by Joseph Lallo
The dull light of day came and went, with the last of its glow lingering at the edge of the western sky as they approached a tiny town. One needed scarcely a glance at the town from afar to see that the destruction of the fort, a fort that may well have been a mystery to them until the black smoke rose from the field the day before, had put the town into an uproar. The place was far too small to have soldiers patrolling it, but the streets were alive with the sturdiest townsfolk serving as a makeshift town guard. It was clear to Myranda that this was not the time to come walking in from a field looking as she did, even if she wasn't an increasingly well known enemy of the state. Worse, there didn't appear to be much in the way of a stable. Likely the horses of the town were the property of the residents and visitors. To deprive a person in a town as small as this of their horse, be it through sale or theft, would be to maroon them here.
Myranda stood for a few moments, contemplating what to do. Deacon at first took the opportunity to devote his full attentions to the latest in the stack of Demont's notes, but quickly became aware of Myranda's look of concern. At his prompting, she explained the situation to him. The source of the difficulty clashed repeatedly with the life he was accustomed to in Entwell. There, if you needed something you merely asked for it. Indeed, even that was seldom necessary. All was provided. He similarly was not certain why they would be distrusted for arriving on foot, looking as though they had been through the ordeal that, indeed, they had. Above all others, one confusion could not be cleared.
“But you are Chosen. You are trying to return to the other Chosen Ones and return to the task of saving the world. Surely the townspeople would gladly offer you anything you need,” he said.
“The prophesy is something of a child's tale here,” Myranda explained.
“I . . . see,” Deacon said, attempting to process the statement. “Well, nonetheless. This should not be a concern for you. If you cannot risk showing your face in the town, then I shall do what needs to be done. Tell me what you require and it shall be attained.”
“Deacon, I am not certain that you are ready for this. We will just need to find a different town,” Myranda said, her mind working hard at the problem.
Deacon looked Myranda in her eyes and spoke earnestly. “Myranda, I came here to be useful to you and I mean to do so. Tell me what you need and tell me where to meet you. You can trust me.”
Myranda hesitated, but relented.
“Be careful, and put the crystal away. There are very few wizards about. Don't use any magic if you can help it,” she warned before listing what was needed.
A few moments later, Deacon was on his way to the town, stuffing items into his bag. He knew that he needed at least one horse, preferably two, and enough food to last a week. He had no clue how he would attain them, but for him, it was beside the point. Myranda watched nervously as she skirted around the edge of town to the other side. Deacon was every bit a capable person, but he was well out of his element. She set her mind to the dual task of escaping whatever mob was sure to come sprinting behind Deacon and reaching the others quickly.
#
Deacon approached the nearest entrance to the city. Standing guard was a frail looking older man. He looked as though he could have been a grandfather, gray hair peeking out from beneath a war-torn helmet that had no doubt served him well in his youth. The rest of his armor fit poorly, a relic from an earlier life in the military. He bore no proper weapon, brandishing instead a recently sharpened shovel. He looked haggard, as though he had been at his post for far too long without relief. As Deacon drew near, he straightened up.
“Halt. What is your business here?” he demanded in a very official tone.
He squinted a bit, trying to get a good look at the curious sight before him. Deacon had neglected to stow the materials he'd hung on his shoulders for further study, and without magic to lend an extra hand, he was having difficulty keeping them together.
“I am in need of supplies,” Deacon said, simply.
“Where is your horse?” he demanded suspiciously.
“A horse is among my required supplies,” Deacon answered.
“Where are you coming from without a horse?” the makeshift guard growled.
“That direction. I'm not certain of the name of the place. One moment,” he said, burrowing into his bag, attempting to reveal the map.
One of the artifacts that had yet to be stowed, a strap of leather with a rather ornate medallion on it, stubbornly refused to stay in place on his shoulder. It dropped for a second time as Deacon tried to keep from dropping the papers under his arm.
“I am terribly sorry. Would you hold this for just a moment?” he asked, snatching it from the ground and holding it up to the soldier.
“Get that out of my . . . “ the soldier sneered, trailing off when his failing vision finally focused on the seal on the strap.
He took the strap and looked it over. It was a general's seal. One of only five. This one bore the name Demont. He remembered it, even from his youth. Soldiers seldom met face to face with the generals. He'd gone from recruitment to retirement without seeing even one. Could this young man be Demont? Either he was or he was skilled enough to kill or steal from him. It didn't matter. Regardless, this was not a person to be trifled with.
“Th-this way, please,” he stammered.
“Oh, thank you,” Deacon said, having only just managed to stow the loose papers.
He took back the strap and looked it over as he was led to what must have been the general store for the town. Slowly he realized what was happening. The misunderstanding was greatly in his favor, but it was dishonest to allow them to believe that he was someone that he was not. From the youngest age he'd been taught that dishonesty was the first step down a road that ended very poorly for deceitful wizards. Magic users tended to attract the attentions of, and occasionally draw strength from, the spirits around them. Deceit was one of many things that twisted the soul, and a twisted soul attracted twisted spirits. After a short, one-sided debate in his head, Deacon conceded that he would allow the misunderstanding, but he would not foster it. The weathered soldier opened the door and held it as he entered the store. After a harshly whispered exchange, the woman minding the store looked nervously to Deacon.
