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

by Joseph Lallo

  Myranda coughed a bit more.

  “You and I have a different idea of what constitutes a celebration,” Myranda gagged.

  “Perhaps. So . . . you really trust the Red Shadow?” Caya asked.

  The Red Shadow was another name for Lain. More accurately, it was the name of a legend he'd constructed to obscure the truth. Every assassination he'd performed, along with no doubt hundreds that he hadn't, were attributed to the mythic Red Shadow. Some saw him as a champion, striking down the wealthy and corrupt. Others saw him as a terrible menace. All feared him.

  “I do trust him. With my life,” Myranda said.

  “Just what is on the horizon for you?” she prodded further.

  “I don't know for certain. But he has finally agreed that this war must end,” Myranda said.

  “Mmm. Funny. The Alliance made a few token gestures to stop him when he was a murderer on an unprecedented scale, but now that he has turned his efforts squarely against the war they plaster his face everywhere they can manage. It certainly makes it clear what their priorities are,” Caya said with a sneer, taking another swig.

  She turned to look at Deacon with her men.

  “He certainly doesn't take his time. Just finishing up. Well, I won't keep you from your task. I only have one more thing to ask of you,” Caya said.

  “You know I will do what I can,” Myranda said.

  “If this doesn't work, whatever it is. If you find yourself without an ally and the war is still raging, come to us. You are too valuable a person to be squandered on a single attempt,” Caya requested earnestly.

  “I intend to give all I have to this cause. There won't be anything left if it fails,” Myranda said.

  Caya smiled.

  “Here's to giving all you have! May it always be enough!” Caya said, raising her flask. The others joined in and a long toast was tipped back.

  She dug through her saddle bag and produced a bottle, sloppily refilling her flask.

  “Here,” she said, tossing the engraved silver canister to Myranda. “I may not be with you at the moment of triumph, but at least I can make sure you celebrate it properly. Now go. I'll tend to the fire. Best not to keep the other enemies of the state waiting.”

  Myranda and Deacon bid farewell and mounted their steeds to a cheer from the Undermine soldiers they left behind. When they were far enough into the mouth of the pass that he felt that they would not be heard, Deacon spoke.

  “That large gentleman, Tus . . . he proposed to you?” Deacon asked.

  “I wouldn't call it a proposal. More statement that I would be his wife,” she said.

  “Has . . . has that happened before?” Deacon asked.

  “No. Why the sudden interest?” Myranda asked.

  “Well, I . . . . when you first came to Entwell, it was hard for me to imagine what you'd come from. What you'd left behind. You may as well have been born that day. I suppose it is only natural that I am not the only man to realize what a wonderful person you are,” Deacon said.

  “It wasn't like that at all, Deacon. I'd just helped him escape from a prison,” she said, trying to set his mind at ease.

  “I see . . . but. There have been others. I mean . . . “ Deacon began.

  “I've had a few associates, but seldom for very long. When I was still with my Uncle I could barely get past learning a boy's name, and since he died, well, I really haven't been in one place long enough to get to know someone. What about you?” Myranda said.

  “No one. As I've said, I have known all of the people in Entwell since I was born. They are like an extended family. The thought of romance never even came to mind,” he said.

  “Really . . . I . . . never imagined I could have that effect on someone,” she said, blushing.

  “Well I . . . ahem . . . “ Deacon attempted. “Er . . . I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just-”

  Myranda shook her head and smiled.

  “It is alright . . . Deacon,” she said, her face turning serious. “Did you look at the proclamation poster?”

  “I didn't. I was curious, though. There are descriptions. Are they accurate?” he asked as he retrieved it.

  “See for yourself,” she said.

  “Myranda. Known murderer and Tresson sympathizer. Possesses training in the mystic arts, in violation of Alliance law. Guilty of treason. The Red Shadow. Infamous mass murderer, notorious assassin. Skilled warrior. Ether. Extremely powerful mystic. Shape Shifter. Indifferent to mortal life. IV. Highly volatile. Artistic Prodigy. Student of . . . Lucia Celeste,” he said. “Was . . . was that?”

