The Book of Deacon Page 6

  "I am so sorry that you have to live like this," she said, nearly sickened by the behavior of her own people.

  "Oh, it is not so bad. I only spend time in a city once in a great while," he said.

  "It should not be that way. I honestly do not see how you could treat me so kindly when my people have never done the same to you. How can you put the anger aside?" she asked.

  "You must remember that at least half of my interactions with other races are in the form of combat. When every alternate memory you have of a human consists of forcibly delivering him into an unwelcome slumber, and getting paid quite well to do so, the anger tends to fade a bit," he said with a grin.

  Myranda nodded. She tried to picture this thoughtful, helpful gentleman in battle, but it seemed absurd. As her mind wandered, she casually rubbed her sore palm with her right thumb.

  "How is it coming?" Leo asked.

  "Pardon? Oh, the burn. Very well. Thanks for the advice. It itches a bit, but not nearly as it had yesterday," she said. In fact, it had recovered so much, she had forgotten to bandage it that morning.

  "Let's have a look," he said, stopping to gently take her hand into his gloved hands. He looked it over thoughtfully. Over the night the redness had all but disappeared, leaving a thin, raised area where the red had been.

  "There will be a scar. Two of them. Here and here. If you want to keep them small, leave the bandage off and don't scratch at it," Leo advised.

  "You are starting to sound like my uncle," she said as he released her hand.

  "The man must have given some fine advice," he said.

  The pair continued on.

  "So, how long can I expect your company?" Myranda asked hopefully.

  "Until I find a decent hunting ground to live off of for a few days. A pine forest will do," he said.

  "I hope we do not find one. I would hate to have to say goodbye," she said.

  "We all say goodbye in time. I always say it is a good bye when we choose it and a bad one when we are forced. As such, I much prefer good byes," he said. "And besides, I am long overdue for a time in the wilderness."

  "Don't you ever get lonely?" Myranda asked.

  "Now and again. Woodland creatures are a fine lot, but engaging conversation is not among their talents," he said.

  "So you can speak with animals?" asked Myranda, intrigued.

  "I am speaking with you, aren't I?" he pointed out.

  "I mean besides humans. Can you speak with creatures who cannot speak . . . No, that just sounds silly. How can I say this? You speak the language of your human half exceptionally well. Do you have to same talent with other foxes and the like?" she finally asked.

  "Yes, I suppose. I can smell the scents and hear the sounds that you cannot, and I can understand them. If pressed I can make myself understood to them, but the need has yet to arise," Leo explained.

  "That is amazing. I would love to be able to do that," Myranda said.

  "You aren't missing much. Most animals are concerned with little more than where predators are, where prey is, and how to get from one to the other," he said.

  "Are there any messages I am missing right now?" she asked.

  "I am not sure. Stand still," he said.

  The two halted. After a quick glance to assure they were still alone, he pulled back the hood entirely. His ears twitched slightly, and he drew a long, slow breath into his nose.

  "Not terribly much. A pair of rabbits passed through here. They have nested a fair way off of the road in that direction. They are both scared half to death that we might find them," he said.

  "Astounding . . ." said Myranda.

  "If you say so," Leo said, replacing his hood and continuing on.

  "Oh, come now. You don't think it is amazing that you can simply perk up your ears and take a whiff and learn all of that?" she asked.

  "No more amazing than the fact that you can understand the impenetrable accent that these townsfolk mumble day in and day out," he said. "That was another reason I lent a hand. For once I heard someone speaking properly."

  "Well, my mother was a teacher. I had little choice. How is it that you came to speak so well?" she asked.

  "To speak a human tongue without the benefit of actually having a human tongue is a supremely difficult task," he said. "I simply decided that I may as well put all of that effort into speaking correctly. That goes for all of the languages I speak."

  "Oh, you speak other languages?" she asked, nearly slipping on an icy track beneath the snow. The pair of gray lines left by a trade wagon was the only things as far as the eye could see that interrupted the canvas of white.

