The Book of Deacon: Book 03 - The Battle of Verril (35 page)

“D-dragon?” she ventured.

“Mm-hmm!” Ivy said with a bright nod. “She
must be hungrier than I am, because she flew here. So, well,
there's only one thing around here that she'd eat, and it happens
to be one of her favorites.”

The color dropped from Sandra's face.
Everyone knew what dragons ate. It was the subject of nearly as
many tales as the malthropes. Tall towers. Deep caves. Always with
a dragon. Always awaiting an offering to satisfy their hunger. She
swallowed hard.

“P-please . . . “ she began.

“It isn't so much to ask, I don't think,” Ivy
offered, fearful of being turned down. “Myranda is helping your
father. It is the least you can do in return.”

“I . . . “ she began.

“Look, it won't take a moment. We can head
out there together,” the creature offered, perking up at a thought
that might tip the bargain in her favor. “
You
can feed
her!”

Sandra tried to swallow again, but her mouth
had gone dry. She was backing away slowly.

“There's got to be some other way . . . “ she
croaked hoarsely.

“But Myn always is so much easier to get
along with if you give her a treat. I'm sure she'll like you after
she gets a taste,” Ivy added desperately.

“I'm quite sure she will too,” Sandra
whispered.

“It's settled then. Where do you keep your
potatoes?” Ivy said with relief.

“But . . . Potatoes?” she asked, so
disoriented that she nearly lost her balance.

Ivy rushed in to steady her.

“Easy there. Yes, potatoes. What did you
think I meant? Cabbage?” she asked.

“But dragons don't eat potatoes,” Sandra
objected, for the moment forgetting what the alternative was.

“Not as a rule, I suppose, but Myn loves
them. Can't get enough, really. Come on, you must have bags and
bags of them around here. She will be beside herself!” Ivy chirped,
positively – and literally – aglow with the thought of Myn's
reaction.

Sandra's eyes widened and she backed away
from the faint but undeniable golden light. Sorcery as well? What
was
this creature who spoke such madness? Ivy recognized the
fear in her eyes and quickly surmised what was causing it. The
renewed shame quickly wiped the joy away, and with it the glow.

“I can explain. It wasn't anything dangerous!
Oh . . . I'm making a mess of this,” Ivy began, tears welling in
her eyes.

She gritted her teeth and forced the tears
away, absentmindedly rubbing at her wrists.

“Look. I . . . do you have something that can
get these off? Their edges are very sharp, and they burn a little.
I think if I could get rid of them I might be able to think a
little better. Maybe then I could stop botching things so badly,”
Ivy asked, defeated.

Sandra's eyes drifted to the crystalline
shackles. The wrists beneath them were badly cut, white fur stained
with blood. There was a similar shackle on each ankle, and another
on her neck, each similarly injured. Ivy was rubbing a particularly
reddened bit of her wrist with her thumb and wincing. Against all
of her instincts, Sandra felt a twinge of pity.

“Why are you wearing them?” she asked.

“Ask the army. They put them there,” Ivy
replied glumly.

“Then I think they ought to stay,” Sandra
replied, aghast at how fiendish she felt for saying it.

Ivy slumped against the wall and slid to the
floor, huffing a dejected sigh and nodding. She rubbed at the
tender skin under the shackles some more. While she was distracted
it didn't bother her so much, but the sadness and stillness made
the wounds itch horribly. As she did, Sandra watched her. It was a
pathetic sight. Slowly she felt her revulsion weaken, turning
steadily to pity. She tried to remain resolute in her hate, but she
couldn't help it. She felt sad to see the creature this way. Even a
monster didn't deserve this.

“Don't pick at it. I may have something,”
Sandra relented, standing and heading for a cabinet. After a bit of
digging she produced a small hammer.

Ivy's eyes perked up as she was offered the
tool. She grasped it, and after hesitating for a moment, Sandra let
go.

“Thank you so much. Yes, this should work. It
is really very nice of you,” Ivy gushed, crossing her legs to press
the ankle cuffs against the floor.

She raised the hammer slightly, but
stopped.

“You don't suppose the noise will bother
Myranda, do you? I wouldn't want that,” she said.

