The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (45 page)

"Ether, stop this!" Lain demanded.

"She has proven once and for all that she is
a tool of the enemy, a knife eager for a place in our backs. I
cannot kill her, or it will mean my end, but I intend to see to it
that she can never threaten us again," Ether raged.

With that she shifted to flame. The whole of
the mighty column of air she controlled changed with her. Ivy
vanished inside the towering flame. Ether continued the assault.
The churned up, snowy earth began to sizzle and boil. A single
point, Ether's mark, shone through the flame. Suddenly the pain it
was causing her became too much. She relented, covering the mark
with her hands and crying out in pain. Lain's eyes turned skyward.
High above, Ivy was plummeting. Her aura had dimmed greatly. She
angled herself in the air as she fell, positioning her feet for a
strike. Ether recovered just in time to for the blow to be
delivered. Her fiery form scattered into a galaxy of embers. Ivy
struck the ground beneath with enough force to form a crater,
splashing aside a torrent of scalding mud and thawed earth.

Now her own mark administered its punishment
for her attack. Her fingers clawed at the shining point on her
chest, an ear piercing cry splitting the air. Ether's form pulled
sloppily together, the exertion now clearly showing. Through the
pain, Ivy's eyes locked on her. Quickly the shape shifter changed
to water. Ivy charged at her, but Ether vanished into the melted
ice. Ivy skidded to a stop on the muddy ground, looking furiously
about for her target. The very water itself leapt up all around
her, first coating her, then immersing her in a swell of murky
melted snow. Ether's form separated from the mass of water that
surrounded Ivy and quickly solidified into ice. The water around
the raging malthrope followed suit. She thrashed about in it, her
body slowly becoming immobilized. Her muzzle only just reached the
edge of the water, peeking out of it, when the ice froze
completely.

Ether's mark smoldered on her head, a slight
smile of satisfaction on her face. It vanished swiftly. She was not
satisfied. She shifted to stone. Like a wave spreading out from her
core, the water she held in place changed to stone. Soon nothing
was visible of Ivy but her nose. Ether slouched, the strength she
had drawn in from the flames already nearly exhausted. The mark on
her head continued to burn at her as she began to walk toward Lain.
Suddenly she stopped. She turned to the encased Ivy. Hairline
cracks, crimson light shining through them, were spreading across
the surface of the impromptu prison. Ether held up a hand and
exerted her will. The cracks began to close. Her hand began to
waver. The cracks opened again. Ivy burst from her bonds and dove
upon Ivy's stone form. She hammered her with blow after blow,
breaking the stone form down into smaller and smaller pieces. The
mark on her chest crackled with power as it sought to punish her
appropriately for her actions.

Lain dove on Ivy's back. His prolonged touch
was enough to break the General's control and make it clear to her
that it was no enemy she was facing. Confusion swept in, mixing
with the anger. Her strength was gone, her soul taxed to its limit.
She pulled away from the mound of pulverized rock that had once
been an ally. The fury began to drop away. Any dulling effects it
had on the mark's effect went with it. A pure, intense pain burned
at her chest, cutting her to the core. Just as her mind knew naught
but anger before, now it knew naught but pain. It consumed her mind
and pushed it past its breaking point. With neither the strength
nor the will to remain standing, Ivy collapsed in Lain's arms.

Lain lowered the unconscious creature to the
ground. In the eastern sky, the first rays of dawn were coloring
the clouds. He surveyed the surroundings. It looked as though hell
had clawed its way out of the earth. Smoke still rose from a pit
that buried a comrade far below. The smell of death rose from it as
the carcasses of the countless failed experiments smoldered among
the ruined timbers. His eyes turned to Ivy. She was alive, but only
just. Unlike her other outbursts, Ivy was not spared the physical
consequences of her battle. Scrapes, gouges, and burns littered her
body. Her fists were smeared with blood. Swelling marked where
attacks had landed. He bent to lift her to his shoulders, but the
sharp pain in his abdomen surged as he did. Ribs were broken, and
blood poured generously from gashes on his chest. It was difficult
to get a full breath. The hand that had formerly held his sword
felt like it was grinding when he moved it.

