The Book of Deacon Page 11

  "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.

  Tus remained stern as ever, but Caya showed enough joy for the two of them. Myranda mustered a smile for their sake. Things were spinning out of control. Days ago, she lived a simple life, albeit a restless one. Then she seemed to be at the center of something she knew nothing about, but was apparently of monumental importance. Now she would be the figurehead of a group of renegades who were working toward an end to the war, but through a means that was nearly a match for the atrocity of the battlefield. Her simple life had been tied in knots.

  "Enough. There are plans to be made. Our man in the field said that the description the soldiers have been given lists you as a young girl of average height, average build, and an injured right shoulder. Not terribly specific, but we should still try to change as much of it as possible," Caya said.

  "Of all of the things on list, might I request we begin with the shoulder?" Myranda said.

  "One would assume that time would solve that problem for us," Caya said.

  "I am not sure that such will be the case," Myranda said.

  She pulled aside her sweat and filth-soaked cloak. The sleeve of her tunic was stained again, and when it was pulled back, the two warriors nodded knowingly.

  "You did this two days ago?" Tus asked.

  "Yes," Myranda said. "Plus whatever time I spent in that carriage."

  "Mmm. Only a few days and the arm is ruined. Nasty. It heals badly. You will lose the arm," Tus said.

  The wound had worsened. The whole shoulder was swollen, and red streaks of blighted tissue ran outward from the gash.

  "But it was only a piece of wood," she said.

  "Worse than a blade. Dirty. Causes . . . well . . . things like this. Not often, but sometimes. Not the lucky sort, are you?" Caya said.

  "I've led a less than blessed life," she said with a feeble grin.

  "Well, Tus . . . we'll get some food in her and set her up in one of the cots. At sun up we'll send her down to Zeb. We can't have our new mascot crippled," Caya decreed. "I'll draw up the writ and stow the new weapons and armor."

  "No," Tus said, not as a refusal, but as a statement.

  "What now? No food, no cot?" she asked.

  "No Zeb. I put a knife in him," Tus said.

  "Not another one, Tus," Caya said with frustration.

  "He was speaking to the Blues," Tus said, referring to the Alliance Army.

  The blue-tinted armor had been around since the beginning of the war, more than a century ago. Each of the three Northern Kingdoms used a different shade, but all were blue. Before the Kingdoms merged, the only thing that all three forces had in common was the color. Hence the name.

  "I had a feeling. Six months of training . . . wasted on a traitor. People join us as spies to try to get themselves some favor with the officers in the army. Death is too good for them. With Zeb down and Rankin a runner, we've got no field healers," Caya lamented.

  "Rankin went runner? Scum," Tus declared.

  "Runner?" Myranda questioned.

  "We pay a local white wizard a hefty price to train healers for us. Every so often one of the apprentices is given the money to pay him and never shows. Runs off with the silver. I tell you, I am beginning to wonder if there are any decent people left in this world. Send out the word. We need a new healer. I doubt we'll get any volunteers. The men and women who join us all want to be the one to draw the blade across the throat of the next general. There is no glory in healing," Caya explained.

  "Wait!" Myranda said.

  There was the solution, right in front of her. It would keep her off of the battlefield, provide her with a hiding place, and even give her six months of hot meals and soft beds.

  "I'll be the new healer! Send me to the wizard!" she eagerly offered.

  "You? I . . . I think that just might work," Caya considered. "Right, Tus, food and bed for her. I'll give her the letter of intention to give to Wolloff in the morning. Myranda, you had best get your rest. You have a long walk ahead of you."

  "Wonderful! I . . . a long walk?" Myranda asked. "What about the four new horses?"

  "Horses are for those who require speed. A sore shoulder can wait, but targets of opportunity open and close like the blink of an eye. Two steps too late and a chance is gone forever. Wolloff's tower is just on the north side of Ravenwood. On this terrain, on foot, I cannot imagine it taking you more than five days. So, eat, rest, and leave. We've much to do," Caya stated.

  In a few moments, a clay bowl filled with perhaps the worst porridge Myranda had ever eaten was set before her. When she'd managed to swallow the horrid stuff, a cot and blanket were placed mercifully near to the rekindled fire. She settled stiffly onto the bed, such as it was, and basked in the warmth of the fire. Her body had dealt with such extremes of heat and cold, it was fairly screaming. Cramps twisted her muscles through the whole night. She closed her eyes and an instant later she was awakened by a rough prodding from Tus. The sun had yet to peek over the mountains.

  "Food. Eat it slow. It will last," Tus said, tossing her a pack.

