by Joseph Lallo
“Myranda!” Trigorah called through the flames.
Myranda looked through the burning wall. A dozen of her men had arrows drawn back and ready to fire at Myranda. The General pointed, and a single soldier trained his bow on . . . Epidime. He motioned for a pair of soldiers to restrain him, and when they had, he released the halberd. A look of confusion, fear, and anger came to his face.
“Trigorah, you traitor! You've seen what the Generals have done and you've done nothing to stop it! You've allowed your men, our brethren, to be sent to their deaths on the whims of demons! Fire the arrow quickly, and fire it true, because I will not live in the world that your treachery has created,” he raved.
Trigorah let fly the arrow. Myranda did not think. She threw aside all other spells. The arrow was all that mattered. She clamped her mind down on it. It halted, stopped dead in its path a mere whisper from her father’s chest. Then came the pain. The soldiers, under orders to take Myranda and the others alive, had aimed at the staff she held. One shaft plunged through her arm. As the intense pain swept through her, any hope at focus was lost. Trigorah's men rushed to the fallen heroes. Lain was still under the effects of the spell. Myranda's fading vision locked on the general as she approached the unconscious assassin.
“I have given so many years, and so much of myself to catch you, Lain. First as an assassin, and now as a warrior of legend, your capture has been the one thing standing between me and my rightful place. And now that is over. In your defeat comes your greatest contribution to this world. Presenting you and the others to General Bagu will allow me to command the front once more. This war will finally see its end. The north will finally see victory,” the General proclaimed.
Epidime applauded.
“Yes, yes. A life's work completed. Alas, I am afraid Bagu's trust in you is not what it once was. As such, it will be I who must present the Chosen to him. You will await reassignment,” he stated.
“What are you saying? I earned this,” Trigorah replied viciously.
“You could not have achieved it without my help. I should think that would imply we've equal claim to the right to present them, and since I am your superior, it is within my rights to claim the reward. Besides, that wound on your shoulder proves to me you are not as valuable as we had believed,” Epidime mocked.
“What difference does the wound make? Victory is still ours,” she replied.
“Victory is mine, not ours. Now if you will, return through the portal,” Epidime ordered, impatience mixing with his tone.
“I will not allow you to take this from me, Epidime. And neither will my men,” the General said, pulling a dagger from her belt. “Soldiers, restrain General Epidime!”
For a moment, the remaining soldiers hesitated. An impatient tap of Epidime's staff and a surge of its crystal made their minds up. They turned, weapons ready, to Trigorah.
“Well, I would say that it is quite clear where the loyalties of my troops lie. As for you? Well, I would count this act of insubordination as treason. Because of your admirable service to the Alliance, I will forgo the death sentence, but I'm afraid I must relieve you of your rank,” Epidime said with false compassion.
A look of pure hatred came to Trigorah's face.
“So be it. If this is the way decades of faithful service is repaid, you can have my service band. I don't want it,” she proclaimed.
A smile came to Epidime's face as she pulled away the sleeve that had been ruined by Lain's attack. She ignored the pain of her injury, carefully undoing a latch that had remained clamped since before she'd been sworn in as a General. She pulled the engraved gold band away from her flesh for the first time in all of those years and threw it at the General's feet. Immediately she felt a searing pain where it had been. There, shining brilliantly with an unnatural light… was The Mark. The same mark that each of the Chosen bore. The former general cried out in pain as the burning of The Mark spread, the divine price for betrayal finally free to be paid. As confusion and fear filled the minds of the soldiers who looked on, Epidime approached Trigorah. His frail fingers closed with unnatural strength around her throat and raised her from the ground.
“So single minded, so dedicated to your goal, you managed to convince yourself it wasn't there. That the mark you had worn since birth was nothing . . . meaningless. I knew you would. The instant we hid it beneath the band, I knew you'd thought your last thought about it, gleefully hunting down your would be partners. Digging your pit of betrayal deeper and deeper, until the only thing keeping you from the exquisite divine retribution you are feeling was our band. How does it feel?” Epidime asked.
Trigorah struggled, now almost completely consumed in the soul fire.
“You will pay for this, Epidime. I swear by the gods themselves that you shall pay, even if I have to claw my way back from hell!” Trigorah cried in a voice twisted by pain and hatred into a soul searing screech.
“You will have to,” Epidime replied, hurling the burning form into the valley.
After watching intently as the burning ember of her form streaked like a comet into the rocky valley to be dashed apart by its jagged floor, Epidime was satisfied. He turned to savor the look of horror on the faces of the soldiers before ordering them to their tasks. Each of the heroes was gathered up and brought through the portal. Desmeres limped to the portal, turning his gaze to the valley below and casting a long, thoughtful look before stepping through the gateway.
#
For a long time, there was only darkness. When the blurry light of a lamp slowly came into focus, the glow revealed something far worse than the darkness. Deacon shook his head. He was sitting in a chair, his hands secured behind his back. The room was small. Turning his head made the world around him swirl and the knot left by Desmeres’ blow throb. The only other things in the room besides himself and the chair he occupied were a table, upon which the lamp and his bag sat surrounded by a large pile of its former contents. The walls were stone, and the door heavy iron, protected on the outside by a pair of guards. They were nearmen, no attempt having been made to conceal their crude, monstrous faces. His motion prompted one of them to disappear down the dark hallway.
