by Joseph Lallo
“It . . . it is remarkable. Emotion radiates from you!” Deacon proclaimed.
“What?” Ivy asked, turning from Myranda.
“I've never seen anything like it. It is like some sort of mystically fostered empathetic symbiosis!” Deacon blurted.
Ivy blinked.
“Oh, never mind. I am just . . . it is a dream come true to meet you. All of you. It is an honor and a privilege of which I am truly unworthy,” Deacon said.
Ether's eyebrows raised.
“I would not have expected a human to be so keenly aware of the degree of his lack of worth,” she said.
“Don't listen to her. What is your name again?” Ivy asked.
“Deacon,” he said. “And she is quite right. You are all Chosen, the warriors selected by the gods to protect your world. You have a purpose greater than any other. The world rests in your able hands. By comparison, I am nothing at all.”
Ivy turned to Myranda again.
“Your friend is very strange,” she said.
“He means well,” Myranda replied.
“That I most certainly do. I mean to be as useful to you as I can. If there is anything at all that you wish or require of me, I would be honored to do all that I can. I am a capable wizard and an able fighter. Do not hesitate to ask anything,” he offered eagerly, looking to each of the Chosen. “Lain? Ether? Ivy? Anything at all.”
Lain showed no reaction. He seldom did. A malthrope, like Ivy, his life had forged him into a vicious warrior and a feared assassin. The hatred shared by his race and the hardships it had brought had burned away at him until all that was left was a shell of a being, nothing but iron resolve and an absolute dedication to his purpose. Currently that purpose was to see to it that Ivy would be safe from harm. She was the only other malthrope he'd met in ages, and judging by the life he was living, she would soon be the last. She must survive, whatever the cost. If something did not contribute to this goal, it did not concern him.
Seeing that the silent hero required nothing of him, Deacon looked to the others.
“There is nothing that you could offer that I could require,” Ether rejected.
“Umm . . . “ Ivy thought aloud. “I really don't think I need anything.”
“Just get some sleep. When we have rested, we will share what we have found. There is much more to be done than we had suspected,” Myranda said.
“I will make every attempt to sleep, but in the light of our current company, it will be difficult to do so,” Deacon said.
Myranda settled with her back to a tree, Deacon to one side and Ivy to the other, her head rested dreamily on the girl's shoulder as she drifted happily back to sleep. Myranda's own slumber was slow to follow, and the dreams it brought were painful. Her battle with Epidime haunted her. A bolt of lightning tearing from the sky by Myranda's will. His body blackening to stillness. Then, impossibly, the halberd rising and flitting to the hand of a child. The young boy's face taking on the look of terrible intellect and detachment. The images were repeated constantly in her mind.
#
Far away, three figures settled down at a table. The room was dark, the only light came from the cherry red embers of a pipe, a weak blue glow of a gem-embedded halberd, and a handful of similar gems that shifted about organically before settling against the wall amid much clattering. The room in which they had gathered was located within a seldom used wing of the residence of the King of the Northern Alliance, a castle on the north end of Northern Capital. There was an uneasy silence as the man at the head of the table drew a long breath through his pipe. The man was Bagu, one of the four remaining generals of the Alliance Army, and the most senior among them. He had stark, handsome features, marred only by a scattering of scars. The well dressed man held himself with a regal bearing and, at the moment, barely contained fury. He pulled the pipe from his mouth, breathing out the smoke.
“Demont, report. I feel I have waited too long to hear your explanation as to why you came rushing to us with your tail between your legs,” Bagu ordered, frustrated anger adding an edge to an already forceful demand.
“There are three Chosen together now. That is more than I care to face unprepared,” explained Demont.
The man who spoke was shorter, dressed in clothing less suited for a nobleman and bearing features sharper and less immaculate. His was the air of a scholar forced into a business he considered beneath him, and little was done to disguise the sentiment.
“Unprepared? That was your testing facility, was it not? That put a veritable army at your fingertips,” Bagu growled.
“They were being tested because they were incomplete!” Demont fumed. “Those Chosen came to my facility unprovoked, with no time on my part to adequately fortify, and I still nearly destroyed them. If I had a force the size I have been supplying to Epidime every time you have a tantrum and decide to send him to kill them, in complete opposition to the plan, I would have brought them back barely alive.”
“Yes, yes. A well formed excuse,” Bagu jabbed. “Do you have anything useful to add?”
“They aren't acting like heroes. They destroyed the fort. They fight viciously. I do not believe that we will be able to count on them reining themselves in for the sake of honor,” Demont warned.
“One of them will,” interjected a small, confident, but utterly out of place voice. It was that of a young boy, the body currently occupied by the general called Epidime. “Myranda is strongly principled.”
“If that is the human, she is neither Chosen, nor among the living,” Demont reminded him.
“Wrong on both counts. Whether she was or was not a Chosen before, she most certainly is one now. And she is quite alive. Worse, she is quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with, particularly with the partner she brought along,” Epidime countered.