  “My mother,” Myranda said.

  “It can't be true,” Deacon assured here.

  “Can't it? The rest is true . . . or at least it is now. We know that she was something before they changed her. And if she is a prodigy then she is one of the original Chosen. Clearly they want us captured. There is no reason why they would have felt differently then. Look at what happened back there where we found Lain and the others. They fairly destroyed that city trying to capture us . . . and she was in Kenvard, all of those years ago. They did it then too. It was because of her, Deacon . . . “ she struggled, a lump in her throat. “They destroyed Kenvard . . . to get her!”

  The tears broke through as she fought to keep from sobbing.

  “Myranda, please . . . Don't do this to yourself,” Deacon pleaded.

  “He knew just what to say. That line about my mother. It does no good to anyone. No one who reads it will remember her. No one will even know she was from Kenvard. But he knew I would see it,” she said with a wavering voice.

  “Who?” Deacon asked.

  “Epidime. He was in my head. He knew just what it would take. He knew I would make the connection and only I could,” she hissed. “The other names. The ones from Lain's book. They were his idea too. I feel it. His fingers. Manipulating all of this. I can almost feel him in my head, even now.”

  “What good does it do him to lead you to this?” Deacon asked.

  “Ivy . . . is the reason my family is dead!” she replied.

  “It wasn't her . . . “ Deacon began.

  “I know, I know!” she interrupted. “It wasn't her fault. She didn't know they were coming. She couldn't have done anything to stop it. She didn't make the decision to stay. Do you really think any of that matters? Do you think knowing that will let me face her without feeling the pain all over again? How can I fight beside her when I know, in my heart, that if it weren't for her, everyone I love would still be alive? My life would not have been cast away, all of those thousands of lives would not have been trampled. When she was born . . . she doomed them all!”

  “Myranda, this is just what Epidime wants to happen! You can't let him control you like this!” Deacon urged.

  “What do you know?! How could you even imagine how I feel? All of my life I have been torn apart. Adrift. I spent years blaming the soldiers who swept over us. The soldiers who failed to turn them away, but none of it made any sense. It was too quick, too big. Somehow, after so long, I'd almost been able to get past it. Now to have it re-awakened! To have the pain come back! And to have a face put on it! The face of a friend! Do you really believe that I can just put it behind me?” she cried.

  “Myranda. I left all of the people that I ever cared about behind when I came here. I know they aren't dead, but they may as well be. I'll never see them again. Worse, I know that those who do remember me will remember me in disgrace. But I did it. I left them forever. And I do not regret it. Because I know that coming here had a greater meaning. I knew that finding you would make me whole, and helping you would save the world. That is what the people gave their lives for. They aren't victims, they are martyrs of this war. You must remember that,” he said.

  Myranda's gaze hung low, her eyes too clouded with tears to see. After a moment she looked up. There was an opening ahead. The others would meet them soon. She wiped the tears from her eyes, the icy breeze freezing them to the rough cloth of the cloak.
A few more minutes in the whipping wind and blown snow brought the two wizards to that which Myranda never would have believed could have existed. It was a road. Narrow, to be sure, but better maintained than most she'd seen even in the days before this mad quest. It was unlike anything she'd ever seen. Most roads through the mountains hugged the mountainside or conformed to valleys between, but this one was almost perfectly straight, and nearly level. As the mountains rose up around it, it had been bored down into them until it was a tunnel disappearing into the inky blackness. From the looks of it, most of the road would be made up of such tunnels. The road itself was made of gravel, and the fact that it was not embedded in a solid mass of ice betrayed the fact that great efforts must have been made to keep this path safe for travel. The one prevalent feature was the pair of ruts that ran in parallel along the ground, just the right distance apart to be wagon tracks, and deep enough to have been the result of continuous traffic.

