The Book of Deacon (11 page)

As she worried what the future held for her,
the exchange between the bounty hunter and the soldiers became very
heated. The other soldiers, who had stood silently until now, began
to encircle the blade-for-hire. The leader stepped between the door
and his underlings and began working at the ropes, blocking
Myranda's view of the spectacle. Despite the overwhelming emotion,
she could not help but notice an odd quality about him. It was
something in the way he moved. It seemed . . . foreign.

A flash of light reflecting off of something
metal shifted her gaze to the action behind the approaching leader.
The soldiers began to move back, but never even made it to a second
step. One by one the soldiers jerked awkwardly and dropped to the
ground. Their ends were brought in a heartbeat by a single strike
too fast to see. The clang of falling armored bodies drew the
attention of the leader. His head had not yet turned when a blur of
steel removed it from his shoulders.

Myranda backed away, but the grim spectacle
lingered in her mind. She stumbled back from the door, her head
spinning and her stomach churning. The sight had physically
sickened her, and she could not keep her feet. She settled dizzily
to the ground, coughing and gagging.

Somehow she managed to maintain her
composure. When she felt well enough again, her eyes turned to the
door. The murderer was still out there, she could feel it. The
tides had turned again. Her desire to wrench the doors open and
taste freedom was swiftly replaced with a repeated prayer that they
remain shut, that monster outside would not come in. She kept her
gaze locked on the door for what seemed like an eternity, fearful
even to blink.

The light of morning crept across the floor
in front of her. Myranda strained her every sense to try to learn
what the killer was up to. Only the occasional whinny of horses and
the drip of melting snow broke the silence. Slowly, careful to make
no sound, she rose to her feet and crept toward the doors, eyes
focused intently on the slit of light between. She was only a step
or two away when the ribbon of light darkened. She rushed backward,
tripping over a piece of wood and hitting the ground hard. There
was a blur and a hiss as the fiend's blade split the restraining
ropes. The doors swung open, leaving the dark silhouette of the
murderer as the light reflecting from the snow fairly blinded
Myranda.

Squinting against the sudden brightness,
Myranda felt for a piece of wood and brandished it. She'd seen what
he could do to trained warriors, but no one would take her life
without a fight. If this monster was going to finish her off, she
would be sure to make the decision a regrettable one. The form of
the bounty hunter had only begun to clear when it leapt from the
light. Now it was hidden somewhere in the darkness inside.
Myranda's eyes were useless, as the contrast of light and dark kept
her from seeing anything. Before she could even react, she felt the
board she'd grabbed torn from her grip. Her arm was pushed
painfully behind her back and she was forced forward.

Fighting all the way, Myranda was led
outside. Each time she resisted, a sharp pain in her
already-injured shoulder forced her to continue. The snow was
ankle-deep at its shallowest, and as tall as she in drifts. When
she was nearly to the horses in front of the sleigh, her arm was
released with one final thrust. A second iron grip locked onto the
back of her head, keeping her gaze forward. One of the horses had
been cut off of the sleigh, every symbol of the army's ownership
removed from the equipment.

"Go.
Now!"
came a whisper to her ear, harsh and
disguised, but certainly a male. His final word flared with anger,
offering some hint of a voice.

Myranda gasped as she felt the cold edge of a
knife pressed to her throat.

"If you so much as glance in my direction, I
will do to you what I did to them," he said, turning her head to
the remains of the soldiers.

Where once had stood a man now lay a mangled
mass of metal. The snow around the heap was pitted where flecks of
blood melted through, and armor showed smudges of blood far blacker
than she had seen anywhere but the field a few days ago. There was
no flesh or bone among the spent armor either, only a scattering of
bluish-gray dust. There had been more than a blade at work in the
murder of these soldiers. Some unholy magic had ravaged their
bodies. He had taken more than their lives; he had taken their
humanity. Now they could not even be honored for their sacrifice
with a funeral. It was horrible.

She climbed with difficulty to the back of
the horse. It had never been meant for an individual rider, so it
had no saddle. Myranda had ridden bareback before, but she
preferred not to. Now, however, was no time to object.

As she snapped the reins and went on her way,
she filled her head with the mindboggling facts of the day. This
bounty hunter captured her, bound her, and stole her most valuable
item. Yet, at the same time, he left her money and made sure to
keep the fire going, even though he did not warm himself by it. The
fire must have been for her--but why? It was clear that she herself
had some value to him, but after killing those who seem to have
come for her, he provided a means to escape and demanded that she
use it. Why? Was this some sort of cruel game?

Myranda urged the horse forward. Despite the
dozens of paces already between them, she could feel the place in
her back where a knife might slip in at the first hint of
hesitation. She pushed the horse as hard as she could to put as
much space between herself and the killer as she possible. Minutes
passed--she knew not how many--before she reached the fork in the
road and decided she felt safe enough to stop.

The horse breathed great, steaming gasps as
she gave it its first rest. It was unaccustomed to speed, being
used only to pull a sleigh. She looked to the beast's back and
frowned. Her pack had never been returned to her. All that she had
left was the three silvers that the friendly fox had given her
earlier. It was just yesterday, but it seemed ages ago. She looked
to the south. No sense going back to the man who had sent the
soldiers and murderer after her. She would head to the next town,
replace her lost goods, and decide what could be done.

Now that the desperate fear had released its
grip on her, she became aware of three things. First, the cold was
absolutely biting. The night she had spent away from it only served
to make it feel many times worse. Second was the pain in her
shoulder. It had been burning steadily from the cold, but she had
only now become aware of it. Last, as the horse began at a gentle
trot, she heard a peculiar jingling. It was different from the
sound of the various buckles and straps of the horse's equipment.
Curious, she looked about for the source of the sound. She soon
found it. There was a bag, tied to one of the horse's straps. The
removed the satchel and opened it. The sight made her head
spin.

