The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril

by Joseph Lallo

  He held his crystal unsteadily over the bag. A pulse of light and a flex of will later and the bag seemed to rise up, as though it was no longer heavy enough to compress the broken creature beneath it. Sure enough, Deacon grasped the bag once more, this time lifting it as though it were empty, which it indeed seemed to be. He began to paw through it clumsily. As he did, the sound of much clinking and jostling could be heard from within.

  “Sh-sh-sh-should have organized this better,” he said, suddenly beginning to cough a dry hollow cough as the bite of the cold finally got the better of his lungs. When the fit subsided, he cast a harried eye to the door behind them. “Is it warmer inside, p-p-perhaps?”

  “I wouldn't risk it. There was some spell on the door that released those creatures,” she said.

  “If it was placed there, it can be removed,” he said, gathering the bag closed and rushing to the door.

  Myranda watched anxiously as he inspected the door. He looked it over, even without his crystal at work, seeming to follow lines and patterns that weren't there, until his eyes settled upon the door sill.

  “Here. R-r-runes. I don't recognize them . . . but . . . it would seem they are spent. If we can manage to p-p-p-pry the door, the spell will not activate again,” he stated with certainty.

  With that he heaved a shoulder at the door, bouncing painfully off. He then raised his crystal. Another pulse of light and the door burst open so forcefully that it was nearly torn from its hinges. He rushed inside. When the door did not slam shut again, and no more creatures appeared, Myranda followed, shutting the door behind her. Deacon was beating his arms and looking desperately for some source of heat. Finding none, he raised his crystal once more and released it. The immaculately clear, egg-shaped focus stone took on a warm orange glow and almost immediately the room's temperature rose to a comfortable one. He settled against the wall, sighed with relief, and slid to the floor.

  “We need to move on from here as quickly as possible. This is Demont's workshop, I believe. I do not wish to be here if he returns,” Myranda warned, nervously scanning the room once more.

  “Duly noted. A wise decision,” he agreed as he rummaged through his bag once more.

  The satchel was by no means large. Stuffed to capacity it looked as though it might be able to hold a tightly balled blanket, and it was hanging quite loose. Yet he pulled a full length white cloak, then another from it. Dropping the bag on the ground, he hurriedly put the cloak on. It was not ideally suited for the northern cold either, but perhaps in addition to the tunic he wore it would be enough. He then presented the other cloak to Myranda and helped her to put it on.

  “How did you fit those inside that small bag?” she asked.

  “It is quite large inside. A little trick traveling wizards use. I could make one for you if you like, but it would take a bit of time,” he said, showing her the bag.

  When he opened the top of the bag wide, the inside looked to be mounded with vials, books, tools, indeed, the entire contents of Deacon's hut. They had not become any smaller, either. It was as though looking into the bag was staring into the mouth of a deep pit.

  “That is quite alright. Deacon . . . I . . . “ Myranda began, fumbling for the right words. “How long will you be out of Entwell?”

  She wanted desperately to tell him how often her thoughts had turned to him, to tell him how much she valued their time together, but the words wouldn't come. It was as though it had been so long since she'd had someone like him in her life that she had simply lost her ability to express herself adequately.

  “For quite a while . . . quite a while,” he said. “My actions prior to my escape have soured attitudes toward me. I'm not certain I would be welcome.”

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “It doesn't matter,” he said, his eyes beginning to wander to the contents of the workshop. “The important thing is that I managed to reach you in time. You say that this workshop belongs to Demont. He is . . . one of the generals, yes?”

  “He is,” Myranda said.

  “Then . . . I think anything we might do to delay him is useful to the cause,” Deacon remarked distractedly.

  “I suppose,” the hero replied.

  “To that end . . . I think it prudent that I take samples . . . remove pieces of his puzzle, as it were,” he said, beginning to pour over the shelves and tables.

  “If you must, but do it quickly. We need to rejoin the others. And be careful,” she relented.

