The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (22 page)

"Infuriatingly so. Those two are sleeping, I
suppose," she said.

"As
I
hope to be shortly," Desmeres
said, adopting a similar posture to Lain. He then propped his
elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists.

"Such a pitiful requirement, a mandatory
period of helplessness at the end of each day," she remarked as she
bent low to inspect the girl and the dragon. "And these eyes are
woefully inadequate."

"What exactly are you accustomed to?"
Desmeres asked.

The woman remained silent, inspecting the
fire instead.

"Ah, I see. I must answer your questions but
you needn't answer mine," he said.

This too was ignored. Suddenly, flames swept
up around the woman and, in mere moments, she was consumed in
flame. A moment later, it was clear that she was, as before,
actually
composed
of the flame. At this distance, the wonder
of the sight was breathtaking. The flame was like cascades of
liquid gold flowing upward in graceful curves over her body. Behind
the bright tips, the flame was a deep red, and behind that was a
dark, almost black core that was just barely visible among the
brilliant gold and red. The fiery being was more defined now than
she had been before, looking more like the woman from whom she'd
borrowed her form. The ground beneath her feet sizzled briefly
before she stepped onto the campfire. Its flickering flames joined
with hers and she took a seat.

"It isn't nearly as strong and pure enough a
flame to suit my needs. I shall require a fair amount of time to
restore myself to the strength I enjoyed this morning," she
remarked in a voice similar to the one she'd had as a human, save
for a peculiar crackling quality that underscored it.

"I shall endeavor to build a more appropriate
one in the future. Have you any specific requests?" Desmeres
offered with a yawn.

"Use the wood of several trees and fan the
flames constantly with strong, focused winds. That should provide
adequate intensity," she stated simply.

"I think that may be a fire more visible and
taxing than I am willing or able to create," Desmeres said.

"I suspected as much," she replied.

After a few moments, the form of her body
seemed to flicker away into the flames. Lain sat in deep
concentration as the others slept. It was often as near as he would
come to sleep for weeks or even months at a time. His back was
striped with slashes from the cloaks he'd battled. Many still
leaked blood, contributing to long maroon stains along his own
cloak. If he managed to sink deeply enough into this trance, the
last of them should close. He had no use for magic, but the
warrior's sleep had saved his life more than once. It was no
replacement for true sleep, though. The body was greatly
rejuvenated, but at the expense of the mind. Dark thoughts from
long ago had a way of finding their way to the surface. Few had
even heard of the warrior's sleep, but those who
had
heard
of it had learned of it first through the tales of those minds lost
to it. Madness was often the price of the technique. For a few
hours Lain endured the twisted remembrances. Sometimes the faces of
his victims would flash in his mind. Other times some of his darker
deeds would crawl out of the murky darkness and linger. One scene
in particular came so frequently it seemed to become an old
friend.

The setting was always the same. He was on
the farm of his youth. The only man who had shown him anything but
hatred, blind Ben, was being beaten before him. As he watched, he -
lashed to a plow - was being beaten as well. He was too exhausted
to continue. Ben, old and feeble, finally took his last lash with a
whip and fell to the ground, dead. Shock, pain, rage. Emotions
burned at his brain. The baser instincts inside of him screamed for
revenge. Ignoring the increasingly intense lashes of the slave
driver's whip, Lain tore at the leather straps that secured him.
Tooth and claw reduced the last of them to shreds and he was free.
The acts he committed were unspeakable. Inexcusable. He tore
through half a dozen slave drivers and guards before a team of them
managed to force him into a shed. This would be the last mistake
they made.

The shed they barricaded him into was filled
with supplies for the harvest. Taking up a scythe, Lain slashed
through both the door and the men who braced it. Before the
thinking part of him returned, he had stained the blade with the
blood of fifty men or more. Only the other slaves and the youngest
son of the owner were spared. Those who found the aftermath of his
rampage did not know what to think. It was as though a bear had
mauled half of the men, while the other half were simply cut to
pieces.

