The Book of Deacon Page 8

  She trudged to the door she had wrestled partially open. The inch-wide portal to the outside remained, for whatever reason, undisturbed by the kidnapper. The fiend could have easily pushed her wedge from the door and robbed her of this tiny accomplishment, but instead it remained, whistling with the frigid wind of the outside. Earlier that day she had prayed to find this place and to be allowed inside, but now all she wanted was to leave. She put her eye to the crack.

  The sky to the east was beginning to take on the rose hue of dawn, coloring the stark white snow a faint crimson. The only soul to be seen was the captor, dressed in the same blasted cloak as any other northerner. The stranger sat with eyes to the east and back to Myranda. Far off in the distance, a speck of black was moving toward them along the snow-mounded road. As it drew nearer, it revealed itself to be a horse-drawn sleigh. It was not unusual for such vehicles to be seen so soon after such a terrible storm. Blizzards were anything but uncommon, and waiting for the roads to clear was a surefire way to be caught in the next. However, it was clear that no one had been along this road for many months, save for whoever had looted this place. This sleigh's appearance could not be a coincidence.

  When the sleigh was near enough, Myranda could see that the horses, the sleigh itself, and the four soldiers who stepped out of it, all bore the unmistakable emblem of the Northern Army. Her heart lifted. She had not been happy to see a soldier of either side for years, but today they represented her only chance for rescue.

  "Here! I am in here! Help me!" she cried out, beating on the door with her fists. A sharp pain in the shoulder quickly put the hammering to an end, but she continued to call out.

  When she was certain that she had been heard, she put her eye back to the crack in the door. The four soldiers stood silently before the door, each in full combat armor, complete with face masks. The first was speaking calmly with her captor while the others looked on. They made no motion toward the door. She strained her ears to hear what the two were saying. Only the soldier spoke loudly enough to hear.

  "The one who touched the sword? We are charged with her return, as well as that of the sword," he said, in response to the kidnapper's unheard comment.

  The sinister figure pulled a bundle from inside the cloak and held it out, obviously the sword that had been taken from Myranda. The soldier took the weapon with gauntlet-clad hands and uncovered it. After as close an inspection as he could manage without raising his face guard, he looked to the kidnapper.

  "It seems to be the piece we require. We shall take the girl and be on our way," he said, moving toward the door. The captor stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.

  "What?" the soldier said, irritated.

  The kidnapper held the hand out palm up.

  All hope was dashed away as she struggled to comprehend the pieces as they came together. He was waiting to be paid! The Northern Army was in league with the stranger who had captured her! Why? And why did they want her? A thousand thoughts of fear burned across the back of Myranda's mind and her heart fluttered in her chest. The exchange between the conspirators continued.

  "The capture and return of the swordbearer is the responsibility of the Alliance Army. Regardless of what orders you may have received, your interference is considered a treasonous action. Owing to the fact that your interference was entirely beneficial, you will not be charged," the soldier said.

  Her captor said something too quiet to hear, but the fiend's body language betrayed more than a bit of anger.

  "I have received no word of such an agreement, and even if I had, it would have been deemed illegal. You shall receive no payment. I suggest you accept this fact and be grateful we do not kill you where you stand," he said.

  Her mind raced. How could anyone want her or the sword? She had only just found it in the field a day or two ago. It had obviously been there for some time. And how could anyone have found her here so quickly? No one knew she would be here, not even she, until the old man had . . . the old man. He must have assumed she had stolen the sword, and he told her where to go. Apparently she had not learned her lesson about who to trust for directions. The cloaked figure must be a bounty hunter. Things were looking grim. If the Alliance Army had come to take her away, she might be witnessing her last sunrise. In criminal matters, only an accusation was needed to be thrown into prison, and if the weapon was valuable enough to hire a bounty hunter and alert the army, she would remain locked away for the better part of a decade.

  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 thro
at.

  "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.

  "The gravy. I'm not one for sauces, but this place is an exception. I make sure to eat here each time I come through town just to get it," he said. "You just wait, you'll agree."

  Myranda nodded. She looked at him. He was a shade taller than she, white hair out of place, framing a young face. His clothes were a refreshing--and practically unique--departure from the ubiquitous gray cloak. It was a lighter, almost white coat, with a bit of fur peeking out of the sleeve and attached hood. Had he been outside, it would have been simple to pick him out from a crowd. As she looked at him, she realized that he was likely the last person she would be able to talk to, possibly for the rest of her days, without pleading for her freedom or her life. It would be best to take advantage.