The Book of Deacon (14 page)

"General Demont," she acknowledged.

"What have you to report, General?" Bagu
asked levelly.

"There are some things which may be stated
with certainty. The sword had been found, and it has been handled.
The girl who found it has been apprehended, and is even now in
route to General Epidime's . . . facility," Demont explained.

"And the sword? Is it in hand?" asked
Bagu.

"It . . . is not. We've reason to believe
that it is still in the hands of the assassin. The girl was not
delivered by him either. She had to be gathered," Demont
responded.

"It was to be expected. Assassins are not to
be trusted," Trigorah stated, fury smoldering under her voice.

"Well then. General Teloran, gather half of
your Elites. Your assignment is to find precisely where the sword
was found and trace its path and that of the girl. Locate and
identify
any
who might have come into contact with it. When you are certain that
this task has been thoroughly and completely performed, find your
way to the sword and bring it to Northern Capital," Bagu
ordered.

"As you wish, sir," General Teloran
replied.

"Then go. Demont, remain here," he said.

After collecting the pages containing the
details of Demont's findings, Trigorah set off, purpose in her
stride. She stepped through the door and into the massive entry
hall of this, Verril Castle. At one end of the long, vaulted room
was the throne, currently vacant as the King attended to the
affairs of state. Opposite it were the massive doors that lead to
the castle courtyard.

The General donned her helmet and marched
toward them, drawing the images on Bagu's map to her mind. Slowly,
meticulously, she envisioned what moves should be made. Foot
soldiers here. Cavalry there. Siege weapons at the ready here and
here. Yes. When these distractions were dealt with, when the
Alliance proper was cleansed, then she would be at the front once
more. And she would be ready.

#

Consciousness slowly returned to Myranda. All
around her was darkness. She was unsure if she had even awoken. The
ground heaved with sudden, regular jolts. The air was heavy with an
oppressive heat and an indescribably horrid smell. It was a
gruesome combination of stale blood, perspiration, and half a dozen
other odors that she'd never known before and hoped never to know
again. She tried to feel along the floor, but a jingle followed by
a resistance revealed that she was shackled to the floor.

Her sleep-addled mind turned over the
possibilities. The answer was not a pleasant one. She remembered
seeing them here and there all of her life. The black carriages.
Where one could be found, something terrible had always happened.
And now she was inside. Caught. Condemned.

She struggled against the chains periodically
for hours. It was useless, but anything was better than allowing
her mind to dwell on the situation. No one who had been thrown into
one of these carriages had ever been seen again. The crack beneath
the doors let in little air and no light. The lack of air made it
difficult to stay awake, but the dark was a blessing. It spared her
what was sure to be a horrific sight left by the last unfortunate
soul to occupy this place. Tears welled in her eyes as she began to
realize that this is how it would end for her.

Sleep had come and gone a dozen times or more
since she had first awoken. There was no telling how long it had
been. The only thing she could be sure of was that her captors were
moving recklessly fast, stopping only occasionally, seemingly to
change horses from the sound of it. She was jarred awake when the
lurching of the carriage came to an abrupt end as it had with each
such stop, but it was different this time. Outside, muffled by the
thick carriage walls, a struggle could be heard. Myranda cringed at
the screech of steel against steel and the terrified cry of
horses.

All at once, the tumult became silent once
more. She could hear the latch that held the heavy wooden doors
shut being worked. The door dropped open with a thunderous crash.
Outside it was night still--or, more likely, again. The crimson
light of a torch illuminated the interior of the prison carriage,
revealing Myranda's chained form, along with walls scarred by the
frantic clawing of untold hundreds of tortured souls over the
years. A blast of chill from the air shook Myranda's
perspiration-soaked body.

The man who held the torch was enormous. More
than a head taller than Myranda and easily three times her weight,
he had a build that betrayed a mass of muscle beneath a layer of
bulk. The light of the torch fell upon half of his face. Scars old
and new told the tales of battles gone badly. He wore no cloak. In
its place was an overused suit of leather armor and a crude iron
helmet.

"We will free you," spoke the man in a voice
to match his features.

He was joined by a second figure. This time a
woman. She was about Myranda's height, and perhaps a few years
older. One look at her face, though, showed a pair of eyes with the
fierceness and resolve of a person twice her age. She wore
similarly decrepit armor, as well as a sword at her side dripping
with the evidence of its most recent use. The woman held her torch
high and smiled as its light fell upon Myranda's bloodstained
shoulder.

"It is she," she said, relief and
accomplishment in her voice.

The pair of rescuers climbed inside. The
woman investigated the grim reminders of past passengers by
torchlight. She shook her head in anger and pity. The man revealed
a pry bar, with which he made short work of the chains. When
Myranda was free, he helped her to her feet, but the untold time
she'd spent immobile had robbed her of the strength to walk. He
carried her outside and onto one of two horses that were waiting at
the ready.

The bracing cold chilled her to the bone
almost immediately. She watched through heavy eyes as the rescuers
stripped the fallen soldiers of their weapons and armor with
ruthless efficiency. When all that could be claimed from the
carriage had been similarly pillaged, the woman threw the torch
inside. The black carriage took quickly to flame and the three
watched with satisfaction. The woman soon put her feelings to
words.

"You'll have no more of our lives, you
wretched devil," the mysterious woman whispered.

The trio rode swiftly through the night,
Myranda riding behind the woman who had rescued her. They had taken
the four horses from the carriage, but the time inside had taken
far too heavy a toll for Myranda to ride for herself. Aside from
the obvious draw on her body, she began to feel that her mind was
failing her as well, as the countryside whisking by her was
unfamiliar. They were headed though a sparsely-treed field toward a
dense forest that seemed to go as far as the eye could see. Behind
them, far in the distance, a mountain range rose up from the
horizon, a mottled green stripe at its base.