Finally Lain forced the remembrances from his
mind and pulled himself from the warrior's sleep. It was these soul
searing visions that served as a reminder to him that whatever
horrid end he may come to, it was deserved. He knew that the life
he had led could not be redeemed. He did not fear death. A part of
him craved it, but the same instincts that led him to his
atrocities that day continued to demand that he do whatever it took
to give the lives back to those like him, through any means
necessary. In doing so, perhaps, he could prevent another from
becoming the twisted demon that they had made him into.

As Lain hunted down a meal, the others slept.
Once fed, he remained vigilant. With the wretched swirling wind
which it seems had been the newcomer's doing gone, the breezes
again brought him smells from far away. Soldiers were numerous, the
wind carried their scent regardless of direction. Most were in the
company of horses. Some were joined by far more fearsome beasts.
They all seemed to be growing nearer. With the others to slow him,
an encounter was inevitable. Each passing moment brought the first
of what was sure to be a string of battles nearer, but Lain knew it
was best to fight sooner with the group well rested than to run now
and face a battle later with his group useless. His group . . .
Lain furrowed his brow. He had never been comfortable as part of a
group. Now there were four who looked to him. He was not a leader.
He was not a protector. This was not his place. His solitude was
broken when the rising sun roused Myn, who in turn roused
Myranda.

The girl was far from recovered. Her strength
was a fraction of what it should be, but that still made her
several times stronger than the previous few weeks of captivity and
torture had allowed. Thoughts and memories of what had occurred in
that terrible place constantly leapt to the surface of her mind and
had to be brushed away. She attempted to rub her sore neck. The
collar that had severely limited her spell casting was still locked
in place, but without the crystal it was little more than a
nuisance. Now that there was nothing to prevent it, her mind worked
to heal her body as she slept, but even so she was sore from head
to toe. Slowly she surveyed the status of her friends.

Myn was off faithfully hunting down
breakfast. She must be healthy enough. Desmeres was sleeping
propped against a tree. Here and there a place where one of the
cloaks had managed to reach his skin could be seen. One or two such
wounds still had the look of fresh blood about them. They should be
healed. Lain was crouched at the edge of the clearing. His clothes,
formerly white to blend with the snow, now were streaked with the
remnants of his injuries. He didn't seem to be bleeding any longer,
but the wounds were still quite large, quite numerous, and quite
deep. They must be terribly painful.

"Lain, you're still hurt. Let me heal you,"
she said, fetching her staff and using it to struggle to her
feet.

He silently agreed. Within a few minutes she
had found all of the visible injuries and healed them. She knew
better than to ask if he had any others. He would deny it. Instead
she turned her attentions to the sleeping Desmeres. His gashes were
easily dispensed with, though the warm, tingling sensation of their
removal was enough to wake him while she was still crouched by his
side.

"Why thank you," he said with a yawn,
admiring her work as the last wound shrank away. "I must say, you
do a better job than those potions of mine. Mind you, you might
wake me up next time you feel inclined to cast a spell. I may have
an opinion about it. By the way, there is a nagging pain in my
lower back that you missed. Yes . . . there . . . this is why I
have made it a policy never to get my hands dirty."

Myn came trotting back with some manner of
wild bird for Myranda. The girl cleaned it, fashioned a spit, and
held it over the fire.

"What do you suppose you are doing?" came a
voice from the flames.

Myranda, startled, fell backward. The form of
the newcomer separated itself from the flames and shifted slowly
back to her human form. Desmeres chuckled to himself.

"I am sorry, I didn't know!" Myranda
apologized.

"No. Of course you didn't," the woman said,
her cold voice bore a hint of the tone of a weary teacher consoling
a poor student. "A creature of your level could not be expected to
understand the nature of my being."