  Leo's answer came in the languages he described. First was the slow, flowery dialect of the southern empire, Tressor. These words Myranda understood.

  "The glorious tongue of my homeland," he said in Tresson.

  What followed was an odd grouping of syllables spoken in a very clear and precise manner. Myranda racked her mind, but she could not place the sounds.

  "I recognized Tresson, but what about the second?" she asked.

  "Just a silly little language I learned from the fellow who taught me to handle a sword properly," he explained. "Your guess is as good as mine as to where that verbiage originates."

  "Well, you spoke Tresson wonderfully. Tell me, do you remember much of Tressor?" she asked.

  "A bit," Leo answered. He sniffed the air and turned to the eastern horizon briefly before turning his shrouded gaze back to her.

  "Well?" she said expectantly.

  "Oh . . . descriptions. Warmer. Much warmer. It only snows in the winter, and rarely even then. There tends to be a lot more green and a lot less white. The trees shed their leaves in the colder months. There are pests of all sorts buzzing about your head. I've got many an irritated memory of flies, mosquitoes, and the like flitting in and out of my ears. Mostly in.

  "What else? The towns are more spread out. The space between is littered with farms. Very large farms . . . with many, many workers," he reminisced, his last words carrying a tone that betrayed a distant repressed emotion.

  "It all sounds so lovely. Like a paradise," she said.

  "I, for one, am glad to be rid of it," he said. "I have a natural coat that I cannot remove, and the summer can be downright unbearable. About the only thing I do miss is the hunting. My, but those forests were stocked. I could go for weeks without repeating a meal."

  He breathed a sigh of remembrance, but pressed onward. Myranda scanned the stark white countryside and tried to imagine it as he had described. Gentle rolling hills, a brilliant green instead of white. Warm breezes blowing, perhaps a fluttering of butterflies among a patch of wild flowers. She realized that no sight like that had ever truly blessed her eyes. Indeed, the closest she had come was the dream a few nights ago, before the darkness had come. Leo might as well have been describing a dream, though, because it was a place she would never be. It might exist somewhere, but crossing the battlefront to see it was as likely as reaching the stars with a step stool.

  "It reminds me of what I imagine when I think about the Chosen," she said.

  "The Chosen?" he replied

  "The Chosen Five. Surely you heard that old tale when you were a child," she said.

  "As I said, most of the tales I was told focused on convincing me just how awful my brethren were," he said.

  "Oh, well, you missed something. There is a long story that my parents used to tell. It tells of a time in the future when the war is at its absolute peak, and the world itself is on the brink of destruction. On that day, the gods will look down on the world and proclaim that an end to the fighting must come. And thus there will arise five warriors with the strength to strike down the strongest foe, and the wisdom to set things right again. The tale differs greatly from person to person in terms of just what these warriors will look like. As for me, I picture five noble knights in shining silver armor, astride white horses, riding across a green meadow," she said, thinking back to the bedtime stories of he
r youth.

  "Sounds nice. I would have liked to hear that one," he said.

  Pleasant conversation filled an hour or so more of walking before one of Myranda's frequent glances to the east brought her the sight she'd been dreading all day. Melorn Woods, a small forest well known for its hunting. It would certainly suit the purposes Leo had in mind, which meant that her company would soon be leaving her. Carefully, Myranda shifted to the right side of the road, away from the forest. If she could keep his eyes on her, he might not notice the woods for a few minutes more. Leo only smiled when she did so.

  "Clever," he said. "I suppose I should be flattered."

  "What?" Myranda said, mock innocence on her face.

  "You don't want me to see the forest over yonder," Leo replied, pointing squarely at the woods without looking.

  "I did not . . . How did you . . ." Myranda stuttered confused by the immediate collapse of her plan.

  In answer, Leo pulled his hood back and shifted his finger to the tip of his sensitive nose, tapping it twice before tugging forward the hood to conceal it.