“I can get anything you need right away,” she offered shakily.
“Provisions for two people for seven days,” Deacon requested in an even tone.
As the storekeeper hurried off, gathering armful after armful of provisions, the soldier turned to him.
“Why might the general favor us with a visit today?” he asked, nervously.
Deacon silently thanked fate for the awkward phrasing.
“A fort of great value was destroyed in the field I came from. I am pursuing the individuals responsible,” he replied. It had been destroyed, and he was indeed seeking those responsible. No word a lie.
The answer was quite enough for the soldier, now certain that it was the general he stood beside. Pride welled inside of him at being graced by his presence. Deacon, on the other hand, was simultaneously berating himself for allowing this disgrace to continue and fighting heroically to keep the nervousness and shame from his face. In less time than he would have thought possible, the shopkeeper dropped not only food, but blankets, bandages, and a dozen other things on the table.
“We have no horses for sale, I am afraid, but, ah, I would be honored to donate my own steed,” the shopkeeper offered nervously.
“If that is what you wish,” Deacon said.
“I too would like to provide you with my steed. A fine, sturdy animal it is, too,” the soldier chimed in.
“That would be most appreciated,” Deacon said gratefully.
#
Myranda crouched behind a drift of snow near the top of a hill, the rising wind whipping at her, anxiously watching the rear exit of the city. She had only been there for a few minutes, not yet settled upon what manner of action she would take in response to whatever trouble Deacon man
aged to cause, when she saw him lead a pair of heavily laden horses out of the town and onto the road. When he circled around the hill, out of sight of the town, she ran to him. He had everything they needed and far more, but his expression was one of utter shame.
“This is remarkable!” she said, hugging him. “What did you do?”
He handed her the medallion.
“This is . . . Demont's seal, isn't it?” she said.
“I suppose the man is a recluse. At least enough that his own people would mistake him for me,” he said.
“You managed to convince them that you were a general?” Myranda said, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise.
“They managed to convince themselves . . . “ he said.
Myranda was quickly able to surmise the source of his turmoil.
“Deacon,” she said, mounting one of the horses. “I don't mean to make light of the situation, but there are a great many things that may need to be done before our task is complete. Some will be difficult. Some will fly in the face of your morals and beliefs. Just know that, if it truly had to be done, then doing it was the right thing.”
“I suppose,” he said, scarcely consoled.
He twice tried and failed to pull himself onto the horse's back as he'd seen her do. A third try landed him unsteadily in the saddle.
Myranda looked at him flatly. “You don't know how to ride a horse, do you?”
“In truth, this is the first time I've even seen a horse. They don't fair very well in caves, I understand, so they have never made their way to Entwell,” he said, apologetically.
What followed would have been an endearing experience if not for the tremendous rush that they were in. Myranda coached him along, teaching him the ins and outs of horseback riding as they tried to make their way toward the others. Fortunately, and not surprisingly, he was a swift learner, and before long they were breezing along fairly swiftly. A few days passed, traveling the route far from main roads. As day after day passed without so much as a glimpse of another traveler, Myranda became more and more aware of how empty the war had left her homeland. The conflict with the massive southern country of Tressor had been raging off and on for well over a century, and the years of bloodshed had taken their toll. The north was nothing more than a handful of roads connecting a handful of dying towns. All of the rest was vast ice field after forbidding forest after rocky mountain. There should be life here. There should be some hint of the people of this land. Instead the people gathered into smaller and smaller groups, ever more remote and isolated.
For a moment, at least, that isolation was in her favor, a fact of which she repeatedly reminded herself. It seemed that luck had momentarily begun to favor them. In her ongoing efforts to bring the Perpetual War to an end, Myranda had been branded a murderer and traitor by the five generals. She was still not certain of the degree to which the Northern Army had managed to spread her infamy, so any situation that kept them from prying eyes without the need for stealth was quite helpful indeed. Deacon, when his mind was in need of distraction from his slow progress on the translation of the D'karon language, resumed his instruction in the ways of the gray arts. A variety of useful spells were taught and even practiced without the fear of being noticed. Nightly, Myranda sought the others with her mind. She felt herself drawing nearer. This road seemed to be ideal.
That notion did not last very long. After the sunset on yet another day without so much as a trace of the others, it became clear that the most direct path on a map is not necessarily the swiftest. Long disused roads had eroded to little more than patches of loose gravel for the horses to lose their footing on. That, coupled with narrow passes made all but unusable by years of uncleared snowfall, made the going painfully slow. Before long it was not clear if the ample supplies that they had managed to secure would be enough, particularly where there was little food about for the horses.