“You say she has a partner with her?” Bagu asked urgently.
“Not a Chosen!” Epidime explained. “A male, another human. Certainly not Chosen, but remarkably skilled. I'll have to learn more about him, but the spells he was hurling were unique, and quite effective.”
“Never mind learning about him. If he is not Chosen then kill him, as soon as possible,” Bagu instructed. “Unless . . . Trigorah was with you. Was she present when . . . “
“No. I had her removed prior to Myranda's arrival. Conditions for the convergence were not ideal,” replied Epidime. “She was not pleased.”
“Yes. She was quite vocal in her complaints,” Bagu recalled.
They spoke of Trigorah Teloran. A spectacularly skilled tracker and military commander, she was the least senior of the generals, despite her elfin heritage. She'd become increasingly displeased with Bagu's decision to keep her from the front, the place she felt her skills would be best used, leading the others to keep her on a still tighter leash.
“There is a problem,” Epidime continued.
Bagu's fingers pressed to his temple as a look of anger surged briefly in his expression.
“What?” he growled through clenched teeth.
“Lain is trying to deliver Demont's pet to someone in Tressor for protection. If we expect to be rid of the Chosen with any finality, we need the convergence to occur, and that will not happen with Ivy in the south,” he reminded.
“Agreed. This situation is threatening to escape our grasp. Demont, despite your consistent and damaging failure, I am giving you another chance. Any resource you need is yours. I want something that they can't beat. Epidime, they are working too well together. Fix that, but do not forget that we need them all in the same place at the same time,” Bagu dictated.
“Intriguing. If I interpret your commands correctly, you wish for me to destroy their unity without compromising their proximity,” Epidime said.
“Do it,” he hissed.
The orders thus laid out, the trio parted company. Bagu lingered in the now pitch black room, drawing in another puff on the pipe before marching off after them.
#
Deacon tried desperately
to drift off, but he could not push from his mind the fact that so many figures of legend, beings anticipated even before their own birth, were in his presence. Ether, apparently satisfied with the degree of her recovery, stepped from the fire and assumed her human form.
“A second human. This is just a replacement for that lizard she lost,” Ether said with disgust, referring to a young dragon named Myn who had been a valued companion to Myranda until a battle took the creature’s life. “Her stubborn reliance on lesser beings is sickening, and a threat to us all. How much will this one slow us before it is destroyed?”
“I will do everything in my power to be a benefit to you,” Deacon said, opening his eyes from the latest failed attempt at sleep. “And I would respectfully request you not blame Myranda for any delays or troubles I may cause. She does care deeply for others, and though I can scarcely imagine why you find this a fault, I assure you that in this instance the choice to accompany her was my own.”
“You are in no position to make requests, human,” Ether said, not even remotely apologetic.
“Certainly not,” Deacon said, hesitantly adding. “But as a firsthand observer of the speed that Myranda has shown in her development, and the skill she has shown in her execution, I do not believe that it is fair or right for her to be viewed as anything other than an asset. She is a truly remarkable person.”
“And what of you? What do you add to our cause besides your refreshingly well adjusted sense of worth?” Ether asked.
“Well, my mystical skill would normally be that which I consider my most valuable asset, but in the presence of a being such as you I feel it pales. However, I have unlocked a number of the secrets of the D'karon language, and more than a bit about their peculiar style of magic that I think may be of great use,” Deacon offered.
“Doubtful,” Ether replied.
“The map,” Lain stated.
“Yes, of course,” Deacon said, quickly retrieving the rugged piece of parchment.
It was unfurled before Lain and his eyes poured over it.
“These marks are D'karon forts. I am certain of it now. The other makings, here, are some sort of ranking system, a priority or value, and these others have something to do with classification. I haven't fully determined their meanings. This mark is an identifier, not a name, but some sort of designation. I've been able to determine that the D'karon consider the Northern Capital to be a key stronghold, but it is second in importance to something a fair distance north of it,” he explained.
Lain's finger traced downward along the map. In his mind he counted off the days, weighing the roughness of the terrain against the likelihood of their discovery. In his years of traversing the land unseen, he remembered encountering many of these forts marked on the map. Alone he'd seldom had to give them a second glance, but with the others . . . and while they were being actively sought . . . It was unlikely that he could risk straying near to any of them. What was left was a razor thin path that was midway between cities and forts, at times dangerously close to each. Deacon could not help but notice the route he was planning, and he had been told of Lain's desire to take Ivy to safety by bringing her to the far south, past the battlefront and, he hoped, out of the reach of the D’karon.
“I know you worry about Ivy. If she truly is Chosen, then her place is by your side. You cannot leave her behind and expect to succeed. You must trust in fate,” Deacon urged.
“Fate has done quite enough for my kind,” Lain stated.