  "Oh, yes . . . I had forgotten," Myranda said.

  "This is where we part, then. I truly enjoyed your company. If ever you find yourself at an arena, do look into the fighters' listing. I fight under the name ‘The Beast,'" he said.

  "I never thought I would have anything to do with one of those places, but now I just may," she assured him.

  Leo held out his hand for a farewell shake, but Myranda pushed it aside and embraced him warmly. He reluctantly returned the gesture.

  "Before I go, I have been meaning to ask. How much money was stolen from you?" Leo said.

  "I would say there were at least twenty copper coins in the bag. I had plans for that money." She sighed, shaking her head.

  "Well, it just so happens I have got a bit more money than I can carry, so if you will just do me the favor of taking it off my hands. . ." said the friendly creature, digging into the heavy bag in his cloak.

  Even before he had finished making his transparent excuse, Myranda was shaking her head.

  "I couldn't take your money. You have already done so much for me. It just wouldn't be right," she said.

  "Well, if you say so," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Until we meet again."

  With that he turned to the woods, quickening into a sprint that no man could match. Myranda watched as her unexpected friend disappeared over the hill and into the forest. Almost immediately, the loneliness closed in around her. She sighed heavily and pulled her hood up into place, the long goodbye leaving her ears badly stinging from the cold.

  The sigh turned to a startled gasp as she felt a trio of ice-cold objects creep down her back. After frantically tracking them down with her hands, she retrieved the culprits. Three large silver coins, worth fifty coppers each. Leo must have slipped them into her hood just before he left.

  Myranda placed the sneaky gift into the one pocket that had not been worn through by overuse. With no company to occupy her mind, Myranda focused on the unfamiliar jingling of money in her pocket to distract her from the long road ahead. Not unlike the rest of this war-torn land, the coins had a rather troubled past.

  There had been a time, long before her own, when the three kingdoms that had become the Northern Alliance were still separate. Each had coins of their own. There were different sizes, designs, and names. Then came the war. The reason for the conflict between the vast southern kingdom of Tressor and the small mining kingdom Vulcrest was lost to the ages, but hostilities soon became such that Vulcrest could not hope to face the mighty foe alone. The sister kingdoms of Kenvard and Ulvard were called upon for aid. Before long, any distinction between the three kingdoms was lost--as with nearly all aspects of life, the money was stripped of its individuality for the sake of unity.

  Gone were the colorful, cultural names like Dellics, Glints, and Ouns. Instead there were the four types that remained today: copper pieces, half silvers, silver pieces, and gold pieces. The likeness of kings and queens of the past were hammered away, leaving the coins as plain and faceless as the people who spent them.

  The aimless wandering of her mind had done its job at least as well as the wandering of her feet. Before she knew it, she was approaching a shoddy wooden wall around an equally shoddy little town. Both were likely a remnant of the bygone age when the three kingdoms were separate. In those days, forts such as these dotted the landscape along the borders. Now most were left to rot, and some were made into trading posts. Such was the case here.

  A weathered and faded sign proclaimed the frosty place to be Fort Wick. A few steps more took her past the decrepit gate that had once held doors heavy enough to turn away a battering ram. Now one was wholly missing, burnt during a particularly harsh winter, no doubt. The other had dropped from its massive hinge and buried its corner in the earth, never to close again. The buildings, what few there were to speak of, were in slightly better condition.

  At the town's center was a large building surrounded by a handful of smaller ones. Here and there, the ancient gray wood of the walls gave way to the brown and yellow of new wood where the old had been replaced. Where once had been the cots of dedicated soldiers now stood shelves of poorly-made tools. A former armory held the flimsy wares of a leather smith. Most importantly, in what had been a stable in the years past could be found a market marked by a carving of crossed swords. Perhaps inside she could relieve herself of the burdensome sword and gain the means to reduce her burden further.