The young wizard struggled. Around his neck was a collar identical to the one he'd seen affixed to the flickering image of Myranda that he'd managed to summon to his crystal all of those weeks ago. A brief, painful, failed attempt at a spell affirmed that it served the same purpose. Any attempt at magic would bring horrible pain. At least he knew that he'd recovered from his ordeal enough to cast spells. Even if the skill was currently useless, having it returned to him was a relief. As he plotted his next move, a figure appeared in the doorway. He matched Myranda's description of the general called Demont. Two of the odd weapon creatures hung at his back. His face had a look of weary disinterest.
“Name,” he stated.
“Deacon,” the wizard replied.
“Well, Deacon. A few words. First, I would like to make it perfectly clear that, unlike the Chosen you've gotten yourself involved with, we have no particular motivation to keep you alive. Second, if you had been hoping you could escape from the collar in the same way the other human did, don't. We learn from our mistakes here. Corrections have been made. Finally, this is not an interrogation, and I am not Epidime. I do not consider this a battle of wills, a game, or anything else. I have very little patience. If I do not get the answers I desire quickly, you die, and I look for them elsewhere. Do we understand each other?” he rattled off.
“Most certainly,” Deacon replied.
“Splendid. Now, how is it that the entire contents of my workshop seem to have been wedged into your bag?” Demont asked, irritation in his voice.
“When I arrived to help Myranda, she was just outside the workshop . . . “ he began.
“No, no. Not why. How? Through what means can so much fit inside of so small a space?” The General corrected.
“The bag has been enchanted to have a disproportionate interior,” he said.
>
“That is within your capabilities?” Demont replied, intrigued.
“Given the time,” Deacon said.
“And is that information contained within this book?” Demont continued, holding up one of the two books that had been within the bag.
“Not in a form that you will find useful . . . You haven't developed that particular enchantment?” Deacon asked.
“Not to the degree that you have. I'd toyed with the idea of creating a beast that would act as a mobile prison, swallowing down detainees, but the size necessary for it to be useful made it a slow, easy target. Incorporating this enchantment would alleviate that, if it could be as significant as you've achieved,” Demont said, flipping briefly through the book.
“Interesting. You haven't perfected an age old enchantment like that, yet your own transportation skills are tremendously ahead of ours. And, frankly, I never would have imagined actually manufacturing a living thing,” Deacon remarked, letting his academic side show. “Such are the differing aims of our cultures, I suppose.”
“Mm,” Demont replied. “So it would seem.”
He reached into the bag and pulled out a violin case.
“So it was in there,” Deacon remarked.
Demont looked over the case and set it down.
“Would you consider joining us?” Demont asked flatly, as though it was more a formality than an actual request. “As a man of knowledge, the prospect of looking over a few of our more complete spell books should appeal to you, and you seem to be not without usefulness.”
“I can't do that,” Deacon replied.
“So I suspected. Very well then. If you would kindly remove my crystal from your bag, we shall be through here,” Demont said.
“You haven't found it yet?” Deacon asked.
“As I have said, Deacon, I have very little patience. Emptying the contents of your interminable satchel does not appeal to me. I've found the largest piece. Simply return the other,” Demont said.
“I am afraid that it is in the satchel. Occasionally things find their way out of arm's reach. Recalling them to the opening is a bit of a tricky spell,” Deacon explained.
“Mmm. One that you will not be casting,” Demont replied. “I am not so foolish as to remove that collar so easily.”
One of the staff-like creatures dropped from Demont's back, sprouting its insect legs and clattering toward Deacon. The wizard's gaze shifted to it, a mixture of nervousness and fascination on his face.
“Do they have a mind? A soul?” Deacon asked.
“No soul. I can imbue varying degrees of intellect, from primal to superhuman, given the resources . . . You know, for someone who has been made aware of his impending doom, you seem in awfully high spirits. Almost as if you were expecting this,” Demont said, suspicion beginning to rise.
“I knew that joining with the Chosen would lead to my death. I'd come to terms with the fact,” Deacon explained.
“ . . . Still. It makes me wonder if you haven't got some manner of insurance in place. Some secret that will keep that crystal from us if you die . . . “ Demont remarked, thoughtfully. “This is an occasion when Epidime's talents would be useful. He could extract what we can use from your mind. Perhaps you'd best be kept until he is through with his work elsewhere . . . “
“I think that sound's like a splendid idea,” Deacon said.
“I suspected you might. We shall see if you continue to feel that way once Epidime has forced his way into your mind,” Demont said, turning to address the nearmen. “In the meantime, I've work to do for Bagu elsewhere. Remove every last item from the bag. If you find a small fragment of a large, refined thir gem, alert me. And if he shows any signs of escape, disable him and alert me.”
