The D'Karon Apprentice (66 page)

“Everyone! This portal is very dangerous!”
Deacon called to the troops. “I need you all to move to the other
side of the village. Be ready to help any who may be injured.”

“What have you done?” demanded one of the
higher-ranking Tresson soldiers. “What is this, and why have you
brought it to our land, to threaten our people?”

“You will not address the duke in that
manner!” barked an Alliance soldier in return.

The soldiers, now lacking a common enemy,
swiftly began to recall their animosity toward each other.

“Now everyone…” Deacon said, trying to calm
the growing unrest.

“You get back on your side of the border
before we do what we should have done the moment you arrived,”
growled a soldier.

“I assure you, as soon as it is safe—” Deacon
attempted.

The hostility grew sharply, and Deacon found
himself somewhat at a loss. He’d always found it rather simple to
address a crowd that was open to reason, and with a bit if effort
he’d always been able to get his point across even to someone
hostile if it was one on one. With little choice, he was forced to
alter the situation to suit his strengths, because there wasn’t
much time to waste.

He held his crystal tight and drew his mind
to a simple and quite familiar spell. The air between the
increasingly agitated factions blurred and coalesced into a
veritable army of illusionary copies of Deacon. The sudden and
unexplained appearance of several dozen identical duplicates of
someone who was formerly an easily ignored individual shocked the
soldiers into at least a brief silence.

“It is exceptionally important that we set
our differences aside for just a few minutes longer,” the chorus of
voices said, each one stepping up to a member of one army or the
other. “That portal, when it closes, will do so with a very
powerful energy release, which can and will cause massive damage to
the village if something is not done. I advise that Tresson
soldiers quickly evacuate the near side of the village. Alliance
soldiers should retreat no less than four hundred paces. I will do
my very best to shield the city, but for the sake of safety I must
insist all soldiers and civilians be moved from harm’s way.”

Each soldier, staring his or her own
duplicate of Deacon in the eye, was at the very least motivated to
hold his or her tongue. The first to act were the Alliance
soldiers, peeling reluctantly away and heading for new positions at
a safer distance. As each left, Deacon let the associated illusion
fade. The Tresson troops, though wary, held their ground.

“We don’t have much time left,” Deacon said,
indicating the portal again. “I assure you, the evacuation will be
very brief and—”

“How do we know this isn’t Alliance
treachery? How do we know this isn’t the nameless empire trying to
take our land as they have for generations!?” countered the same
soldier who had first spoken out.

“Because if it was my intention to destroy
this village, I could do so with far less effort through any number
of different methods. I certainly wouldn’t leave it to an unstable
portal.”

Deacon had spoken the words simply, the
crystal clear logic of them seeming to him to be a fine way to
settle the argument. In the ears of soldiers interested only in the
defense of their people, the words were not taken in the spirit in
which they were intended.

“Do you hear him? He admits to having plans
for such things! Ready your arms men, before his troops can
return!”

The spirited spokesman of the force raised
his weapon. A few of his more hotheaded compatriots did the same,
but the worst they had done was whisk a blade pointlessly through
one of the remaining illusions when a peculiar sound served as a
badly needed distraction.

All eyes turned to the sky. A brilliant
golden light was rapidly approaching from the north, streaking
through the air like a falling star. Accompanying the arrival was a
spirited and complex violin performance. When it was near enough,
the light revealed itself to be some manner of winged beast,
looking like a griffin but burning with the brilliant light of a
phoenix. Seated on its back, glowing all the more gloriously, was
Ivy. Her violin bow was dancing across the strings, and her face
was lost in an expression of pure, soul-deep bliss.

The griffin touched down, turning its flight
into a run, and skidded to a stop before Deacon. The suddenness of
the landing caused Ivy to hit a sour note, snapping her out of her
reverie. Her yellow aura faded considerably as the influence of the
music dropped away.

“Oh, we’re here!” Ivy said, hopping down.