Fortunately, before much longer the roads they came upon began to show the telltale signs of upkeep. Soon after, they reached a road with fresh hoof prints. Further ahead the smell of burning wood signaled the presence of a town. Hope began to rise. This must have been where the others had been headed. Gradually, though, Myranda's heart sank. Perhaps they had been here, but not any longer. Any attempts to detect them assured her that they were nowhere near. Worse, it seemed that they were no longer together. They now were far below, perhaps already off of the mountain. She wanted badly to join them, but the horses, and truth be told, she and Deacon, needed shelter, food, and sleep. When they finally reached the town, it was a tiny mining community called Verneste, a place Myranda had passed through before. This was good news. She'd raised little stir during her last visit, and there was an assayer who would likely give them gold in exchange for some of the more unique contents of Deacon's bag.
The gray wizard, rather than relying upon the general's seal to provide him with free provisions, sold a few of the smaller shards of Myranda's broken crystal. In addition, one of the bottles of healing potion brought a very high price indeed, as it was revealed that the alchemists and wizards that normally crafted them had been warned, under penalty of death, only to provide them to the military. This was ostensibly to ensure that the military had a plentiful supply, but most knew it to be simply another way of keeping the general populous in check. The money was enough to resupply, stable the horses, and spend a night with a roof over their heads and pillows beneath them. Myranda was mercifully able to reach their accommodations without drawing any attention. The room had but one bed, and thus it was shared. If this was another time, that night might have been, and by all rights should have been, something truly special. Alas, the weariness of travel and the heaviness of the task on their shoulders brought little more than sleep.
The next day, the first in some time that saw both Deacon and Myranda fully refreshed, was spent desperately trying to catch up with the nearest of the Chosen, but the fear and duty that had driven the others along put far too much space between them. By the time flat land was reached and real progress could be made on horseback, the three Chosen they sought had already converged, and in the presence of two generals. The two wizards arrived in time to narrowly ward off each of the generals and escape without losing a single hero.
#
“And that brings the tale full circle,” Myranda said.
With the last words of her story told, Myranda fell silent. Deacon put his hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. The telling of the tale had done little to dull the edge of the sorrow she felt. In her desperation to end the devastation of the general named Epidime, and to save the lives of her friends, she'd crossed a line she had promised herself that she would never cross. She'd killed a man, a fellow human. At the time she believed him to be Epidime himself, and that taking this one life would save countless others. In the end, she discovered that the man she killed was but a pawn, and Epidime was not a man at all, but a presence, a possessing spirit associated with the halberd he always bore. His body destroyed, he merely selected a new one and escaped, leaving Myranda emotionally shattered, blood on her hands and a death on her conscience. Now she sat with the others, hidden by a small glade of trees and licking their wounds from a fight that had destroyed half of a city and nearly claimed their lives.
“That was a somewhat more mundane explanation than I had anticipated. For a moment I had thought you were almost worthy of your place among us,” Ether stated.
The lack of compassion was typical for this Chosen One. She was a shape shifter, able to assume virtually any form, physical or elemental. She'd existed since the dawn of time, but seemingly had spent the whole of her life convincing herself of her own superiority, and that emotions were little more than poison for the soul.
“Are you MAD?!” came a voice of protest.
All eyes turned to Ivy. The young hero had been sleeping, recovering from near death since the recent battle ended. Now she was sitting up and fully awake. If ever there was a beast that could be considered wholly Ether's o
pposite, it was Ivy. The very same malthrope that Myranda had contacted, she was an enigma. Her own history was unknown even to her, though it seemed likely that she owed her current form to the machinations of General Demont. She was childish, enthusiastic, caring, and dangerously emotional. When her feelings ran strong enough, she became something else entirely. A berserker, surging with rage or fear, she seldom left behind anything but rubble, and often found herself helplessly drained when the smoke cleared. If not for the intervention of the wizards, she would have been left in the hands of the generals, or worse, bled to death from her wounds.
“I heard the whole thing. I didn't want to interrupt you,” Ivy said to Myranda before turning to Ether. “This man fell from the sky to save her life! What about that is mundane!?”
She turned to Deacon and approached him, arms extended. He offered a hand for a shake, but she pushed it aside and embraced him.
“You saved Myranda's life. That makes you my friend, and friends don't shake hands,” Ivy asserted.
When she was through she released him from her embrace and turned to Myranda.
“It is so good to see you! I told them that you were alive, but they didn't believe me. At least she didn't. I'm not so sure about Lain, but I knew for sure,” Ivy said.
Ivy threw her arms around Myranda and hugged her tightly. The joy was quite literally infectious, as a golden glow spread weakly out from the ecstatic creature. Deacon's eyes widened in wonder at the phenomenon he'd only heard described before. A feeling of warmth and joy filled him, and to a varying degree the others as well. Any nagging ailments melted away. It was another peculiar effect of her emotions. They tended to spill over into others, and just as rage brought strength and fear brought speed, joy brought relief and recovery, easily the match for a spell of healing.