  She managed to catch it, much to the detriment of the injured shoulder.

  "Flint," he said, holding up a second p
ack. "And tinder. One night, one fire. It will last. Walk close to the mountains. Too close to the roads, the patrols will kill you. Too close to the mountains, other things will kill you."

  With that ominous warning, she was sent on her way.

  #

  The cottage was not even out of sight when she began to regret not asking for a new cloak. Fortunately, though, it was not nearly so difficult to walk in the forest as it had been in the field. The dense needles of the evergreens held much of the snow, keeping the ground at a manageable depth. Closer to the mountain, the trees were a bit thinner, but a strong and constant wind kept the ground still more manageable. The iciness of the breeze tore at her, but the greater ease of movement made it worth the discomfort. She had been in danger of freezing to death often enough in the past to know that she was in no such danger now--at least, not if she kept moving.

  As she walked, she marveled at how much more alive the woods were than the field. The whistling of the wind carried with it the calls of a dozen different animals. She recognized the call of an eagle overhead and the distant howl of a wolf. Tracks speckled the ground here and there. Some were from moose, others from elk. A long line of impressions in the snow gave her the feel of tracks, but were far too large. More likely they were the places where great lumps of wind-blown snow had fallen from the trees.

  When the sun was beginning to slip from the sky, she collected some of the fallen tree boughs and moved to the far side of a stand of stout old pines. Carefully she lit the fire where it would not cause the tree-borne snow to melt and rain down over her. She pulled open the pack of food, relieved to find salted meat rather than the coarse and heavy biscuit that, when soaked for a great deal of time in warm water, became the hideous porridge she had choked down the night before. After eating what she judged to be the day's ration, she marveled at the fact that a bedroll had been included with the other things in the pack. The attitude of those that had sent her off gave her the feeling she would be expected to do without.

  The night was actually a bit more pleasant than the previous one. The bedroll was a bit softer than the cot and the fire kept her reasonably warm, at least on the side facing it. Wind whipped down off of the mountain constantly, but the trees served as a decent wind break. The morning found her better rested, and she moved even more quickly than the previous day. By sundown of that rather uneventful day, she'd covered easily twice the ground. Night was spent in a similar manner, and just as she drifted off to sleep, she wondered if, perhaps, her luck was changing.

  The very instant her eyes opened the following morning, she regretted her thought. The sky was wrong, too dark. Worse yet, the air had the unmistakable feel of coming snow. Her bedroll and tree system would do no good against a blizzard. Myranda thought hard. If she recalled correctly, telltale hollows were scattered along the mountainside. They could only be the mouths of caves. That meant shelter. She quickened her pace and trained her eyes on the mountain. Whole sections of the slope had been swept clean by the wind, and in one such section there was a large, hollow opening. It extended far enough back that its end was shrouded in darkness.

  Ice crystals were beginning to sting her face when she reached the mouth of the cave. To escape the powerful wind, she had to make her way much deeper than she had expected. The darkness was complete, save for the bit of light that found its way back from the mouth. She leaned her pack-covered back against the cave wall and slid to a seat. A bit winded from the rush to shelter, each breath burned her lungs with sheer cold. As she slowly recovered, she realized how much warmer the cave was than the outside. She brushed some of the more tenacious ice crystals from her cloak and took a deep breath through her nose. It was not the dank, moldy smell she expected, though there was a hint of it. Instead there was a rich, earthy smell, with a hint of smoke behind it.

  "I suppose I am not the first person to shelter in this cave," she said aloud. Only her echoes came as a reply.

  Perhaps the cave was so warm because someone had a fire going further inside. For a moment, she considered trying to find whosoever shared the cave, but she decided against it. Partially, she was afraid she might not be welcome, but mostly she was too tired to rouse herself. If the cave had a current resident, her call a moment earlier would summon it. When she heard the sounds movement echoing from beyond her sight, then silence, she decided she was welcome enough to wait out the storm.

  She glanced at the mouth of the cave. The wind sounded fairly weak, and the snow had not even whited out the horizon. It wouldn't be long before she could safely continue on her way. Her eyes were just about to turn back to the darkness of the cave when she saw the area just outside the cave mouth darken. She squinted at the odd sight, confused. A strange sound accompanied it, something akin to the rustling of leather. As it grew louder, it was joined by a scratching and thumping noise from within the cave.

  The noises were growing at both ends, so much so that she could feel the ground shake with each thump. Confusion turned to fear as the answer became painfully clear. This cave had a resident--but it was not a who, it was a what, and it had a visitor that concerned it more than a simple human. She rose to her feet and broke into a sprint for the mouth of the cave. The uneven floor of the cave slowed her, and before she had gotten halfway to freedom, the first of the beasts appeared.

