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

by Joseph Lallo

  Myranda took a deep breath and spoke. Despite her best efforts the words wavered with emotion.

  “It is something that happened long ago. Can . . . “ Myranda began, a lump in her throat choking off her words for a moment. “Can you remember anything at all before your time with the teachers?”

  “I can't. I tried. I don't like to think about that,” Ivy said, shutting her eyes and shaking her head.

  “Ivy . . . I need to you try again. Don't try to remember anything specific. Just . . . try to take yourself back . . . and tell me what you see,” Myranda said.

  “ . . . Alright. For you, I'll try,” she said, shutting her eyes.

  For a few minutes she was silent. When she did begin to speak, it was in spurts, and accompanied with flares of blue light and tightly shut eyes.

  “I remember . . . the cage . . . being inside of it . . . there were teachers. So many . . . I remember when I first opened my eyes . . . like they hadn't been open for a long time . . . I remember . . . seeing her . . . in the cage. The white beast. And the crystal. That horrible crystal . . . it is so dim,” she struggled.

  “You have to try. Go further,” Myranda urged.

  “Just blackness . . . for so long . . . nothing but my own thoughts. They were slipping away. I couldn't hold onto them . . . wait. I remember . . . a fountain. There were three trumpets . . . I remember the walls. It was a city . . . so big . . . home. They were there. Then . . . the gates . . . so many soldiers . . . .” she muttered.

  As she spoke, she sunk deeper and deeper into her mind. The visions were in control now. Myranda listened to the images as they were described. They became more and more familiar with each step back. And with each step back, the doubt in her mind slipped further away. Tears began to trickle down her face.

  #

  Far away, a young boy reclined in his chair. Lightly clutched between the fingers of his right hand was the shaft of a halberd, a cracked crystal set in the blade flickering and pulsing. He was alone in a large room filled with books and maps. On his face was a look of deep contentment. There came a knock on the door. It was ignored, as had the dozens that had come with ever increasing insistence before it. Finally the door was flung open.

  “I demand to know what you think you are doing!” cried Trigorah as she charged in.

  Her immaculate and graceful features were twisted in fury.

  “Quiet,” he hushed lightly. “Do you feel it?”

  “What?” came the impatient reply.

  “Anguish. Sweet as a summer wine. I couldn't feel them before. The girl has become quite proficient at masking herself. All she needed was the tiniest nudge to set her mind on fire, though. Now two of them are inflamed with . . . decades of pent up anguish. It is ringing out, strong and clear. Exquisite,” he said. “It never fails. The old wounds cut deepest.”

  “Where are they?” Trigorah asked.

  “I said quiet! This is a moment to be enjoyed,” he replied, leaning his head back and stirring the air with his fingers as though he were conducting a symphony.

  “Stop wasting my time,” Trigorah demanded. “Tell me where they are and let me do my duty!”

  With a frustrated sigh he opened his eyes.

  “In the tunnel, heading for the compost heap. I'll tell Bagu in a moment. I'm sure he'll want to send someone down to greet them. Did you find that friend of yours I'd asked you to locate?” he asked.

  “ . . . I did. He is barely alive,” she replied, suddenly disgusted by her words.

  “See to it that he is strong enough to stand, that is all that I require. Entertaining as it is to see you all unsettled by having to deal with a child, once I am able to take him as a vessel, we shall close this chapter of the prophesy once and for all. Until then, leave me to savor the fruits of a few well planted seeds,” he proclaimed.

  He then closed his eyes again and returned to his delighted reverie. Trigorah stood for a few moments, watching Epidime as he harvested the sorrow of the heroes far away. It was clear no more progress would be made here. She turned and stalked off to the dungeons again.

  #

  Back in the darkness of the tunnel, Ivy's tone had grown more distressed.

  “ . . . that horrible, horrible crystal . . . the spike,” Ivy continued, clutching her chest with her last words. “No. NO! WHY!”

  She began to struggle against hands that were holding her down.

  “Open your eyes!” Myranda commanded.