Myranda felt a twinge of anger, but there was
no use voicing it. She cooked her meal as best she could over the
remnants of the fire. When she was through, Myranda offered the
rest to Desmeres. Myn, apparently still holding a grudge for being
tied up and bagged the day before, would not allow it. Instead she
quickly ate it herself.

"Well if you could behave yourself I wouldn't
have had to bind you in the first place," Desmeres stated,
correctly assuming the motivation for the act. "Ah, it is just as
well. We need to move before someone spots the smoke."

"We shall stay here until I have fully
recovered," the woman announced.

"We leave now. It is already too late to
escape cleanly, but if we move quickly we may limit our
encounters," Lain said.

"I cannot be expected to perform the acts of
which I am capable if I am not allowed to recover fully," she
said.

"How much longer will you need?" Myranda
asked.

"With a fire this size? Several weeks more,"
she stated.

"Well, when the soldiers find you, lie to
them about where we went," Desmeres said, quickly following Lain,
who had already set off in the direction they had been headed in
the day before.

"Wait! Lain, you mustn't leave her behind.
You are both Chosen! You must remain united," Myranda called after
him. He did not turn.

Myn trotted halfway to Lain and turned to
urge Myranda on.

"Please, you must follow now. I am sure you
are strong enough to reach wherever we are headed! If not, I will
help you," Myranda pleaded.

"To suggest that I would
ever
require
your aid is tantamount to blasphemy. Even in my weakened state I am
more powerful than you can imagine," the woman snapped, a rare hint
of emotion flavoring her usually sterile voice.

"Then let us go! Quickly!" Myranda urged as
Lain disappeared amongst the thickening trees in the distance.

The being tore a branch from a tree and
dropped it on the smoldering fire. She quickly shifted back to
flame and settled down.

"No! No, I . . . He isn't like you! He . . .
has spent too much time among us. He doesn't even believe he is
Chosen. He doesn't believe that the Chosen exist! He has become . .
. tainted, disfigured by our way of thinking," she attempted,
hoping that appearing to share her distasteful view might convince
her.

"I am aware of what he has told you. I have
been watching him since he left the cave. He is lying to you, no
doubt in attempts to rid himself of you," she said.

Myranda looked desperately about. This could
not be happening. These were the warriors that were intended to
save this world. Now one refused to believe his place, and the
other refused to help him.

"However . . . " came the voice from the
fire. "The mere fact that he has been willing to suffer your
presence for so long, let alone his consideration and even
protection of you, betrays a fundamental . . . alteration of his
character that will need to be reversed if he is to rise adequately
to his true purpose."

Slowly she removed herself from the fire and
shifted back to the human form. As she did, the last lingering
flames were drawn into her, leaving the fire fully extinguished.
The woman walked with purpose in the direction of the others.
Myranda remained behind long enough to disguise where the fire had
been. Myn trotted quickly back to aid her and urge her along.

"Myn. This is going to be more difficult than
I'd imagined," she said as she turned to follow.

When she reached the others, Desmeres was
walking a few steps behind. The woman was beside Lain. All were
silent. When he noticed Myranda, Desmeres took a few steps further
back to join her.

"Well. Quite a pair, aren't they?" he said
quietly. "So far all she has done is order me to take a more
fitting position. I appreciate people who make an accurate first
impression quickly. It saves time."

"Where are we going?" Myranda asked.

"There is another safe house. Still a fair
distance away. Of course, this one is much smaller. Barely built to
house Lain and I. With you, the dragon, and our new ray of
sunshine, things are going to be cozy," he remarked.

"What do we do next?" she asked.

"First we find the safe house. Once inside we
can start making plans," he said. "To that end, I've a few issues
that you may be able to help me with."

"I imagined you might," she replied.

"You mentioned that Epidime used a halberd
like the one the woman had. That was Arden who used the Halberd,
not Epidime," Desmeres observed.

"Arden
is
Epidime," Myranda said.

"No . . . How could Arden be Epidime? Do you
know this for certain?" Desmeres asked doubtfully.