The Book of Deacon (15 page)

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 pack.
"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 areas. 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.