The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (48 page)

"Enough! How did you follow me?" Lain
asked.

"Intuition. Familiarity. A secret or two I
choose not to reveal," he replied.

Lain's eyes fell to his neck. Then back to
his eyes.

"Very well," Lain said, taking a step
away.

"Wait," Desmeres said.

Lain lingered just at the edge of a
shadow.

"How did you break my sword?" he asked.

"It failed me in battle," he replied.

"Was it broken by another sword?" Desmeres
asked, almost desperate for the answer.

Lain stepped forward, placing a hand on his
shoulder.

"It was broken by the hand of another
Chosen," he said.

Lain slipped fully into the darkness.

"The Chosen . . . it took the spawn of the
gods themselves to break it . . . I can accept that. Very well. But
listen. Do not let that pretender, Flinn, charge you a copper for
what he will do to that sword. The techniques he will steal from it
will make him rich
enough
without charging a fee as well,"
he said.

His request fell upon an empty darkness, but
he knew Lain had heard it. He walked slowly back into the stable.
As he did, he felt for something around his neck, finally pulling
forward his chest plate to glance at where it had been. The tooth
he had taken from Myranda, Lain's tooth, should have been hanging
around his neck. It and the spell she had brought back were largely
responsible for allowing him to track Lain so quickly. Realizing
what had happened, he chuckled and shook his head.

"He certainly hasn't lost a step," he said,
readying his horse to move on.

#

Lain returned to the spot outside the town
where the others were waiting. There were more questions that could
have been asked. More warnings that could have been delivered, but
time was short. It was unwise to leave Ether and Ivy alone
together. When he discovered them, they were predictably exchanging
harsh words, though mercifully in whispers.

"There you are. Tell her what you told me.
That you just wanted her to be a distraction," Ivy insisted, her
teeth chattering.

"Do not indulge her madness," Ether said.

"It is true," Lain stated flatly. "You served
your purpose. The situation is in hand."

Ivy stuck out her tongue at Ether, who stood
with a stern look on her face, speechless.

"You
relied
upon my failure?" she
scoffed. "How could you leave something of such importance to so
remote a chance?"

Lain ignored the statement, continuing. "Be
silent until the weapon shop closes. One of the humans inside may
be persuaded to help us."

"That is spectacularly unlikely. All in
attendance seemed unified in their desire to prevent the expedient
repair of that weapon," Ether warned.

Lain remained silent. He crouched and slowly
lulled himself into the trance that had come to replace sleep for
him. Ivy huddled near to him against the cold, finally placing her
head on his shoulder and dropping off to sleep. After staring at
the scene with growing disgust, Ether took a seat on the ground and
shifted to water, and soon after ice.

A few hours passed. His body at rest, Lain's
mind remained active. He closed his eyes, his ears vigilant even in
rest. Thoughts lingered in his mind. He thought of the dangers that
he still faced, the tasks that still lay before him. Slowly, doubt
began to grow.

He should have killed Desmeres. He could not
be trusted. He should not be waiting here, it was a waste of very
precious time. He should have left Ether. She is unpredictable and
uncontrollable. His judgment was failing him. His skills were
failing him. The end was coming, and swiftly. For the first time in
his life he had something to live for, something besides his
vengeance to keep him going, but it was clouding his mind. He was
making mistakes. If he continued to make these mistakes, he would
be killed. If he was killed, Ivy would die. The last real hope for
his kind, possibly the last living member of his race, would be
gone.

Lain tried to force the thoughts away. Doubts
were a death sentence. If there was one thing he had learned in all
of his life, it was that the past is past. The only thing that
matters is the future. If one does not believe entirely in one's
choices, then one has already failed. He had to stay focused on his
tasks. The greatest danger in the warrior's sleep was the threat of
being consumed by the darkest aspects of the mind, the thoughts
that too often drifted to the surface. Those who slipped too far
awoke to madness, or not at all.

