The Book of Deacon (13 page)

Healers had been a scarcity ever since enemy
pressure required all available clerics to report to duty
immediately. That was several years ago. Still, until recently here
and there one could find an apprentice cleric or an alchemist
deemed unfit for duty. Now even
that
was becoming rarer, as each year more
laws were passed to prevent medical practitioners from treating
anyone who had not served in the Alliance Army. It was just another
way to prevent the people from avoiding service.

Myranda had just given up looking for one
when she noticed a very urgent message arriving. A horse was
galloping as quickly as its legs would carry it through the
half-cleared street. When it reached the center of town, the rider
jumped off. He seemed to be as winded as the horse, and drew an
eager crowd around him.

"The old church is on fire!" he
exclaimed.

The eyes of the crowd turned to the north
horizon. A wisp of black smoke in the distance confirmed his story.
Myranda felt a pang of fear burn in the back of her mind.

"That old place was bound to come down one of
these days. It had been rundown for years," a grizzled old man
said.

"That isn't all. There were men, some of
ours, dead. I went to see the fire, I saw them on the ground, four
of them. It wasn't anything normal that took these men, though.
There was nothing left but dust, like some black magic struck them
down or something. No sign of the culprit. I've just come from Fort
Wick. No one had been in or out since yesterday, except one girl.
She must have done this, and she came this way!" cried out the
winded man.

Myranda walked as calmly as she could back to
the inn as people flooded out of every door to hear the new tale.
It would not be long before one of them put the pieces together and
came after her. She dropped off the key to her room with the stable
attendant and loaded her things onto the horse. She then led it
slowly and calmly into the narrow backstreet behind the stable.
When she was sure that she would be unseen, she climbed to the
horse's back and rode out of town.

"Please," she whispered, "just let me escape
notice for a minute more. If I can make it over the hill without
any eyes falling upon me, I have a chance."

The horse stepped briskly though the
knee-deep snow of the uncleared road out of town. Several nervous
glances over her shoulder assured her that the chaos brought by the
news had yet to subside enough to organize a search for her, but it
was only a matter of time. When she had reached the foot of the
hill, she knew that she was out of sight of the townsfolk. Only one
idea came to mind. She pulled her things from the horse's back.
Stuffing anything she didn't need into the new cloak she had just
bought, she strapped it to the horse's back.

"Well, it was nice having you around while it
lasted. I hope things turn out better for you than they did for
me," she said to the horse.

With that she gave it a slap that sent the
animal galloping down the road. Already she could hear the angry
cries of a posse leaving the town. Myranda scraped at the heavy
mound of ice and snow left by the side of the road by the blizzard.
The dense drift was well-packed enough to allow a hollow to be dug.
A few moments of frantic digging produced an alcove in the snow
drift facing the field. She threw her pack into the hollow and
followed it. The first lynch mob had just reached the top of the
hill when she covered herself over as best she could. The horse,
running wildly, was too far away from the mob to be clearly seen.
The angry people of the town followed it as though she was still on
its back. The sound of their furious voices would surely keep it
running, and the lack of a rider would keep it well ahead. With any
luck, her decoy would keep the mob on the move for the better part
of the day.

Myranda held her breath as half of the town
poured out onto the snowy road on every available horse. It was not
until the thunder of hoofbeats had receded into the distance
entirely that she pulled herself from her frigid hiding place. Ice
clung to her cloak and chilled her to the bone, but at least the
terrible throbbing in her shoulder had numbed.

Shivering, she reached into the snowy alcove
and pulled out her things. All that was left was the sturdy pack,
loaded with some food and water, and the travel tent. She set her
body to the daunting task of hoisting the essential apparatus to
her back and her mind to the still more taxing task of escaping the
area, as well as the near impossible task of clearing her name.

In a perfect world, she would merely have to
explain the truth to be freed of blame. In the here and now,
though, she was a stranger and the victims were the beloved
soldiers. She was as good as dead. There was a task at hand,
though, so the task at mind could wait. The pack was across her
back, the tent tied to the top. She was anything but a small target
and could barely walk under the weight of her things. If she was to
escape this place with her freedom, it would be through nothing
short of a miracle.

Myranda scanned the horizon. Rolling white
fields turned quickly to rocky, impassible mountains in the east,
the Rachis Mountains. Crossing them would be difficult. They formed
a chain that traced a crooked line across the Northern Alliance,
beginning at the hilly plains just beyond the capital in the far
north, and running nearly to the Tresson border. Crossings were
scattered and tended to be well regulated. Best to avoid them.

South was where her pursuers had been led and
north was the way she'd come. Neither was a viable route of escape.
Westward was a snowy field that sloped smoothly downward, likely
ending in a stream or river. Streams meant bridges--which, in turn,
meant roads. There would be plenty of fresh water and means to find
a road when the time came. Her pack had food enough for a few days,
and by that time, there was hope that the tale would have been
twisted enough as it was passed from ear to ear that she could
escape immediate suspicion.

At the very least, the time would dull their
memory enough to offer a chance of escaping recognition.

It was as good an idea as any. At least it
meant walking downhill. She set off to the west as the
cloud-shrouded sky reddened with the coming evening. To say her
progress was slow would be a monumental understatement. By the time
the last few rays of sun were fading, the light they cast was
enough to reveal angry villagers streaming back to the town.
Myranda was still near enough to see them, which meant that they
were near enough to see her.

She kept low, confident that she would not be
spotted, though fearful that her trail might. That would continue
to be a concern for her until a fresh snow had wiped away the
footprints. Fortunately, in the north, a snow storm was seldom far
away.