“It is an old house with thick floors. Just
be quick about it,” Sandra replied, a nagging doubt in her mind
begging her to take back the weapon she'd just provided to this
monster.

Ivy raised the tool and dropped it with a
good deal more force than was warranted. The crystal shattered into
dozens of shards, and the hammer continued down onto her ankle. She
clenched her teeth and fist until the pain subsided, then ventured
a glimpse at her ankle. It was rather bloodier than it was before,
but not much worse. She shifted and broke the second shackle with a
bit more care. Another blow took away one wrist cuff. By the time
she broke the other wrist free, she'd managed to break it into two
neat pieces. Finally there was the collar. Try as she might, she
could not maneuver herself into a position to break it easily.
After a few attempts that resulted in little more than bruises, she
looked to Sandra.

The young woman had been watching through the
corner of squinted, half turned away eyes. A part of her was
terrified of what Ivy might do to her. Another part was terrified
of what Ivy might do to herself. She was caught somewhere between
feeling as though she'd given a weapon to a maniac and feeling as
though she'd given it to a child.

“I can't quite manage the neck. Um . . .
could you?” Ivy asked, holding out the hammer hopefully.

Sandra took it slowly. No sooner had she done
so than Ivy had placed her head down across the edge of the table,
pressing down so that the collar stood upward slightly. The young
woman looked nervously at the beast that, for the life of her,
looked to be offering herself up for execution. She hefted the
hammer in her hands. The voices of suspicion rose well above the
voices of compassion. They screamed for her to take this
opportunity, no doubt the best she would ever have, to end this
creature now. One sharp blow would be enough to knock the beast
cold. After that, it would be easy enough to end it.

She looked down at the creature, eyes shut
tight and hands braced about the leg of the table. Not a hint of
fear, not a dash of suspicion, just bracing for the blow she
trusted would take this last remnant of her bonds away. Sandra
looked at the neck beneath the cracked collar. It was raw, the
white fur stained a dozen shades of red. It must hurt terribly. She
looked over the creature. There were no weapons, no armor. The
clothing was ratty and worn. If this was a fiend, surely it would
be armed. If it was a trickster, surely it would be better dressed.
Sandra took a deep breath and raised the hammer.

Myranda appeared at the top of the stairs in
time to see it fall. The rough metal head clanked off of the
crystal band, feathering it with fresh fractures and knocking a
flake or two free. Ivy opened her eyes and tested the damage with
her fingers.

“I think that'll do it,” she said, gripping
it and pulling it apart with ease.

“Sandra . . . “ Myranda called from the top
of the stairs.

The young woman's eyes shot to the voice from
above. Myranda had looked weary before. Now she looked dead on her
feet. Sandra was by her side in a heartbeat, skipping most of the
stairs on the way up. She pushed past and burst into her father’s
room. The difference was like night and day. The color had come
back to his face. She placed the back of her hand on his head and
found the deathly burn of the fever virtually gone. His eyes were
hazy, but active. They focused on her briefly before closing.

“Is he . . . “ Sandra squeezed past the knot
in her throat.

“He is going to sleep for some time. His
strength is going to return slowly. It may be a few weeks before he
is himself again, but he his going to be fine,” the wizard
explained.

All of the grief, pain, worry, and sorrow
burst from Sandra in a torrent of joyful laughter and tears. She
threw her arms about Myranda, nearly knocking them both to the
ground. Years seemed to uncoil themselves from about her. Life
returned to her teary eyes. She stood back and tried to find the
words to thank Myranda, but nothing would make its way to her mouth
but more sobbing laughter. Ivy appeared at the top of the steps.
Sandra turned to her and rushed forward, embracing her. She didn't
see a monster anymore. This saint that saved her father's life
would not allow a monster to be by her side. There were only
friends here. There were only heroes.

“How can I ever thank you!?” Sandra said when
the emotion finally began to subside.

“No thanks necessary. I am just glad I could
help,” Myranda answered.

“No, no. I won't hear it. Look at you. You
need clothes. You need food. You need rest. Here, my bed is just in
the other room. Go, sleep,” Sandra said, leading the wobbly healer
through a door.