The instant she was clear, the griffin
flashed to flame and faded again, leaving behind Ether’s human
form. She scanned the surroundings like a hungry predator. Her
fierce gaze and effortless acts of magic were not lost on the
assembled Tresson troops, who suddenly found themselves somewhat
less enthusiastic about the idea of violence.

“Where is she? Where is the necromancer?”
Ether demanded.

She had a spirit to her voice and a piercing
intensity to her gaze that seemed utterly unnatural for the often
cold and calculating shapeshifter.

“There isn’t time to explain, but for now at
least, she’s gone to a place where she cannot threaten us. Ivy,
Ether, quickly, I need your help,” Deacon said.

Ivy opened her mouth to ask how she could
help, but a glance at the massive but rapidly shrinking portal
barely a stone’s throw from the town made the threat clear.

She covered her mouth and gasped. “We’ve got
to get these people to safety!”

Without delay, Ivy bounded gracefully past
the assembled soldiers and vaulted over the wall before they could
bring themselves to react.

“Everyone, quickly! Quickly this way,” she
called amid much banging on doors.

The Tresson soldiers were stricken with
indecision, some looking anxiously to the city and Ivy’s presence
therein, others looking to Ether and Deacon, wary of their evident
threat. Most were eying the portal, which was now barely half the
size it had been. As it reduced in size, the edge crackled and
sparked with a menacing indigo light.

Ether, clearly displeased to have failed to
find Turiel, looked to the portal, then to Deacon.

“Do you have the strength for a proper
shield?” she asked, willing to set aside her ire for the more
pressing task, even if it was a bothersome one.

“I can do my best, but this portal was much
larger. I’m not certain if I have strength enough to protect the
village.”

“Then I shall aid you. But I shall require
these soldiers to clear this stretch of land,” Ether said.

“I’ve attempted to convince them of the
danger, but they have proved quite cautious.”

The shapeshifter snapped her head toward the
soldiers. “Have you been given orders by this human?” she demanded.
When an answer was not forthcoming, she barked, “
Answer
me!
”

“Yes!” came the scattered reply.

“Then I suggest you follow them, because if
you do not,
I
will be forced to conduct any further
negotiations,” she said, adding darkly, “And I have had my fill of
diplomacy.”

As she spoke, the air around her literally
smoldered. The rapid-fire instances of absurdity combined with raw
mystic power finally passed the tipping point, and the soldiers
marched quickly into the city to continue the evacuation that Ivy
had begun.

Deacon gave Ether a nod. “Well handled.”

Ether nodded once in reply. “I suggest you
place yourself with your back to the wall, and erect the shield as
near the village as possible. I shall bolster the defenses between
your shield and the portal.”

“Agreed.”

#

On the other side of the portal, Myranda was
by Myn’s side. With the rush of battle through, her dear friend was
suddenly left with nothing to distract her from the accumulated
injuries she’d endured. Turiel’s last attack had badly dazed her,
and she was only now beginning to climb to her feet.

“Myn,” Myranda said, pulling the dragon’s
head close. “Thank the heavens you aren’t hurt badly. Does it hurt
to stand?”

The dragon shut her eyes and pressed her head
lovingly against Myranda, releasing a hiss of discomfort and
rumbling with relief and satisfaction as Myranda scratched
affectionately at her brow.

Myranda gave her a final pat and pulled away,
prompting a sharp look from Myn that effectively communicated her
feelings that Myranda had cut their moment unforgivably short.
Around them, the Tresson soldiers were in terrible disarray. Many
of them were injured, several were killed. Those who were still
healthy enough to stand and perhaps fight were, for the moment,
holding their ground. They were still getting their bearings after
a battle that had been far more than any had been prepared to face,
and it remained to be seen what sort of horrors this woman and her
dragon had in store. She stepped toward them, but they pulled back,
weapons tight in hand.