  Like a child given permission to raid the shelves of a candy store, Deacon began greedily plucking up artifacts, sheets, and vials. After a cursory glance that somehow assured him that it was safe to do so, each was dropped into his seemingly bottomless bag. There was a case filled with crystals that he dropped in its entirety inside, and book after book followed it. Finally he pulled a large map that had been affixed to one wall, folded it and tucked it inside. When he was done, the shelves were virtually bare, and the bag did not even bulge. Myranda smiled at the utter enthusiasm in Deacon's face as he shuffled the things inside his bag, reaching down nearly to his shoulder into it to pull up things he was interested in looking at first and positioning them at the top. When he was satisfied, he cinched the bag shut and hung it effortlessly from the tie of the tunic beneath the robe.

  “Well, I suppose that I am prepared to brave the weather again. Are you certain you are well? It has been some time since I last practiced the healer's art. I may have missed an injury,” he said, suddenly realizing he had been ignoring her.

  “I am well enough. Let us go, quickly. There is no telling how far the others have gone,” she said.

  “Then by all means,” he said, bracing himself for the cold before opening the door.

  The instant that the harsh wind touched him he knew that the thin cloak was not nearly enough. After briefly considering coping with the cold, he decided that further action was required.

  “Just a moment more,” he said, shedding the cloak and clutching it in one hand as he held his crystal in the other.

  He closed his eyes briefly, as if remembering, and then cast a spell. In addition to the swift, clean pulse of light from the crystal that signified his spells, a wave of light swept up the cloak from bottom to top. A glow trailed behind it, lingering briefly before fading. He stepped into the wind again, this time seemingly unaffected by it.

  “What did you do?” Myranda asked.

  “I imbued the fabric of the cloak with an enchantment that counteracts the cold by preventing any of my own heat from . . . “ he began.

  “An enchantment against the cold. That was answer enough for me,” she said.

  “Of course,” he replied, clearly a bit disappointed at his explanation being cut short.

  “Is it really so simple to cast an enchantment?” she asked as she stepped out into the cold, her layers of protection and years of experience making a similar treatment unnecessary.

  “Well, normally no. The strength and complexity of an enchantment that a garment or other object will hold is . . . We make our cloaks specifically to ease enchantment,” he said, catching himself.

  “Thank you,” Myranda said with a chuckle.

  The pair stepped outside. The terror of Myranda's previous venture through the doors had been so overwhelming she'd scarcely noticed where the door had led her. They were on the edge of a steep, icy slope. The weak glow of the morning sky cast light on a sparsely treed countryside. The memory of their trip was faded by her ordeal, but she was certain that she was nowhere near where she had entered the fort with the other Chosen. Nothing her eyes told her gave her any indication of where she might be. After a few moments of straining her eyes, trying to find something unique about the countryside, all she knew for certain was that the fort was somewhere to the southwest. An endless column of black smoke stretching high into the gray sky betrayed that.

  “Where do we go?” Deacon asked, marveling at the sheer size of the countryside. He had no memories of any place but Entwell
. Tiny and perfect as it was, it was his world. The rolling hills and mountains of white, the scattered, snow capped trees, the tiny flickering hints of far off fires, it all had a scope that was dizzying and disorienting to him.

  “We have to find the others. They were headed south, for the Tressor. I . . . I don't know which way they are, or how far they've gone. Can you find them?” she asked.

  “I can't, but I can help you to do so. I've only truly met Lain, and I certainly do not know enough of his soul to pinpoint it, but I could empower your own search,” he explained.

  “Very well,” she said, immediately closing her eyes and raising her broken staff, weakly spreading her mind.

  A moment later she felt Deacon's warm fingers close about her hand. Instantly a cool, steady clarity swept over her mind, like that brought by a focusing stone, but far more substantial. She began to reach out, but as she did his hands left hers and the steadiness withdrew from her mind as quickly as it had come. She opened her eyes to see a nervousness on Deacon's face.