  Myranda hurried to the door and pulled it open. Inside, a simple, smoky oil lamp cast its sallow light on case after case of weapons of various types. An elderly man sat behind the counter, lazily shaving pieces off of a wooden stake. Judging from the mound of shavings on his shirt and the plank of a counter, it had been his sole activity for some time. The sight of a customer stirred him from his seat. The fellow had a head of wiry gray hair that had grown wildly out of control. He was exceptionally thin, but moved with considerable speed at the prospect of a sale. He glanced past her to the closing door, but when it shut without another customer, his eager look to a step toward confusion.

  "Ah, hello, little lady. What can I do for you?" he said, in a voice to match his withered features. "Have you lost your way?"

  "Do you sell these weapons?" she asked.

  "I do," he assured her.

  "Then it would seem I have found my way," she said.

  "I see. My apologies, miss. I don't get many young ladies through here. Truth be told, haven't had many people at all through here," he said.

  "Then I would think you would be happy to see me," she said.

  "Oh, that I am, miss. As a matter of fact, I've got just what you'll be wanting right here," he said.

  The feeble old man tottered to one of the cases behind the counter, mumbling all the way.

  "Just the thing for dainty hands. Nice and light . . . and small," he muttered.

  He hobbled back to the counter with a leather pad with an array of small knives arranged on it. The eager salesman placed it down, beside where Myranda had placed the cloth-wrapped sword while he walked. The hidden prize drew a curious glance from the old man.

  "Did I put this here?" he asked, scratching his head.

  "No, sir, I did," she assured him.

  "Oh . . . why?" he asked, the years having taken their toll on his mind, it would seem.

  "I would like to sell it to you," she said.

  "Oh, well, we can settle that later," he said, shifting quickly back to his sales pitch. "First, take a look here. A stiletto, and a fine one, you can be sure of that. Nice and thin, but tough. Toughest metal made. Won't bend, not one bit, you can be sure of that. Someone tries to bother you, young lady, you just put this little knife right through their ribs. Won't take hardly any effort, you can be sure of that. Push it in right up to the hilt. Won't have any trouble from that troublemaker any more, you can be sure of that."

  "That is very nice, but I would really like to show
you this sword," Myranda said.

  "Now, now, miss, I am not in the habit of picking up rusted relics from the public, even from those as lovely as yourself," he said with a wink.

  Myranda weathered the unwelcome compliment for the sake of the deal she hoped to make.

  "I think this sword will pique your interest," she said.

  Myranda pulled the ragged cloth from her prize and carefully watched the merchant's face. His eyes widened briefly in astonishment, but dropped quickly back to their cool and sullen state. Now the game would begin. Uncle Edward's advice often echoed in the place of her mother's in Myranda's head, and when it came to haggling, he had a wealth of advice to give: "The only difference between a ten-copper price and a five is confidence. You can give them the most unreasonable of prices, but if you are confident about it, that price will not move an inch."

  For Myranda an additional requirement arose that made her perhaps a bit less of a skilled bargainer. Certainly confidence was essential--but, for Myranda, honesty was required for confidence. She was an excellent liar, but she simply functioned better with the truth on her side. As such, she had become something of an artist at sculpting the truth into something she could use.

  "Where does a little lady get such a big sword?" asked the old man.

  "It was left to me by a very dear friend," she said. That soldier in the field had saved her by leaving the sword. That made him a dear friend in her book.

  "So it is old, then . . ." he said, searching for a reason to drop the price.

  "The age has no bearing. This blade is immaculate and in perfect condition," she said, careful not to fall for his trick.

  A few words crept up from her memory.

  "Note the clean edge and excellent temper," she added, quoting Leo's observations.

  The two haggled back and forth for the better part of an hour. In the end, he bargained her down to fifty silver pieces, plus the stiletto and a sheath. Rather, she bargained him up from five. Both knew that the sword was worth ten times what he was paying, but she wasn't greedy. If she was equally skilled in her dealings with the other merchants, she would walk away with all she needed, and even some change in her pocket.