He stood and found the two pieces of his
sword. Tearing a few shreds of his clothing free he bound the tip
of his sword to his broken hand, stiffening it so that it would
heal properly and providing him with at least some measure of a
defense. After stowing the rest of the blade, he turned once more
to the pit. Slowly he approached its edge. He pulled in a painful
breath. She was gone. Myranda. It was inevitable. She had grown
immensely, learned much, but she wasn't ready. This was not the
life she was meant to live. This was not the death she was meant to
die. But she was heading for it the moment she took her first step
out of her world and into his. Now she was dead. The fierce pain in
his chest and hand reminded him of why he had found her again. If
for nothing else, he needed her skills. Before they had been drawn
here, they were on the run. On the verge of discovery. Even if the
column of failing smoke rising into a brightening sky was not
enough of a beacon, the towering column of flame Ether had chosen
to summon would lend an urgency to the patrol's steps that would
bring them here in no time. He was the only one left standing. And
just barely. Without a healer, he might survive a battle, but he
wouldn't survive long after. That was why this must not be a
battle. More familiar tactics were called for.

Already he could hear them coming. The pound
of hooves. He moved far to the edge of the field, leaving Ivy far
behind. The men must not reach her. His eyes focused on the
approaching forms. Six soldiers, all with horses. The whole of the
patrol had come to investigate. That was good. It meant these men
were inexperienced. Proper protocol would have been to leave at
least one behind to summon aid if the threat was great enough to
warrant it. That would have complicated matters. Instead, once
these men were down, there would be none to replace them for some
time, and no message would be delivered. He readied himself.

#

The most senior member of the patrol rode
tentatively. He had been ordered not to approach this section of
the field. There was a wide radius around this place that was
completely off limits, but news of whatever had happened here was
surely enough for his commander to overlook the violation. He
hadn't seen land so ravaged since he had last been to the front.
Pausing briefly to scan the surroundings for some trace of the army
that it must have taken to do this, his eyes came to rest on a
handful of unidentifiable forms. The nearest was a prone figure
midway to the smoking pit that seemed to be the center of the
cataclysm that happened here. As he drew nearer, the form looked to
be a malthrope. He hadn't seen one in years. It was an ill omen to
find one here. Behind him, he heard one of his men separate from
the others.

"Halt!" he barked.

All but one horse was reined in. The
commander gritted his teeth and turned his horse. The rearmost of
the men had fallen a fair distance back, and was slumped forward on
his horse. The other men were rigidly at attention.

"Soldier!" he growled.

When the man did not react he rode up to the
offender. Blood trickled down the front of his armor. His throat
was cut.

"DEFENSIVE FORMATION!" he ordered.

The men struggled to pull their steeds into
the appropriate configuration while the commander glanced
desperately for what had struck this blow so swiftly. His men were
nearly in place, forming a tight, outward facing ring with himself
as the missing link. As he coaxed his horse into his place,
something slipping beneath the horses caught his eye.

"SCATTER!" he ordered.

The form leapt up and yanked back the head of
one of his men, pulling a blade that seemed to be an extension of
its arm across the soldier's throat before dropping from sight.
What manner of demon was this? The body of the murdered man was
pulled from the saddle. He had been the marksman. The commander's
sword was drawn. Whatever this thing was, it was behind the
horse.

"ATTACK!" he barked, charging past the
horse.

The men turned to him, but he was staring at
the body of his fallen comrade and nothing else. The arrows of his
quiver were missing. A clattering of wood drew his attention to his
left. The fletched ends of the arrows, separated at their centers
by jagged breaks, were just settling to the ground. Before he could
spot what his men had, he heard a sound like an arrow in flight,
but without the twang of a bowstring. One of the pursuing men
lurched and fell from his steed. Then another.

"RETREAT!" the commander ordered, far too
late.