Distantly, the sound of a door opening
signaled an end to the trance. Quickly his body awoke, fatigue
reduced greatly. He rose to his feet, ignoring the stiffness and
soreness. Ivy was jarred awake by the suddenness and gazed drowsily
at her friend.

"What is going on?" she asked.

"Stay hidden. I will return soon," he
said.

Before she could object or reply, he was
gone. Lain's movements were barely affected by his injuries
anymore. A few more hours entranced would restore him completely.
As he slipped silently from shadow to shadow, a feeling of
familiarity, of comfort came over him. Stalking a target. This is
what he knew. This was his life. He moved to the rooftops. With
snow on the ground, he would leave footprints. There was no telling
how long the repair would take. Footprints where they didn't belong
might spark the people's suspicions. That would make remaining
hidden more difficult. On the roofs, his movements would leave no
trace for the casual observer. Soon he had found what he was
seeking. Her scent was strongest here. It was her home. She had
stepped inside just moments before. He listened closely. She was
not alone. Two children were inside, and another woman. For a few
moments more he listened. They complained that they were hungry.
Swiftly he darted to the back of the house, dropping down. There
was a low door, already half hidden beneath the piling snow on the
rear of the house. With a smooth motion he slipped the end of his
broken sword between the door and the jam and slipped it up.

Inside, a brace lifted out of place and the
weight of the snow began to push the door open. He squeezed through
the opening and pushed the door silently shut, sliding the brace
back in place. The room was a shallow basement. It was stacked
nearly to the low ceiling with the firewood it had been dug to
hold. A rat scurried away as he navigated the pitch blackness
toward the door. On the other side he heard the clang of a heavy
pot. The door opened and his target reached in to fetch a few
pieces of wood for the fire. Lain pinned himself close to the wall,
hidden from the light of the doorway. As she knelt to load her arms
with wood, he slipped into the kitchen. The stone chimney that ran
up through the center of the house had a warm fire burning. There
were openings leading to the den on one side and the kitchen on
this side. It provided most of the light, all of the heat, and
cooked the food for the home. Here and there, an oil lamp burned.
The kitchen was well stocked with pans, pots, and knives. Cabinets
were stacked with clay dinnerware. This was a well provided for
home. A narrow door to one side of a counter led to a pantry,
similarly filled with roots, vegetables, bread, and smoked meats.
He slipped inside and silently shut the door.

In the other room, the children were arguing
loudly. She shouted at them as she opened the darkened pantry and
stepped inside, holding a lamp. Lain maneuvered behind her, unseen,
and slowly shut the door. The sound drew her attention, but Lain
easily remained behind her, reaching across and snatching the lamp
away with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

"Silence," he hissed voicelessly as he
lowered the lamp and extinguished it.

She obeyed, the room plunging into
darkness.

"When you were young, your parents told you a
tale. They told you of the day that freedom was gained in exchange
for a single favor. That favor was the duty of your family to
perform. Generation to generation it would be passed down until the
day that it would be repaid. Today is that day. Do you understand?"
he asked in a bare whisper.

She nodded.

"Good. On the floor beside you, you will find
the pieces of a sword. A very special sword. You have seen the
weapon before and refused it. You shall take this weapon to your
employer, Flinn, and present it to him. It must be reforged.
Convincing him to do so will not be difficult. It must be finished
in no more than a week. Convincing him to part with it will be
difficult, but that is not your task. You must simply ensure that
he begins work on the piece, reveal where the work shall be done,
and bring the finished piece back here. Do this, and the debt is
lifted. If I am satisfied, you will know, and your children need
not hear the same tale. Do you agree?" he asked.

Again she nodded.

"Good," he said.

As the door opened, she turned quickly to see
the face of the intruder, but he was gone. She pushed the door
open, light flooding in from the fire. On the floor was a sword. As
the children, two boys, chased each other around the house, the
older woman came into the kitchen. There was a distant, disturbed
look on the young woman's face.