  It was the first she had ever seen of a dragon, and if she hadn't been so terrified, Myranda would have been fascinated. The creature was enormous--from tail to snout it was easily ten paces. At the end of a stout, curving neck was a reptilian head that could effortlessly consume Myranda in little more than a bite. It folded its wings neatly onto its back after touching down thunderously. Wide plates of amber scales armored the underside of the creature from the tip of its chin to the end of its serpentine tail. The rest of the beast was covered with red scales larger than her hands. It crouched on all fours to stalk inside. The forelegs, ending in claws that looked like a bestial mockery of human hands, flexed and moved effortlessly along the rocky floor. The powerful hind legs thrust the massive creature along with a terrible smoothness and grace that seemed out of place for something so large.

  Myranda spun around to race back into the depths of the cave, perhaps to find an alcove to hide in. She was met with an equally spine-tingling sight. Emerging from the darkness was a second dragon. It was slightly smaller than the first, with sleeker, more delicate features that led her to believe that this was a female. It was also red with a yellow belly, and stalked fiercely at the intruder. A few steps more and they would clash.

  Panicked and cornered, Myranda backed toward the wall, afraid to take her eyes off of the spectacle for even a moment. The hammering of massive footfalls rose to near deafening levels and even the breathing of the creatures added to the thundering din. Perhaps it was the shaking of the floor, its unevenness, or her fear, but somehow at the very moment that the dragons collided she lost her footing. A sharp pain in the back of her head dizzied her, and she fell to the ground. She managed to keep the awesome clash in her vision for the last few moments of consciousness.

  #

  Hours passed before her wits slowly returned to her. She became aware of a throbbing in her head and a heaviness on her chest. It must have been well into the afternoon, as the mouth of the cave was shrouded in shadow, leaving Myranda in near blackness. She tried to raise her left arm, but found it pinned down somehow. A brief attempt to use her right arm reminded her quite forcefully of its malady. She managed to wrestle her arm out from beneath whatever had held it down. Her first act was to feel the back of her throbbing head.

  Satisfied when she felt no blood, only a nasty lump, she turned her one useful arm to the task of identifying the cause of the heaviness on her chest. Whatever it was, it was smooth and hard, like a stone or piece of wood. It was also large. As large as her thigh, and roughly the same shape. Had a piece of the roof fallen? No, it was not as heavy as a like-sized piece of stone. The surface of the object was covered with small, overlapping ar
eas. As she ran her fingers over it, giving special attention to a raised, rougher area, she felt the entire object shift. It pressed toward her fingers, then dropped back down heavily. The movement concluded with a soft puff of warm air across her face.

  Myranda held her breath as her heart raced. Now she remembered where she was. She was in a dragon's cave, and that left very little doubt as to what had laid its head upon her chest. Despite her best efforts, she began to tremble in fear. The creature seemed not to mind, the deep, rhythmic breaths on her face leading her to believe it had drifted back to sleep.

  With her one healthy arm, Myranda set about the task of escaping her predicament. She slid her hand underneath the head, finding it mercifully light enough to lift. Slowly and smoothly as she could manage, she tried to lower the beast's head to the cave floor beside her. After an interminable sequence of awkward movements, she succeeded in doing so without waking it. She rolled off of the packs, still affixed to her back, and slammed down hard on the injured shoulder. The pain was intense, but she managed to remain silent. Another few tricky movements brought her to her feet, heart still pounding in her chest.

  Myranda cast a glance at the spot next to where she'd been lying, only to find that the weak rays of sun that made it this far into the cave were falling on an empty floor. Her panicked search for the creature was ended when she felt something rub against her right hand. She was startled, pulling her hand away and looking desperately for the culprit. There beside her, sitting on its haunches, was a small dragon, staring back at her. Myranda froze. This creature was barely a fifth the size of the ones she'd seen earlier, perhaps the size of a large dog--but if it chose to, it could certainly reduce her to a bloody meal in seconds.

  A long moment passed before one of the two moved again. The beast took the initiative. It walked to her left side and reared onto its hind legs briefly, brushing its head across her hand. Not knowing what else to do, and eager to prevent the creature from rearing up again, she dropped her hand to her side. The dragon swiftly thrust its head into her palm. The feeling of the ridges above its eyes brushing against her fingers for the third time made her realize what the animal was after. She stroked the dragon's brow. It sat beside her, pushing back with every stroke.