It was the bag of coins she'd had stolen from
her. There could be little doubt. Everything from the
ancient-looking bag to the weathered coins were familiar to her.
How? How had it gotten here? The killer must have been there, in
that tavern, that very night. How else could he have the bag? And
why would he give it to her? Did he want her to know? She shook the
bag and discovered the sheathed stiletto had been placed inside,
along with a note. Eagerly she snatched it out, sure that the
message had not been there when she had last had it.

It was on a coarse paper, written in a
precise hand. The words read:

Your life ended the day you touched that sword. By
nightfall, every gossip and snitch will know your name. By sunrise,
every guard and soldier will know your face. When night comes
again, you will find no safety among your own people. Use your last
few hours of anonymity to get as far from society as possible.

She shivered, but this time it was not the
cold that shook her. She was a part of something that she did not
understand. The sword was gone, but she still was not safe. What
possible reason could they want her for? Why would touching a sword
make such a criminal of her? And why would the killer give her this
advice? The questions came in droves, the answers not at all.

She tried to focus on the positive, if any
could be found. Her first thought was that she had been lucky
enough to escape with her life. The soldiers had not had that good
fortune. Also, she now had a horse. It was the very thing that
she'd hoped to gain by selling the sword. In a way, she had gotten
from the vile weapon what she had intended. Now she was freed from
the burden of walking--not that she could enjoy it. It gave her
more time to think at the one point in her life when it was the
last thing she wanted to do.

In all that had happened so far, there was
only one thing that was certain. It was not over. The words on the
note were true. In days the stories of her deeds, whatever they
might be, would reach the ends of the continent. She did not even
know what she had done wrong, but in just a few hours everyone else
would, and they would have already marked her guilty for it. It did
not matter that the only people who knew the truth were dead or
outlaws themselves--a tale such as this had a mind of its own. It
could move unaided across the land, whispering itself into people's
ears, all the while gaining speed at the expense of accuracy.
Gossip had a way of defying the laws of nature sometimes. People
would know.

The more she thought about the day that had
passed, the more troubled she became. Try as she might, she
couldn't shake the images of death and the chilling sense of fear
from her mind. Her distraction from the trip, unpleasant though it
may have been, coupled with the speed of traveling on horseback,
brought her to her destination in what seemed like no time at
all.

#

Afternoon was approaching as she entered the
village. Unlike the other places she'd been to, this town was alive
with activity. Cloaked people busily cleared mounds of snow from
the streets. Smoke rose from chimney after chimney. A well
cared-for sign heralded the bustling hamlet as Nidel. The eyes of
the people hard at work stayed, for the most part, on the task at
hand. This gave Myranda some comfort. They did not know yet.
Indeed, how could they? Even if they had been told every detail of
what had happened, there were only two people who knew what she had
done
and
what
she looked like. As long as she didn't behave strangely, she would
be just another visitor . . . for now.

Even with the rock-hard proof she had offered
herself of her current safety, she could not help but feel stares,
as though she had been changed by what she had been through, and
every man, woman, and child could look upon her and know. As though
the smear of blood staining her cloak spelled out the tale of its
creation. Her rumbling stomach broke through the thoughts swirling
in her head. Down the street, a gaily-painted sign with a picture
of a roast turkey beckoned her to its door. After seeing that her
horse had been attended to, she stepped inside. It was a far cry
from the establishments she'd been to recently. For one, the
windows and lamps kept the place quite well-lit. Also, it was
spotless. Nowhere were the flies and vermin that had called the
Lizard's Goblet home. Finally, there was barely a soul in the
place. Only the lone waitress, a plump and energetic young woman
who sprung eagerly to her feet to greet and serve the new arrival,
and a single patron, accompanied by a pile of bags and packs, could
be seen.

"Good morning, miss!" she said, overjoyed to
have a customer to serve. "Just have a seat anywhere you like and
tell me what I can get you."

The entire left wall had a long wooden bench
attached to it, with tables dispersed regularly along its length.
It was there that she took a seat, sliding behind a table. She
glanced at the other customer, a young man with white hair, who sat
at the other end of the bench. He was intent on reading a thick,
leather-bound book and took no notice of her. The smell from the
kitchen was heavenly, a mix of baking bread and roasting meat.
Myranda pulled back her worn hood and took in the tantalizing
aroma. The waitress interrupted her quiet appreciation with the
simple phrase.

"Miss?" she said.

Myranda shifted her gaze to the young
lady.

"What would you like to start with?" the
eager server asked.

Myranda's stomach rumbled a plea for
haste.

"What do you have that is fast?" she
asked.

"Well, the roast beef has just finished, and
we have some biscuits still from breakfast," she recalled.

"Gravy?" Myranda asked hopefully.

"What sort of a place would we be if we
served biscuits without gravy?" the waitress said with a smile.

"Biscuits and gravy, then. And a glass of
something besides wine," she said, remembering the throbbing head
after her last indulgence.

"Cider?" the waitress asked.

"Perfect," Myranda said.

"Won't be a minute," came her cheerful
reply.

The waitress scurried off with the order.
Myranda leaned her aching back against the seat. She noticed
movement to her left and saw the young man gathering up his things.
He hoisted what looked to be a very heavy pack to his shoulders
effortlessly in a well-practiced motion. When he had collected all
of his goods, he headed off toward the door--but rather than
leaving, he dropped the packs on the floor beside Myranda and sat
at the table adjacent to hers. He opened his book and took to
reading again.

"It is very good here," he said without
looking.

"What is?" she asked. Ordinarily she would be
pleased to have company, but in light of recent events, the
attention made her nervous.