"The boys are hungry, I hope . . . is
something wrong?" she asked.

"Mother. Watch them for just a bit longer.
There is something I need to finish," she said, stooping to collect
the blade.

After carefully stowing the weapon, she put
her heavy clothes back on and ventured outside. She traced the path
she took every morning to the personal workshop of Flinn. Only she
and a few of the apprentices new precisely where it was. It was
near to the town, but tucked into a small alcove near the mouth of
an ancient mine. He was enormously secretive about his work and
valued his privacy. He even redirected the chimney of his workshop
into the mine, lest someone see smoke rising and find him when he
was working. Once a day she and the apprentices would deliver any
supplies he needed and provide the day's projects, as quite often
days would pass before he left the place for his home. She fumbled
for the key that only she and her employer held. Unlocking the door
and pushing it open, she entered. It was broiling hot inside, as
always, and the air was choked with smoke thanks to the less than
effective performance of his subversive chimney.

"What is it, Jessica?" called Flinn.

He was a stout, bearded man, perpetually
smudged with the black of coal and stained with some dye or
another. He was sitting at a cluttered, poorly lit table, etching
intricate designs onto the wide blade of a heavy ax.

"I have a sword for you to work on," she
said.

"I have quite enough to do, miss. Enough to
fill months. I've told you that already. Take it away," he
ordered.

"Please, sir. This is terribly important,"
she begged.

"Important?" he said, puzzled. "And just how
important? I've been offered fifteen hundred gold pieces for the
battle ax of the Baron's eldest son. I dare say that is quite
important."

"It is a sword. It needs mending," she
said.

"Mending? Good heavens, girl, I do not mend
swords! I have apprentices for that! You should know better than to
suggest it!" he said.

"Please, just look at it, sir," she
pleaded.

Flinn looked up with a frustrated gaze. The
desperate look in his chief assistant's eyes was enough to convince
him that this was not something that would be easily brushed
aside.

"Give it here," he said with a sigh, putting
out his hands.

She placed a coarse cloth in his hands and
uncovered the weapon. The instant the light hit it, his attentions
locked onto it. He lifted the tip and examined the runes. Turning
it, he looked closely at the break, running his fingernail along
the layers.

"This is . . . Desmeres' work. Where did you
get this?" he quickly demanded.

"It was left by a messenger. The work must be
finished in one week. He will collect it from me," she said.

"One week? Nonsense. A masterpiece like this
is to be studied. I need months. No. Years. I must have it. Find
the owner and make an offer. Any price he requires. No. Better,
bring him here. I need to know where he found the weapon. Yes. I
must see this person," he said.

"I am quite sure you will meet him. I am not
certain you can avoid it," she replied.

"Good, yes. Excellent," he said,
distracted.

Flinn cradled the weapon like a child and
carried it to his work table, sweeping it clear with a motion of
his arm. Priceless weapons and tools clattered to the ground as he
placed the object of his sudden obsession down carefully. His
assistant opened the door and stepped outside. The dim flickering
light from inside fell upon the path she had made through the still
falling snow. A few paces further was a solitary pair of
footprints. There were no steps leading to them, and none leading
away. They were facing the door. Simultaneously a chill of fear
swept through her and a decades old weight was lifted from her
shoulders. He had been there. He had seen where the work would be
done. Her family's debt was nearly repaid. She returned home.

Inside, Flinn looked over the sword with a
maddened eye. Fumbling through a nearby drawer, he spread a small
pile of parchment on the table. He retrieved a bottle of ink and a
quill and began to transcribe the runes from the blade to the
paper, then a sketch of the cross section and profile of the blade.
A small puff of cold air escaped his notice. He held up the hilt
end of the sword and judged its weight, testing the edge with his
thumb. When he reached for the quill again, it was gone, as was the
page of notes.

"No. Where is it?" he growled, placing the
sword carefully on the table and stooping to search the floor.