  “What was that all about?” Ivy blurted as they came into view. “Lain said that there were some friends of yours that would be meeting you. Why couldn't I meet them too?”

  Lain looked at her sternly.

  “It isn't good, Lain. Show him,” she stated with measured calmness.

  Deacon pulled out the proclamation and handed it to him. The anger inside of him boiled just below the surface, but it was all too clear to the others.

  “The Undermine is trying to take them down, but they are showing up everywhere,” she explained.

  “What? Let me see!” Ivy said, standing on tip toe to look over Lain's shoulder. “There's a picture of me there! Ugh. It looks like it was drawn by the same person who drew that picture of me that Deacon had. They all do. Except Ether.”

  Myranda looked about. The shape shifter was missing.

  “Where is she?” Myranda asked.

  “She went to get food. We aren't going to be able to hunt in the tunnel and she didn't want to be alone with me while Lain went to get food, so she went,” Ivy said, with the air of a tattletale.

  “That . . . may not turn out well,” Deacon remarked. “She doesn't strike me as the sort that is terribly concerned with exactly what it is that we eat, or the proper way to get it.”

  “I wonder how she will bring the food back,” Ivy mused absentmindedly. “You don't think she is stupid enough to carry it along with her in the wind, do you?”

  Lain was through looking at the poster. He crumpled it and threw it down.

  “Hey!” Ivy said, snatching it up and carefully unfolding it. “I'm not done looking at that.”

  “This changes nothing,” Lain growled.

  “When this is all over, it might be difficult to go back to being an assassin if everyone knows what you look like,” Myranda said.

  “What happens after this is over doesn't matter,” he replied.

  “This must be an old picture of you, Myranda. And you too, Lain. Look at the hair. Myranda's is shorter. And Lain's is long and tied back,” Ivy noticed. “I've never seen either of you look like this. Did Lain ever . . . “

  She looked up to see Myranda's eyes locked resolutely on some indistinct spot on the far wall of the valley. Despite her best efforts, Myranda could not hide the fact that she was not so much looking at something as not looking at Ivy.

  “Is there something wrong Myranda?” Ivy asked, concerned.

  Deacon placed his hand on her shoulder and gently turned her aside.

  “Myranda learned something when you went ahead. Something she wishes she hadn't. She will be fine, but for now she needs to have some time to think,” Deacon explained. “Is that alright?”

  “I . . . guess so,” Ivy said, looking to Myranda briefly before turning back to Deacon. “Are you alright? Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “Well, these pictures. Demont drew them, I know it. I saw that paper you had. It was Demont's. He drew me the same way as this,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, looking over the drawings.

  “Can't you tell? Look at how it was shaded. The light is always here, the shadow always here. And the way these lines run together. The picture of Myranda, Lain, and me were drawn by Demont. This one of Ether is different. Why would they do that? Why would they have Demont only draw three of them?” she asked.

  Deacon looked over the drawings yet again. As he did it became more and more clear to him. What is more, the drawing of Ivy was not precisely accurate. It was identical to one of the design sketches of her. Possibly the very same image copied. What did that mean for the others? If he recalled correctly, both Myranda and Lain had had reasonably long imprisonments with the D'karon, while Ether hadn't. If Demont was the one responsible for crafting Ivy as she was now, and he had taken the time to sketch the others, could that mean that . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted by both Ivy and Lain suddenly shifting their attentions to the mouth of the pass. They didn't seem concerned, merely interested. Moments later the stout gray form of a large wolf stalked into view, a pair of gray bags slung around its neck. As it approached them its form slowly changed, until by the time it reached them it was Ether that stood before them, the bags over her shoulders, and a gray fur cloak on her back.

  “What did you get?” Ivy asked as she greedily pulled one of the filled-to-bursting bags from her shoulder.

  “As though it would make any difference to you. You would swallow anything I put before you,” she replied, lowering the other bag to the ground.

  “Fruit . . . and vegetables . . . fresh!” Ivy said, pulling out various fine samples as proof.