The last of his men fell back, the frayed end
of a broken arrow protruding from a joint in his armor. Then, as
suddenly as it had come for his men, a sharp pain brought the
darkness upon him. His work done, Lain drew in another pained
breath. He was a monster. He knew that. Anyone who would hope to
survive a life like this had to be one. That was why Ivy must be
spared it. As his many wounds painfully reminded him of their
presence, he set about raiding the supplies of the soldiers. The
arrows had been easy to break. Too easy. He quickly discovered that
all of the equipment and weapons were of similarly lacking quality.
Briefly he considered taking one of the swords to replace his own,
but until his hand healed, he would need a very light weapon. Each
of the men carried a dagger. He selected three of them, and
transferred any other useful resources he could scavenge into the
saddle bags of the most able looking steed.

Taking a deep breath, Lain lifted Ivy to his
shoulders and threw her across the horse. He made ready to mount
the beast and be off, but a thought came to mind. His eyes turned
to the pile of rubble that had been Ether. He wanted very much to
be rid of her, but her power, however misused, was unmistakable.
That power could be useful. More importantly, if she was still
alive and he left her, she would most certainly try to find him
when she recovered. If that happened, there would be a string of
soldiers following her. Better to keep her where she would be able
to do the least damage. He scooped up some of the largest pieces of
rubble, one of which still bore the faintly glowing mark of the
Chosen. Most of the rest of the remnants were indistinguishable
from the dirt and stones of the field.

He mounted the horse and headed to the east.
With the patrol for that area dead, it was the destination least
likely to offer any resistance in the immediate future. In less
than a day he would reach the foot of the mountains. From there he
would head to Verneste. There was a weapon smith there. He might be
able to reforge Desmeres' blade. Lain would rather have found one
of the storehouses to reequip, but he could not afford to encounter
anyone before shelter could be found for Ivy long enough for him to
recover. He set off.

#

Deacon glanced behind him nervously as he
approached the crystal arena. Already the sound of angry cries and
hurried footsteps revealed that his actions had been discovered. It
was now or never. He stepped inside. The rosy light of dawn
vanished as a magnificently starry sky opened overhead inside the
arena. The stars bore little resemblance to what he was accustomed
to. Azriel had a habit of conjuring up the sky that had been her
nightly view in her homeland, rather than in this place.

Azriel was the eldest wizard in Entwell. In
truth, she was its founder. For hundreds of years she had made her
home in a section of the hidden city that was composed entirely of
the very gems that wizards used to aid their casting. It made
spells effortless, and spared her the ravages of time. The
centuries had brought her unparallelled knowledge in mystic arts,
and her role as the final test for any who wished to be called a
master of the mystic arts made her not just a figure of respect,
but of fear among the spell casters of Entwell. In the distance she
reclined, gazing at the sky lazily, a book of spells open and
resting in her lap. She had striking white hair, a tall, slender
frame, and a black robe decorated with white flames that moved and
flickered as though they truly burned.

"Deacon," she said without looking. "Making
trouble, are you?"

"I . . . yes. But, please. The others will be
here shortly. I request just a few moments from them while I
explain," he said.

She raised her head, intrigued. With an
absentminded wave of her hand, all of the scenery slipped away,
leaving only the two of them in a black void.

"They shall not find us until I will it so.
Tell me. What has motivated you to abandon our ways?" she said.

"Myranda," he stated.

"You will forgive me if I am not surprised,"
she said with a grin.

"I have been watching her. Ever since she
left this place," he said.

"No small task," Azriel nodded. "But hardly
an explanation."

"She is Chosen! It is proven. I believe she
has spoken with Oriech himself. And I have been studying the words
of Hollow. The ones that I shamefully coaxed out of him in the
absence of the others. I believe they speak of me. I believe I must
help her," he said.

"And how do you plan to do so?" she
asked.

He pulled a bundle of pages from his bag and
shakily handed them to her. She spread her fingers and they
arranged themselves before her as if on a desk. As she read, her
expression became more serious.