The nearmen nodded. With that, Demont paced out of the room, shutting the cell door behind him and disappearing down the hallway. The telltale sound of a portal opening and closing signaled his departure. Deacon watched as the nearmen removed an assortment of Demont's items and his own from the bag. Every so often, they would pull something out of the bag that he was certain he had not placed into it. The first was a bundle of papers. The second was an odd figurine. The third was a vial of some sort attached to an extremely long, fine linked chain. His mind began to work at how and why his bag had begun to produce objects on its own. What aspect of the flawed transportation spell had brought that about? The thought of the malformed spell reminded him of another side effect of it. He began to struggle to reach one hand with the other.
#
Far away, Myranda's overtaxed mind faded in and out of consciousness for a time. She was vaguely aware of being loaded into the back of one of the black carriages, and later being carried through stone hallways. The only thing that was constant was the blinding pain in her left arm. As her mind slowly recovered, even if her strength didn't, Myranda looked over her surroundings. There were shackles on her wrists and ankles, studded with the blasted crystal that the D'karon seemed to have an endless supply of. These were attached to chains that were similarly studded, leading off into the darkness. Bars that led from the ceiling to the floor surrounded her, forming a small cage with no door. The only light came in a steady glow from the many crystal studs which traced out the path of the chains along the floor as they led to four larger crystals well outside the bars.
With no light from the outside, it was difficult to gauge the passage of time. For hours, perhaps days, Myranda fought to gain any sort of focus, if not enough to cast a spell, at least enough to think. Perhaps then she might be able to work out where she was, and how to get out. It was no use, though. The crystals were a constant draw on her spirit, keeping her weak, and the throbbing of her arm occupied what little of her thoughts remained. As time crept on, new concerns began to coalesce in her tortured mind. She'd not been fed in all of her time here, a fact her stomach reminded her of frequently. Neither was she given any water. Indeed, the only evidence that there was anyone even aware of her was the rare occasion when someone would step into the dim glow of one of the larger crystals to replace it with a fresh one.
Faint memories of her last detainment drifted to the surface of her murky mind. She'd spared herself the pain of the collar they'd placed on her by forcing her strength down deep. Perhaps that would help here as well. Gathering what little she had, Myranda did so. It was not long before she was sure it was working. The glow of the larger crystal ceased to increase. Her mind cleared a bit too, though it did little good. Her eyes brought her nothing useful, and what she could hear did little to help her. Mostly, there was the periodic sound of plodding footsteps approaching to check the gems, then retreating again. The only other sounds were distant, muffled noises that sounded like the roars of animals.
With nothing but her thoughts and her pain to occupy her, Myranda began the long, difficult task of sorting though the events that had happened in the valley. The D'karon had known precisely what was needed to defeat each one of the Chosen. Her own refusal to kill humans, Lain's reliance on his sword to defend against magic, Ether's weakness against crystals and her tactics to combat them, and the gem that controlled Ivy. Everything had been planned out from the start, and each hero had played into the traps perfectly. Her own manipulation had been masterful. Epidime had managed to make her reunion with her father the most painful moment in her life, instead of the moment of joy it should have been. And Trigorah . . . all of this time she'd been the last of the original Chosen. All of this time she fought to defeat, to capture, those who should have been her allies, and each success was another nail in her coffin. Somehow that band had protected her from the retribution that fell upon the divinely Chosen when their loyalty strayed. Myranda worked it over in her mind. The swordsman had fallen, Ivy had been transformed, Trigorah had been subverted, and Lain and Ether remained. The intended five were all accounted for.
More time passed. The strength sequestered deep in her soul grew stronger. Her mind grew sharper. She was beginning to administer small doses of magic to the w
ound on her arm, healing it slowly so as to not be overtaxed. It had only just been reduced to a dull ache when the click of boots on the stone floor approached again, this time coming much closer, and accompanied by the glow of a torch. The face the torch revealed was anything but a welcome one. It was General Bagu. On his face he wore a look of superiority and triumph.
“Ah. Alive, I see. I was beginning to think you'd been pushed beyond the breaking point,” he remarked.
“You would have let me die? I thought you needed us alive,” Myranda replied in a hoarse voice.
“Not for much longer. Now that the four of you are in our possession, we've found ways to utilize you to our own ends. A few more weeks of harvest and we shall be prepared to pass the point of no return. After that, your failure will be assured, whether more Chosen arise or not,” Bagu explained.
“How?” Myranda asked.
“That is not for you to know,” Bagu said. “All you need to know is that your life right now depends upon your ability to fill these crystals. If you prove unable to do so, you shall be disposed of.”
“And if I am unwilling?” she asked.
“Your cooperation is not essential. Even if you hold back, you will have to sleep eventually, and when you do, the crystals will drink what there is to be had from you,” Bagu informed her. “At this point there are only three possible outcomes. You can join us, at which point you will be restored to health and given a place among the Generals. You may even be made the overseer of this world.”
“I've seen what you do to the Chosen who join you,” Myranda hissed.
“Trigorah's fall was unfortunate, but necessary. She attempted to turn her back on us, and in doing so shunned our protection from the curse of The Mark,” he stated. “But if you will not join us, I suppose you shall simply have to wither away to nothing as we leech away every last bit of your strength.”