  “You must never do that. At a time like this it is the worst thing you could do,” Deacon warned.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Cast your mind far and wide,” he said.

  Myranda blinked. “I know of no other way that I might find them. What danger is there?”

  “To do so is to send up a beacon for all to see. You may find who you seek, but those who seek you will most certainly find you,” he explained.

  “Then what shall I do?” she asked.

  “I will demonstrate,” he said.

  He took her hand and both returned to their concentration. Deacon spoke, his voice as clear in her mind as in her ears. He told of the very same means he had used to find her. It was more direct, more targeted, and virtually undetectable. Before long she felt the presence of the minds of the others, as clearly and as strongly as if she had been standing beside them.

  “I feel them. I know where they are,” she said. “Ivy . . . she is . . . I can feel her sorrow. She thinks I am dead.”

  “She will know the truth soon enough,” Deacon said.

  “No . . . you do not understand. Her sadness is as much a hardship for the others as it is for her. I need to let her know I am alive,” Myranda explained.

  “It would not be possible with the others, they have minds far too strong to permit a message to be delivered against their will, but at the moment it would seem that . . . Ivy . . . is susceptible. I will link you,” Deacon said.

  She felt a flex of his will and suddenly the physical form of Ivy seemed to manifest itself in Myranda's mind. The malthrope, a half human/half fox creature, stood before her, seemingly real enough to touch. Her stark white fur and muzzle, her inquisitive pink eyes, her pointed ears and tail; they all seemed vivid as life.

  “M . . . Myranda?!” Ivy cried joyfully.

  “Ivy, I am glad to know that you are alright,” Myranda said.

  “You are glad!? I thought you died. The fort fell! You were inside!” Ivy gushed tearfully.

  With their minds linked, the emotion was like an earthquake. Myranda had to fight to remain connected.

  “Listen, Ivy. I just want you to know that I will be with you soon. Tell the others. And be careful,” Myranda said.

  “I will, Myranda,” Ivy said, another surge of joy finally shaking the bond that connected them.

  Slowly Myranda allowed her concentration to wane, the cold whistling of the wind returning to her ears. Deacon's grasp lingered for a moment before he lowered his crystal.

  “That was remarkable,” Myranda said. “Is that how you searched for me?”

  “Each and every moment of my waking day. With those blasted mountains between us it took a measure more effort, but I found you, so it was all worth it,” he said, his eyes absentmindedly staring at the hand that had touched hers. As his gaze wandered up and locked briefly with her own, he tried to continue. “I-I knew that I had to help you. Your cause, it-it is far too important. Are you confident that you know where the others are? Can we reach them soon?”

  “I know where they are, but I still am not certain where we are,” she said.

  “Navigation . . . navigation spells. I . . . never truly pursued them. They exist, but in a place like Entwell there is just no need. Foolish of me. All spells have importance. One moment, I will turn one up,” he said, scolding himself under his breath as he rummaged through the bag again.

  “The map,” Myranda reminded him.

  “Yes, yes. I am certain I can create a map, I just require a few words to refresh my memory. The primer. Where is my primer?” he replied.

  “No, Deacon, you took a map from inside. We can use that,” Myranda explained.

  “Oh . . . oh yes, yes. Of course. Where is my head?” the wizard replied, quickly drawing the neatly folded sheet form the bag.

  The instant it was removed the wind tried to tear it from his grasp, but with a gesture the wind parted around them. Myranda marveled for a moment at the effortless, casual way in which Deacon incorporated magic into everything he did. He used it as one might use one's hand to brush away a hair or tighten a knot while the mind was busy with other things. She turned to the map. It was drawn with the same exacting detail as everything that Demont had put his hand to. The labels were in the mysterious language that she had seen throughout his laboratory and workshop. Not a word or symbol of it had any meaning for her, but that was of little concern. Here was the place she knew the fort to be. There was the thin line of the tunnel she'd trudged through. And here was the workshop they'd just left. The place that she'd felt the others to be was a considerable distance away. Either Lain and the others had moved very quickly or she'd been unconscious for some time. Likely both. Regardless, they would not be able to catch up on foot.