  Ivy's eyes shot open and darted about. She was no longer on the horse's back. They had all stopped. Myranda was holding her by the shoulders, Deacon holding his glowing crystal near. The whole of the tunnel was bathed in a bright blue light that sharply faded as she realized that it was all in her mind. Behind Myranda, now almost invisible among the shadows, was Lain. Beside him was Ether, casting her scornful gaze.

  “They stabbed me! In the chest! It was a spike. Like Demont used on Ether when we were in his fort. It was him then, too. The soldiers killed the rest. Everyone died. My mother, my father . . . me! He . . . he killed ME! How can I be alive?! What am I? What did they do to me!?” she cried, tears pouring down her eyes. “Why did you make me remember!?”

  Ivy beat her hands on Myranda's chest weakly as the girl cried as well. It was not Ivy's curse forcing her emotions upon others. This pain she felt was genuine. Immersed in the same sorrow, the pair embraced, their bodies shaking with the force of their sobs.

  “There were flames. I saw them . . . I heard the screaming . . . It was all I could hear . . . even after they were dead. I . . . “ she sobbed.

  “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you relive it,” Myranda forced through the tears. “I just needed to know if it was true. I needed you to remember who you really were.”

  “But . . . I don't . . . I don't even remember my name . . . or the names of my parents . . . my family. All I remember is that horrible day . . . And I remember . . . just for an instant . . . seeing me, this me, from the outside . . . like it was someone else. I . . . I wasn't always what I am now . . . but I can't remember what I was,” she managed to speak between sobs.

  Ether watched the outpouring of emotion with disgust. Deacon had placed his hand on Myranda's shoulder and offered what little consolation he could. The shape shifter turned to Lain, who stood emotionless as ever, his eyes locked on Ivy.

  “Well? Aren't you going to coddle the beast?” she grumbled.

  Lain turned away, his gaze shifting to the darkness that lay behind them. He twitched his ears and tried to listen over the slowly subsiding sobs of his fellow travelers. Nothing revealed itself, but something did not feel right. He stepped a few more paces into the darkness. Ether joined him.

  “You aren't suited for this, Lain. And neither am I. We are Chosen. We are not meant to be babying the weak of mind. I was at first pleased by your sudden dedication to our cause, but it swiftly became clear that it was not the desire to do that which is your birthright that motivated you, but revenge. Revenge is a petty thing, Lain. And worse, revenge for what? Denying the beast a safe haven?” she judged.

  “I do not seek your approval,” Lain replied simply.

  “Nor should you. I know that I have behaved in a way that was . . . overt in my attempts to direct your heart's desire to where it rightfully should reside. I realize that such behavior was inappropriate, and quite unnecessary. Whether you accept it or not, you are an original Chosen, and so am I. The two of us are the only beings, created of the will of the gods expressly for the purpose of turning back the tide of darkness, that have managed to remain untainted and whole. This affection you place with Ivy is misguided, and you will see that, just as you will see that there can be only one who is worthy of it. All that is required is time. Fortunately, the two of us have an abundance of that. So I shall wait for your senses to return to you,” Ether proclaimed.

  Lain drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

  “I do, however, offer a word of advice,” she continued.

  “What is it?�
�� he growled, patience at an end.

  “I had believed that there were no more Chosen to be found, even prior to our discovery of the beast. The fact that she, technically, remains a valid Chosen suggests that there may yet be a fifth yet to be discovered. I realize that Myranda claims that the Great Convergence has already occurred, and that somewhere, a creature we have already met stands as the fifth and final of our own. This is absurd. However, if there is even a remote possibility of it, it is of paramount importance that the actual final Chosen be found. Even if it means locking that . . . thing . . . into her place among us. When your thirst for revenge is sated by the decimation of this meaningless fort, I suggest we devote our full efforts to searching for our final ally until we are certain that such an ally no longer exists,” she advised.

  Lain remained silent and turned his attentions fully to the darkness behind them once more. There was something in the air that he didn't like. Deacon, helplessly watching the others pour out years of anguish at once, tried his best to comfort them.