“Leave him. You say that you have determined something about their magic. What is it that you believe that you have learned?” the shape shifter asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said, sitting down on the ground and rummaging through his bag. “I've spoken to Myranda about this. These crystals, they have the peculiar property of drawing in any source of mana; the souls of the living, even ambient elemental sources. Once filled, they can be treated, such that when broken they consume the energy while bringing about a desired effect. Conversely, they can be coaxed to release their stolen power either through a conduit engraved with their runes, or another crystal, or even one of Demont's creations. It would appear from the notes he has taken concerning their creation that . . . “
“Yes, yes. The beasts almost universally draw their power from the crystals. I am quite familiar with his creations,” Ether said, losing interest.
“But, the most disturbing thing about their magic as opposed to ours is that our spells merely re-purpose existing forces, eventually returning all magic from whence it came. The D’karon spells actually consume it, convert the mana completely into the effect, never to return again. Any spell upsets the balance, however slightly. If such spells were rare, then time could repair the damage, but if they are allowed to continue . . . “ Deacon explained.
As Ether listened, her expression grew more grave.
“And you are certain of this?” she asked.
“Most certain,” Deacon assured her.
Ether became visibly angered.
“There is no end to the abominations that they unleash upon this world,” she hissed. “What more did you learn from Demont's workshop. What more did you take?”
Deacon began to slowly but surely empty the contents of his bag out for Ether to inspect. Most repulsed her, but one item drew her attention. It was a case filled with vials. The slender glass containers were tiny, and many. Each was labeled with a word or two of the D'karon language. She opened the case and removed a vial, opening it and looking over the liquid within.
“Blood,” she said. “Of a lion.”
Each vial was a small sample of the blood of another creature, except for the case of some of the smaller creatures, when the entire creature was stored in the vial. Ether systematically sampled each. The usefulness of having a sample of so many beasts could not be overstated, as each sample was another form she could swiftly assume, another weapon in her arsenal. None of the other things interested her. When contact had been made with most of the samples, Ether returned them to the case and returned the case to Deacon. When it was stowed he removed his book and stylus and eagerly began to ask Ether questions regarding the nature and extent of her powers. Perhaps out of the desire for more of his endless praise for her, she indulged him, but her patience for such things was short, and before long she ordered him to be silent. Deacon thanked her and began to expand upon the notes he'd taken on her answers. Perhaps an hour passed without a sound aside from the hushed rustle of the northern night and the scratch of Deacon's stylus.
“Deacon,” Lain said, breaking the silence.
The young wizard's head snapped up instantly.
“Yes,” he said, scrambling to his feet.
“Armories. Barracks. Have you identified which marks might indicate them?” he asked. It would be more important to avoid such places on their path south than mere fortified buildings.
“Not with any certainty. I believe that I am close to determining that. Might I ask why you wish to know?” Deacon said, glancing over the words on the map once more.
“This. This is an armory. I have seen it,” he said, pointing to one of the black marks.
“Ah . . . so this . . . and here. They have the same marks. Perhaps armories as well. And . . . “ Deacon began.
“I believe that troops are trained here,” Lain said, indicating another fort.
For several minutes Deacon combined Lain's observations with his own, and it became clearer and clearer what each mark meant. Before too long, Ivy awoke and groggily approached them. She'd been in the healing sleep for much of the last day and could not sleep any longer.
“What are you doing?” she asked, curious as to why the pair was hunched over a map.
“Well, the D'karon have a very strange language. We are hoping to determine what the markings on this map might . . . “ Deacon began to explain.
“Troop production. Troop production. Research. Prisoner retention. Research. Prisoner retention . . . “ Ivy began to recite, pointing to variou
s marks on the map.
Deacon stared at her in disbelief.
“You can read this?!” he asked in wonder.
“Uh huh . . . you can't?” Ivy asked, tilting her head.
“Teach me,” Deacon said, pulling out his book and setting one of the more cryptic sheets before her.
“Let's see. 'The energy requirements of ' . . . uh . . . well, this word sort of means poison and acid . . . and disease, all at the same time . . . I'll just say poison acid . . . ‘poison acid production are . . . very high. A second' . . . this isn't a word that translates. It is just what they call those crystals. Thir,” Ivy said, uncertainly at first.
“Fine, excellent. Continue, please” Deacon said, almost overflowing with enthusiasm.
Ivy smiled. Happy to be helping, she continued. “ 'A second thir crystal will . . . help spread the load . . . but will . . . make for a single point of failure . . . '“
When Myranda finally could not bring herself to endure the nightmares any longer, she awoke to Ivy merrily filling in the gaps in Deacon's knowledge.
“No, they aren't numbers. Well, they are like numbers. But they are like measures of . . . distance? It isn't distance, but it is,” Ivy struggled to explain, indicating another component of the labels for the forts.
“What is going on?” Myranda asked.
“Ivy can read their language! The D'karon language. I think that I almost understand it now,” Deacon said.
“How can you read D'karon?” Myranda asked.
“I don't know . . . I just know it. I don't think they taught me. But I know I didn't know it until they started teaching me,” Ivy tried to explain. “But I've been helping! Look!”
Myranda looked over the nearly fully translated map.
“It looks as though your newest lapdog is not completely without merit,” Ether said.