  “They are here. Heading toward the mountains, or there already. I don't know why they are going there. They had been heading south before,” she said.

  “What is our course of action?” Deacon asked eagerly.

  “They are much faster than us, and there is much distance between us,” Myranda mused out loud. “Is it possible for you to bring us to him in the same way that you brought yourself here?”

  “No. No, certainly not. The spell is too rough. Too dangerous. I have neither the strength nor the focus necessary to transport even one of us safely,” he stated firmly.

  “Then how did you come here?” she asked.

  “I required a great deal of aid from Azriel, as well as more than a little manipulation of likelihood,” he said.

  “Then we shall have to reach this town. With any luck there will be horses there. While we walk, you must explain to me what you mean by 'manipulation of likelihood,'“ she said.

  When the map was folded and stowed, and the wind was permitted to resume its preferred course, the pair headed off toward the town indicated on the map. As they traveled, Deacon spoke at length about the methods he had used to find her and to reach her. He twisted confusing analogies, likening the fabric of reality one moment to folded paper with a hole pierced through, the next to a many sided die weighted to fall as one requires. He claimed that the spell he used was not strong enough to allow him to be certain he would be transported unless an endless string of factors turned out in his favor, and he hadn't the strength or knowledge to manipulate those factors. Instead he had diverted his strength to twisting and pulling at the rules that governed reality, turning probability on its head until some spectacularly unlikely circumstance, whatever it might be, produced the needed effect at the needed time. Apparently the three lightning bolts she had seen had been the impossible coincidence he needed. It all seemed like madness, but he spoke about it plainly as though it was the utmost in simplicity.

  When his lecture was complete he prompted, indeed, pleaded Myranda to offer up the tale of her journey since she had left his home. He had seen only precious, fleeting glimpses, and though there were scattered moments when he caught a whisper of her thoughts, his mind ached to kn
ow every last detail. Myranda agreed. Instantly, the thick tome that had been perpetually in his hands when they were in Entwell emerged from the bag. He recorded her words studiously, now and again requesting details and hastily sketching the sights she had seen.

  His enthusiasm at each new piece of information mercifully distracted his mind from the cold. Increasingly, as the short Northern day progressed, he took his hands from the stylus and book to wring some feeling back into them. Rather than stop his careful record for even a moment, the book and pen drifted dutifully before him as he did so, continuing to record Myranda's words on their own until he was finished. Myranda, indifferent to the cold, was driven to continue despite the weariness that cut her to the core. Her 'sleep' in the tunnel had been anything but refreshing, and though Deacon had spared her of her injuries, he had done nothing to restore her strength of mind or body. By the time the light had begun to fail it was clear that the town would not be reached before her body gave out completely. Her eyes fixed themselves on a small, tight stand of trees that would shelter them at least from searching eyes, if not from the wind or cold. When Myranda settled down on the ground, leaning against a tree, Deacon did the same, across from her. He looked anxious, as though there was something he or someone else had forgotten.

  “Is something wrong?” Myranda asked.

  “We . . . we will be spending the night here,” he half asked, half stated.

  “I'm afraid so,” she said.

  “Oh, not a problem. It is just that the weather is harsh and I was not certain that sleeping unsheltered was in our . . . never mind. A fire? Should I start a fire?” he stumbled.

  “There doesn't seem to be much dry wood about,” She said.

  “Not to worry,” he said.

  A gesture later and a flame danced a few inches from the ground with little regard for the fact that there was no wood to fuel it.

  “Will that last until morning?” Myranda asked, smirking at the latest impossible feat Deacon had performed. Technically she could do the same, but for him it seemed effortless.