  “And this bag is filled with cured meats? How did you manage all of this?” Deacon asked.

  “Unencumbered by mortals, I can travel quite far in a very short time,” she replied.

  “The ones in the middle are still warm from the sun!” Ivy said as she pulled a large and decidedly tropical looking fruit from the bag.

  “Um . . . unless I've missed my guess, those do not grow anywhere near any of the Northern Alliance kingdoms,” Deacon said.

  “Show off,” Ivy said. “You didn't run these all the way from wherever they grew as a wolf, did you? I was right, you did fly through the air with these.”

  “I was not seen,” she replied.

  “No, but I bet the fruit was,” Ivy said.

  Deacon snickered.

  “What is it, human? Do you intend to mock me for my superiority as well?” she sneered.

  “No . . . It is just that . . . I imagined the poor fellow who saw you in transit and is trying to convince his friend that he saw a migratory coconut,” he struggled to say without laughing as he held up the fruit in question.

  “Laugh all you wish. The simple fact of the matter is that not even Lain could have provided the provisions I have in the time I have,” she said.

  “It is time,” Lain said, ignoring the squabble.

  The group set off, taking their nourishment as they went. Myranda eagerly partook of the fruits and vegetables. Ivy and Lain didn't seem to mind subsisting on meat alone, but in the days that she'd been relying upon the game he was able to capture, Myranda had begun to feel an all too familiar sense of weakness. Neither human had ever tasted the fruits offered before, and Ivy was eager to give them a try as well. All told the bag of meat was untouched, while the well stocked bag of produce was reduced by half.

  By the time the meal was complete, the travelers had reached the point where the road entered the mountain. It was immediately clear as the walls of the tunnel rose up around them that this was not the work of Myranda's fellow Northerners. The sole purpose of this tunnel, it would seem, was to remain straight and level. Not a turn or dip was made, despite the fact that the stone of the walls was of such strength that not a beam or timber was needed to keep the mountain from falling in on them. As for size, it was quite small. Wide enough, perhaps, for three horses to ride side by side, and perhaps tall enough to allow a coach through. The ruts that had worn their way into the roa
d could clearly be seen here as well, each nearly touching the wall on either side. It was as though the tunnel had been designed around whatever carriage it was that was so frequently taking this route.

  Scarcely a dozen paces into the tunnel, darkness prevailed. Myranda summoned a light from her crystal, as did Deacon. The walls were smooth. There were no torches, nor were there even holders to place them. This path was created with no intention of ever being lit. Total blackness around her combined with the echoing footsteps gave Myranda unwelcome recollections of her trip to Entwell. Now, as then, she was not sure what she would find when her journey was through, but at least this time there was no fear of being lost. There was but one path.

  The even, well maintained ground would have allowed for a far faster rate of travel than before, but Lain maintained only a brisk walk. Perhaps it was the seclusion the tunnel permitted. Perhaps his need for revenge had been dulled somewhat, but for now he set a pace that barely put the horses at a trot. Despite this, the opening behind them retreated quickly from view, leaving only blackness ahead and behind. Ivy, who had been on foot with Lain and Ether, strayed closer and closer to the wizards, and the comforting pool of light they provided. Finally she hopped onto the back of Myranda's horse and wrapped her arms around the wizard's waist.

  “I don't like it here,” Ivy whispered.

  She was clearly anxious, though the lack of a blue aura betraying this fact indicated that it was either not a very great fear or she'd managed a degree of control over herself. Either was a good sign. As she calmed down a bit, she noticed that Myranda was sitting very rigidly, and had been ever since she'd joined her.

  “Are you still upset Myranda?” she asked, sheepishly.

  Myranda gave no answer.

  “Is . . . Is it something I did?” she asked.

  “Ivy, perhaps you should join me instead,” Deacon offered.

  “But . . . Myranda, I don't know what I did, but it must have been very bad. You wouldn't be like this if it wasn't. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” Ivy begged. “I'll do anything.”