“I really couldn't. We've too much to do. I
wouldn't dream of putting you in that kind of danger,” Myranda
replied, trying her best not to look longingly at the bed.

“There is no one for half a day in any
direction. Sleep. I owe you that at least,” she urged.

It took a bit more insistence, but Myranda
finally relented, dropping into sleep almost the instant her head
met the rare luxury of a pillow.

“Now what can I do for you? Anything! And not
because I am afraid,” Sandra said, her eyes looking upon Ivy as if
for the first time.

“Really? Well, if you are going to make food
for Myranda, I could use a bit more for myself. And there are the
potatoes for Myn,” Ivy hazarded.

“Oh . . . oh, yes, yes. The dragon. We shall
see to it she has all she can eat. That is the one item I can offer
an abundance of,” Sandra said.

A moment later Ivy was following a bundled up
Sandra down into the cellar. A dusty bag bulging with potatoes was
hefted onto Ivy's shoulder and the pair made off toward the barn.
After pausing only briefly at the door, Sandra pushed it aside. Had
Ivy been thinking, she would have asked to enter first. The sight
of an unfamiliar human stirred the anxiously waiting dragon quickly
to her feet in a blur of motion that would have startled the
steadiest of minds.

Myn looked at Sandra with the deep stare that
a predator reserves for its prey, dark thoughts of what this
stranger may have done to the others fueling a primal fire. A fire
that would have burst forth had Ivy not teetered into view with a
bag that had the dry starchy smell of that rarest of treats. The
anger dropped away, but not the suspicion. The enormous eyes locked
themselves on Sandra, who swore that the gaze was cutting straight
through her. Ivy fumbled the bag open and thrust some of the
contents into the shaking hands of her host.

A look of hunger that did little to ease
Sandra's paralyzed nerves came across Myn's face. She edged closer
to the human who stood transfixed by the gaze. When she was near
enough, the forked tongue slipped from her mouth and deftly plucked
the treats from her trembling grip. After savoring the all too
brief flavor, she looked expectantly at her host, who hurriedly
held the bag open. The bag was empty in moments, a look of
satisfaction rolling over the surprisingly expressive face of the
beast. The massive head lowered down to the ground and slid forward
until it was directly in front of Sandra.

“She wants you to scratch her head,” Ivy
whispered.

After a few moments of convincing her
unwilling limbs, she managed to do so. She was rewarded with a
rumbling from deep within the dragon. In another creature it might
have been a purr. The bone rattling sound rose to a crescendo as
she found her way to a very precise place above Myn's eyes. When
Sandra was through, Myn lifted her head, gave one more glance, and
retreated to the center of the barn to settle down comfortably
again. When her heart stopped pounding, Sandra turned to Ivy.

“There must be a story behind all of this,”
she said breathlessly.

Later, Myranda pulled herself reluctantly
from the bed. At the edge of the shrouded window was the dying
light of the day. They would have to be on their way again. She
fumbled about in the dark and unfamiliar room until she found the
door, opening it to be greeted by the warm inviting smell of food
simmering below. As she made her way down the stairs, she found Ivy
and Sandra chatting at the table like old friends. Set out on the
table was a feast by no means, but as the first meal she'd seen in
ages that wasn't hastily cooked over a meager flame or served by
guards, it was perfect.

“You really didn't have to . . . “ Myranda
began.

“Oh, hush. I've heard the whole story. I'm
not sure I believe all of it . . . “ Sandra began.

“Hey!” Ivy objected.

“ . . . but I certainly don't believe
everything the Alliance has said either,” she continued. “I don't
know if you are the Chosen or a group of traitors, but you have
done something for me that even the Alliance Army couldn't. For
that at least I owe you the benefit of the doubt. And a hot
meal.”

A hot meal it was, and a good one. It
featured things like fresh bread, wine, mugs, and plates. Things
Myranda had forgotten were supposed to be a part of meal times. She
ate heartily, savoring the flavors as much as she could. It might
be the last real meal she would have for some time. As she ate, she
and Sandra spoke.

“You . . . you work with the Red Shadow,” she
said.

“I do,” Myranda admitted.

“Then you
are
criminals,” Sandra said
gravely.