  “It is all right. It is all in the past. What's done is done,” he fruitlessly offered.

  “What was that place? The place I saw?” Ivy begged Myranda. “Tell me you know it!”

  “It was Kenvard. It was my . . . our home,” she replied, wiping tears away.

  “That was Kenvard . . . the massacre you talked about, that killed everyone but you and your uncle . . . I was there? But you said that it was years ago . . . My head . . . “ Ivy said, wincing in pain and covering her eyes. “I guess this is what sadness does to me. Makes me weak . . . and opens old wounds. Kind of poetic, huh.”

  She was quite right about the old wounds. The deep gash in her arm that had nearly cost Ivy her life a short time ago was trickling blood again. Myranda closed the wound and helped her to her feet.

  “So . . . if that was Kenvard, did you know me?” Ivy asked.

  “Perhaps. I was very young. My memories of that time are vague at best. But I'm sure my mother did. Lucia. Her name is on the proclamation,” Myranda said.

  “Lucia . . . I remember the name now. She was . . . a teacher. But not a bad one like Demont and them. I think I had a lot of teachers then. But I can't . . . I can't remember. Why! Why are the bad memories the only ones left?” she cried.

  “You remembered this. The rest will come,” Myranda said.

  “Quiet,” Lain ordered in a whisper.

  Everyone turned to face him. He closed his eyes and focused on what was silence to all, even Ivy. After a moment, he opened his eyes. Now it was certain.

  “Someone has entered the tunnel behind us,” he said. “At least a horse. We need to keep moving. Keep the light low.”

  The group hastily returned to horseback and continued. The sound of the horse's steps echoed infuriatingly, wiping out any hint of the sound of the follower and making it all the more likely that they would be found. The group could travel more silently on foot, but leaving the horses now would give away their presence when they were found, and the speed they provided just might keep them ahead.

  Time had passed slowly before, but now each passing moment was an eternity. It was clear that Ivy was doing all she could to keep the fear she was feeling from showing. Tension only grew as the horses began to falter. They'd had little to eat or drink. Provisions had run out for them shortly before they had entered the mountains, and here in the tunnel there was no source of water and not even a single blade of grass for them to eat. Their purposely slow pace grew gradually slower, until there could be little doubt that the mysterious followers would be gaining.

  As they progressed, the tension grew thicker. A long section of the otherwise completely featureless tunnel was stained with two shades of blood, and shortly after a pile of unrecognizable remains came into view. Time had rendered it a dried up husk, and the same ruts that had remained constant throughout the journey ran right through it. It filled the tunnel with the smell of death. Not long after that, Lain signaled for the light to be doused entirely.

  Many believe that they know true darkness, but until it has been experienced, it cannot be imagined. Without even a flicker of light, the mind begins to play tricks. There is the constant feeling that there is a wall before you, that you must stop. The eyes open as wide as they can, hungry for light. The only thing that helps is to shut them tight. The horses' eyes were covered and they were led along. Ivy's arms were wrapped tightly about Myranda's waist, her head pressed hard against Myranda's shoulder, shakily breathing in the girl's ear. She was practically whimpering, but with the exception of a flare of blue occasionally, she was doing a heroic job of suppressing her fear.

  In the darkness it was impossible to tell how far they had traveled, and hours and minutes bled together. Even Myranda could hear something in the echoes now, something near. She pulled in a breath of the stale air in the tunnel. It still reeked of death. If anything it had grown stronger. How could that be? Surely that . . . thing was miles behind them by now. Then Myranda felt something she had been waiting for. It was the tiniest puff of cold air on her skin. She opened her eyes. Far ahead was the silver light of the moon falling on snow. It was barely there, but after so long in the darkness it may as well have been a beacon.