"Where are we?" she called out over the
pounding of the hooves.

"The Low Lands," the woman answered.

The Low Lands! If her memory served her
correctly, that meant that in her time in chains she had been taken
to the other side of the mountains she'd decided not to attempt
just before she was caught. She must have been asleep for some
time. As tales of the Low Lands slowly came to her mind, she began
to wonder if she was any better off now than she had been in the
carriage. All through her life, if a tale of murder, crime, or
disappearance met her ears, the setting was the Low Lands.

Judging by the size of it, the forest they
were heading into was Ravenwood. It was a place that had come to be
called the Endless Forest. Now at the fringe of the awe-inspiring
sight, Myranda could not think of a more appropriate name.

There was a small break in the clouds, but
the light was short-lived. The near-f moon overhead was soon
filtered through the increasingly thick foliage of the forest once
said to have consumed half of a division of Northern soldiers who
had entered, but never left. She swallowed hard and hoped that she
would not share their fate. Her fingers were completely numb, and
her shoulder had worsened to the point that she could scarcely move
the whole of her right arm.

#

After hours of riding at as great a speed as
they could manage, the trio was still within the forest, and had
not used a single road. They finally came upon a large log hut.
When they reached it, the others helped her from the horse and
inside. A fire that had been left unattended for some time barely
smoldered in the hearth. Myranda was led to a crude wooden chair, a
blanket thrown about her shoulders. The large man left to tend to
the horses, while the woman took a seat in another chair, a
restrained look of satisfaction showing on her face.

"I am Caya," she said, extending her
hand.

Myranda extended her right hand painfully in
an attempt the return the gesture. She managed to weakly touch the
fingers of her rescuer before she couldn't stand the pain
anymore.

"Myranda," she said.

"We all heard what you did. Inspiring," Caya
said.

"What are you talking about?" Myranda asked.
"Who are you? Where am I?"

"You are at the headquarters of the
Undermine. I am the regional commander. You've done more for our
cause in just a few days than years of subtle operations," she
explained.

"What have I done?" Myranda asked, her mind
still too clouded to put the pieces together.

She knew of the Undermine well. Most people
blindly supported the war. Some people, like herself, quietly
loathed it. The Undermine was a group so steadfast against the
continued conflict that they had come to actively oppose it. There
were supposedly pockets of the Undermine in every major town. It
was said that they commonly would carry out strikes on military
targets with the intent of forcing a withdrawal from active combat.
When the military or government spoke of them, the messages tended
to be equal parts denial and propaganda against.

"No need for modesty. Everyone knows. You
stole an item prized by the scoundrels in the military and slew
four soldiers sent to reclaim it," She said.

"You know about it? Here! Already?" Myranda
said in disbelief.

"Please. Nothing travels faster than bad news
or a good rumor. This was both," Caya said. "We've been looking for
something that could shake up the men in charge this much for
years. Word has it that they got you, but not that which you stole.
Is this so?"

"Well, I suppose, but you don't understand,"
Myranda tried to explain.

The large man entered. Caya turned excitedly
to him.

"Tus! They still haven't found it!" Caya
shouted.

The stalwart fellow nodded. She would soon
learn that, from him, this was the height of emotion.

"What is it you have taken? Where did you
find it? How did you hide it? I must know!" she urged.

"What weapon did you use to kill the men?"
Tus added.

"I will tell you all that I know and all that
I have done, but when I am through, I fear you will not think so
highly of me," Myranda said.

And so she told the tale of the last few
days. She spoke of the frozen body, the sword, and the merchant.
She told of her imprisonment and release from the church. As she
spoke, the faces of her rescuers shifted from joy to
disillusionment. In the space of a few minutes, she shattered the
image that the tales of a dozen gossips had painted of her.

"Well, Myranda. I am truly sorry to hear the
truth. I had hoped to find a powerful ally in you. Instead I find
an unfortunate victim of circumstance," Caya said.

"I, too, am sorry. I hate this war with all
of my heart. If I could help you, I would," Myranda said.

"I doubt anything you could do now could
match that which you have done by accident. You see, our operatives
have reported motion at the very highest levels due to your
actions. Whatever that sword is, it means an awful lot to some very
important people. You are a marked woman. The minds that twist and
shape the entire kingdom are turned to you and what you've done.
The ripples are still spreading throughout the ranks," Caya
explained.

"All of my men tell your story. They would
beat the door down to meet you," Tus said. "Their spirits are
strong now. The men are ready to fight."

Caya's look had slowly changed from one of
sorrow to one of thought.

"All may not be lost. Myranda, are you
willing to join our cause?" she asked.

"Of course," she said, "though I cannot
imagine what help I could give you."

"You've done enough already. More
importantly, my people believe you have done much more. What they
think of you is all that matters. You may not be able to fight
beside them, as I'd hoped, but tales of your deeds will stir them
to greatness nonetheless. So long as they do not learn the truth,
merely having you in our ranks will give them the heart to fight
double. In return for your membership, we will keep you safe from
the clutches of the army.

"If what you say is true, only one man aside
from Tus and myself still lives with the knowledge of precisely
what has transpired, and he is a murderer. It is unlikely that such
a man will turn to the people he has been killing to offer a
description. Yes, yes. You must be kept from the light of day for a
while. Perhaps a few months. The descriptions that the soldiers are
passing around will fade from memory. Before long, so long as you
offer a bit of disguise, you'll be able to walk the streets without
prompting a second glance," Caya said.

"You will be trained. Another hand on another
hilt," Tus added.

"Yes, good thinking, Tus. In time, you will
become what the men believe you to be. This may yet be a great day
for our cause," Caya agreed.