She looked down. Clutched between her staff
and her palm was the artifact Deacon had created. He didn’t tell
her how to use it, but he didn’t need to. It was warm to the touch,
almost humming with the energy it contained. The D’Karon gems, when
fully charged, often offered up their energy in this way to those
who knew the proper magic, but this was different. There, it felt
like a bargain with a demon, energy given only with the promise
that the gem would once again be fed on the strength of others.
This artifact gave its energy freely, like the sun on a summer’s
day. In her mind and against her spirit, it felt like a gentle
heat, belying its profound power. It was like a well, its opening
small, but virtually bottomless in depth. As she let it flow into
her, soothing her taxed spirit and revitalizing her, she tried to
work out the proper way to begin healing the damage that had been
done here. A sudden motion beside her made her decision for
her.

Myn rushed over to the wall beside the cave’s
mouth, limping painfully but paying her injuries no mind. Her eyes
were set on Garr and Grustim. The Dragon Rider had barely moved
since he and his mount had been thrown. The most obvious of the
injuries was his twisted leg, but as Myranda swept her mind over
him, she found a dozen places both in and outside of him that were
badly broken. Without a healer’s touch he
might
survive, but
he would never recover. Then Myranda set her focus on Garr. The
dragon wasn’t moving. Thick blood dripped from his mouth, so dark
it was almost black, and sizzled where it struck the ground. The
inside of his maw was slashed and gouged with the attack Turiel had
used to throw him. All over his head and neck, deep black lines had
been etched into his scales, and his head was twisted in a painful
and unnatural way. His breaths were shallow and reedy, his chest
barely rising. As the white magic she’d learned delved deeper, what
she found made the severity of the situation even more worrisome.
The injuries went far deeper than what the eye could see. Turiel’s
attacks had a grim efficiency, and she’d held nothing back when she
struck out against Garr.

Garr tried to make a sound, but shuddered at
the attempt. Myn uttered a deep, forlorn wail and settled down
beside him, draping a wing across him and nestling her head near
his.

Myranda looked to the Dragon Rider.

“Grustim, Garr is badly hurt. I—”

“Heal him. Save him if you can,” Grustim
wheezed.

She nodded once and shut her eyes. If Myranda
had not been familiar with the needs of dragons from her many
treatments of Myn, she would have been shocked at the sheer energy
required to make any impact at all on Garr’s injuries. It was a
matter of scale. The number and severity of wounds required to
render a dragon so near death would be enough to kill a dozen men,
and therefore it took all of Myranda’s considerable experience and
skill to mend the worst of them. Garr was quite far gone, his lungs
practically shredded, internal injuries pouring blood. As she wove
her mind through his body, coaxing tissues to mend and bones to
knit, she was dully aware of motion around her. The soldiers were
approaching, emboldened by her apparent distraction. She would have
turned to them, addressed them, but this was a healing act that
must be finished once it was begun, or else she could do more harm
than good. But she did wrestle back enough of her mind to listen to
what was being said.

“Back, all of you… Let the woman work,”
Grustim wheezed in Tresson.

“This woman is an invader. Look what her
people have done here!” growled a soldier.

“This woman is a defender. She cares for
others.
All
others. I do not agree with her ways at times,
but every mistake she has made she has made in the earnest attempt
to heal this world. I have seen this woman do more for Tresson
soldiers than even their own commanders. The Alliance has done
terrible things, inexcusable things. But if there is even one woman
like Myranda in a land, then that land is redeemable, and she
deserves at least the same consideration from us as she has given
us,” Grustim said.

The soldiers advanced a bit closer, but
Myranda kept to her task. Myn rumbled a warning, and when they
continued to advance, she hauled herself to her feet, bared her
teeth, and shook the earth with an ominous growl.

“An enemy dragon must not—” a soldier began
to warn.

“Do not quote your duties to me! No one has
devoted his life to the defense of this land more dutifully than a
Dragon Rider, and there comes a time when what must be done and
what must not be done transcends duty to a crown or king! That this
dragon hasn’t unleashed her breath or put her claws to work on each
of you speaks more of her restraint than can be said of my own.
This woman is saving the life of a soldier who has fought for and
served this kingdom since before your fathers were born. You
will
leave her to her work. When she is through I am sure
you shall all feel her healing touch if you require it. But if you
interrupt her and cause this noble creature to be lost, then oath’s
be damned I shall see to it that each of you pays for it in
blood.”