  What followed was maddening. The end of the tunnel was tantalizingly near, but they had to maintain speed, lest they be heard over the hoof beats of their pursuers. The opening ahead crept closer. The breeze from outside became steady, until the air in the tunnel took on the frigidness they had become accustomed to in the mountains. Until then it was not obvious just how much warmer the inside of the tunnel had seemed without the wind bearing down on them. Myranda took another deep breath, anxious for just a whiff of the fresh air that was so near, but what she drew in was anything but fresh. The stench was horrific, worse than she'd ever smelled. It was the scent of death magnified. It caught in her throat. She could taste it in her mouth. Her lungs urged her to cough it out but she could not risk the sound.

  Another eternity passed, and finally it was over. The group emerged from the tunnel. It emptied into a valley. The mountains towered around them. Great circular platforms had been carved like steps around the irregular floor of the place, providing flat areas for the same structure repeated exactly on every spare inch of space. Each was a vast building with no windows and a single wide door. They were composed of stone, a few stories tall, topped with a tall sloped roof. At the peak was a crystal, the very same type that accompanied everything the D'karon put their hands to, with identical ones at each corner. There were dozens of the buildings, perhaps a hundred, arranged in ring after ring. Only the center of the valley and the road leading to it was free from one of the structures. The center of the valley bore a wide stone platform, stained black by a thick and seemingly ancient coat of grime. Despite the staggering amount of architecture, it seemed that Deacon's translation had been accurate insofar as the degree to which it was guarded. There was not a soul to be seen.

  The heroes hid themselves in an alcove beside the tunnel entrance and waited. They attempted to remain silent, but it soon became clear that the odor that permeated the tunnel had come from this place. The air was thick with the smell of death. Myranda managed to keep from gagging, but only just. She felt sorry for Lain and Ivy. Their sensitive noses could only have compounded the torture. The horses were visibly uneasy as well. Only Ether seemed unaffected, no doubt owing to her ability to forgo the senses as she saw fit.

  The sound of echoing hoof beats grew louder until, finally, their pursuers exited the tunnel. It was a vehicle all too familiar to Myranda. The wretched black carriage. She'd been unlucky enough to spend some time in one before, as a prisoner of the Alliance Army. The windowless sides of the carriage made identifying the unfortunate occupant impossible. A pair of horses pulled the carriage, guided by a single driver.

  Myranda heard something drop to the ground beside her and looked to see that Lain had deposited his sword there. In a flash he was streaking across the ground toward the c
arriage. He dove at the driver, tearing him from the seat and throwing him to the ground. As he opened his mouth, revealing his vicious teeth, Myranda turned away, covering Ivy's eyes. A few moments later and Lain was beside them once more, a familiar black stain upon his mouth. He wiped it off with some snow and retrieved his weapon. The body of the driver, now clearly a nearman, lay twitching on the ground, blood running from beneath its mask. Normally the mockeries of humanity turned to dust when they died. That this one remained suggested that Lain had left him alive, suffering.

  “Why didn't he use his sword?” Ivy asked as they followed him to the carriage.

  “I am not certain I want to know,” Myranda said.

  The remains of the nearman finally collapsed into empty armor and dust as they approached. Myranda leapt from the saddle and rushed to the doors of the carriage. She undid the latches and pulled them open, only to recoil in horror.

  “What is it? Oh . . . oh . . . “ Ivy said, turning away.

  The carriage was filled with soldiers. Dead. They were stacked like cord wood. The blue armored soldiers of the north and red armored soldiers of the south alike. Myranda closed the doors. She'd heard tales of this. That the dead were being loaded up off of the fields. She had more than her share of memories of funerals for the fallen soldiers of the many villages she'd drifted through after Kenvard was destroyed. Seldom was there a body to grieve over. It was believed that there simply was no one to spare to return the dead to their homes, but there were those who said that the black carriages hauled them off of the battlefield.

  “What is this place?” Myranda asked.

  “If I understand correctly, the map labels it Final Reserve,” Deacon said.

  “What could that mean? There is no one here! Why would they bring the dead to this place?” she asked.

  “Maybe the reserves are in those buildings,” Deacon offered.

  “Trust me. There is nothing alive here but us,” Ivy coughed.

  “Do you feel any magic about?” Myranda asked.