After nearly an hour of patient watching, the
last of the lynch mob that had ridden off in search of her finally
returned to the town and dusk had turned to a typical moonless
night that made only their torches visible. Perhaps a few more
steps south would serve as a fair campsite, provided she could wake
early enough to take down her tent and move on before the road got
busy. Myranda turned her back to the town, now completely shrouded
in the blackness of night. It was this darkness she'd been waiting
for. No one would see her now. All she had to do now was erect the
tent against the biting cold of the northern night, and she would
be safe until morning.

Unfortunately, the very night she had awaited
for safety had been awaited by others--others who wished their
activities to go unseen as well. They'd seen her leave. They'd
followed her. Now she was far enough from prying eyes to allow
action to be taken.

Myranda had just finished wrestling the thick
canvas of the tent into place. It was with no small amount of
difficulty, as the cold had taken most of the feeling from her
hands. She forced the last wooden stake into place and attempted to
massage some feeling into her icy fingers. Blowing into them and
rubbing them vigorously had managed to restore some tingling when
she heard a peculiar rustling. Her first thought was that a rabbit
had found its way into the mass of fabric of the tent and was
trying to free itself. She turned to the tent only to hear the
sound again, from behind her. Myranda turned quickly, her heart
nearly skipping a beat.

Five figures stood before her. They wore
cloaks, just as everyone else did, but these were different. They
were nearly black, as opposed to the lighter gray of the others.
They stood, silent and moved only by the breeze, staring at Myranda
with unseen eyes from within cavernous hoods.

"Who are you?" she stammered.

The figures remained silent. Myranda backed
toward the pack she'd left just inside the tent.

"What do you want?" she asked, fear
mounting.

Slowly, and with an eerie smoothness, the
figures began to approach her. Myranda fell to the ground and
reached into the tent. Keeping her eyes on the silent ones, she
fumbled with her good arm inside the pack. Inside she found the
handle of the stiletto protruding from the coin bag. She pulled it
free.

"Stay back! I did nothing wrong! I do not
want to hurt anyone! Just leave me alone! Please!" she warned,
praying that they would listen.

Still they advanced. She brandished the knife
as her uncle had taught her. As a member of one of the more
successful military families, she was no stranger to the use of a
knife, but she loathed to do so.

She struggled to her feet, thoughts swirling
in her head. Where did they come from? How had they come upon her
unseen and unheard? She tried to keep her distance, but the snow
gripped her feet while her pursuers seemed unaffected. One of them
circled in behind her. She reeled around and caught it with the tip
of the blade.

The razor-sharp knife sliced easily though
the fabric. Though she could not feel the blade meet flesh, her
attack prompted a shrill and ear-piercing shriek that was far too
spine-tingling to have been made by a creature of nature. Startled
by the horrid cry, she released the knife. It disappeared through
the slice and fell to the ground. The wounded attacker pulled away
violently, briefly allowing the cloak to open. The few rays of
cloud weakened moonlight must have been playing tricks, for what
they illuminated could not be. Nothing. The cloak was empty.

Myranda froze as she tried to comprehend what
her eyes were telling her. Inside of the garment was nothing more
than air, yet it swept about as though it were worn by someone
agonized by the attack. Her distraction was long enough to allow
the creature behind her to act. Her hood was pulled back, and
something clutched her head. Instantly her mind became clouded. She
could not hold onto a single thought as the world seemed to spin
around her. Myranda tried to fight it, but against her will she
slipped into unconsciousness.

#

Far to the north, in a dimly-lit room, a pair
of individuals waited. The first, a tall, graceful elf woman in
ornate armor, stood facing a wall of maps. Beneath her arm was her
helmet, and on her face was a look of concern, impatience--and,
most of all, anger. Seated at a large desk behind her was a
nobleman. His face was a mask of deliberate composure, and his
clothing was of the finest variety. In appearance and demeanor, he
seemed as though he should be sitting in a royal court at the right
hand of the king. In front of him were scattered countless sealed
documents, military dispatches, coded messages, and royal
declarations. His fingers were steepled in front of his face, and
his eyes were locked on the door.

"Does he normally take this long?" the woman
asked petulantly.

"Patience, General Teloran," replied the
man.

The elf sighed and turned back to the map. It
showed the whole of the continent, though there was no reason. The
top third of the map, representing the Northern Alliance, was
cluttered with figures and military patterns representing every
aspect of the year's battles. Below that, a thin line representing
the front was obscured almost completely by carefully recorded
combat figures. The rest of the map, showing the enormous kingdom
of Tressor, was virtually untouched. General Trigorah Teloran,
formerly a key field commander, ran a finger over the map, tracing
a faint line near the front. It had been ages since she'd seen the
enemy, since she'd seen real combat.

"Have you retaken Orin Ridge?" she asked.

"That is not the matter at hand," the man
wearily commented.

"With all due respect, sir, until it is won,
the war is always the matter at hand," Trigorah replied. "We are
too far from the front here. Even with Demont's methods, the
information is cold when it reaches us. We never should have left
Terital, General Bagu. We need--"

She was interrupted as the door flew open.
Through it marched a rather slight man. He was dressed similarly to
Bagu, through the exquisite garments seemed out of place on him.
His were not the features of a nobleman. In place of implacable
composure was a look of sharp determination, tempered with
annoyance, as though he was perpetually being kept from far more
fruitful endeavors. A gem-tipped staff of some kind was strapped to
his back. The harness that held it was coarse, and clearly worn in
complete dismissal of the regal bearing the vestments had been
intended to represent. As for the staff, it had silvery metallic
sheen to it, and the jewels of the tip gave any who observed them
the nagging feeling of being watched. In his hands were a stack of
papers.

"General Bagu . . ." he began, turning slowly
to acknowledge the elf. "Teloran . . ."

There was no attempt to disguise the distaste
with which he spoke the latter name.