completely. As he slipped silently from shadow to shadow, a feeling of familiarity, of comfort came over him. Stalking a target. This is what he knew. This was his life. He moved to the rooftops. With snow on the ground, he would leave footprints. There was no telling how long the repair would take. Footprints where they didn't belong might spark the people's suspicions. That would make remaining hidden more difficult. On the roofs, his movements would leave no trace for the casual observer. Soon he had found what he was seeking. Her scent was strongest here. It was her home. She had stepped inside just moments before. He listened closely. She was not alone. Two children were inside, and another woman. For a few moments more he listened. They complained that they were hungry. Swiftly he darted to the back of the house, dropping down. There was a low door, already half hidden beneath the piling snow on the rear of the house. With a smooth motion he slipped the end of his broken sword between the door and the jam and slipped it up.

  Inside, a brace lifted out of place and the weight of the snow began to push the door open. He squeezed through
the opening and pushed the door silently shut, sliding the brace back in place. The room was a shallow basement. It was stacked nearly to the low ceiling with the firewood it had been dug to hold. A rat scurried away as he navigated the pitch blackness toward the door. On the other side he heard the clang of a heavy pot. The door opened and his target reached in to fetch a few pieces of wood for the fire. Lain pinned himself close to the wall, hidden from the light of the doorway. As she knelt to load her arms with wood, he slipped into the kitchen. The stone chimney that ran up through the center of the house had a warm fire burning. There were openings leading to the den on one side and the kitchen on this side. It provided most of the light, all of the heat, and cooked the food for the home. Here and there, an oil lamp burned. The kitchen was well stocked with pans, pots, and knives. Cabinets were stacked with clay dinnerware. This was a well provided for home. A narrow door to one side of a counter led to a pantry, similarly filled with roots, vegetables, bread, and smoked meats. He slipped inside and silently shut the door.

  In the other room, the children were arguing loudly. She shouted at them as she opened the darkened pantry and stepped inside, holding a lamp. Lain maneuvered behind her, unseen, and slowly shut the door. The sound drew her attention, but Lain easily remained behind her, reaching across and snatching the lamp away with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

  "Silence," he hissed voicelessly as he lowered the lamp and extinguished it.

  She obeyed, the room plunging into darkness.

  "When you were young, your parents told you a tale. They told you of the day that freedom was gained in exchange for a single favor. That favor was the duty of your family to perform. Generation to generation it would be passed down until the day that it would be repaid. Today is that day. Do you understand?" he asked in a bare whisper.

  She nodded.

  "Good. On the floor beside you, you will find the pieces of a sword. A very special sword. You have seen the weapon before and refused it. You shall take this weapon to your employer, Flinn, and present it to him. It must be reforged. Convincing him to do so will not be difficult. It must be finished in no more than a week. Convincing him to part with it will be difficult, but that is not your task. You must simply ensure that he begins work on the piece, reveal where the work shall be done, and bring the finished piece back here. Do this, and the debt is lifted. If I am satisfied, you will know, and your children need not hear the same tale. Do you agree?" he asked.