The Book of Deacon Anthology
4/5
()
About this ebook
The Book of Deacon Saga is the epic tale of a world besieged by war and at the mercy of dark forces who would see the land and its people wither and die. First Published in 2010, the story has grown significantly, expanding the story into earlier and later eras, exploring the lives of characters both minor and major.
The Book of Deacon Anthology is a collection of all currently published stories in the setting:
The Book of Deacon - The tale of Myranda Celeste, a young woman orphaned by a century long war, and her chance discovery of a fallen soldier's priceless cargo. The find will change her life, sending her on an adventure of soldiers and rebels, wizards and warriors, and beasts both noble and monstrous. Each step will bring her closer to the truth of her potential, of the war, and of the fate of her world.
The Great Convergence - The second in the Book of Deacon series, The Great Convergence continues the tale of young Myranda Celeste. With fresh knowledge of magic and steadfast resolve to see the end of the war that plagues her land, Myranda sets out to find and unite the five fated heroes, the Chosen. Each new warrior brings her world a step closer to peace, but does she have the strength to survive the trials ahead?
The Battle of Verril - In this, the finale of the Book of Deacon Trilogy, Myranda and the Chosen face their greatest challenges yet. Time is running out, and the Generals are growing desperate. Through victory and defeat, reunion and betrayal, neither the heroes nor their foes will rest until they have seen their task through to the end. The only question is, will it be the end of a war, or the end of times?
Jade - This short novel, set after the events of The Book of Deacon, follows the blessed and cursed life of Jade Rinton. Stripped of her family and kept in a tall tower by a fierce dragon due to the scheming of a mysterious stranger, Jade seems to be living in a twisted fairy tale. She soon learns, though, that fate has its own ideas of who should play each part, and that family is where you find it.
The Rise of the Red Shadow - Before he was a legendary assassin and mythic hero, the creature known as Lain was just a simple malthrope, frightened and alone. The Rise of the Red Shadow tells the story of his tragic youth, beginning with his days on a plantation in Tressor and following him through the painful tragedies and thrilling trials that would one day lead him to greatness in the pages of The Book of Deacon.
Entwell Origins: Ayna - AVAILABLE FOR THE FIRST TIME. The story of Ayna, a young fairy who is cruelly taken from her family, yet finds that this tragedy may have given her the opportunity to become more than she'd ever dreamed.
The Stump and the Spire - Previously only available as part of the Neverland's Library anthology, The Stump and the Spire is the story of two children who gain a dark glimpse into the long forgotten past of their world.
---
For fans of the series looking to fill in the gaps, or for new readers hoping to gather the whole series, The Book of Deacon Anthology is a great way to catch up on the whole saga. Each book is updated with improved formatting, as well as a brief foreword by Joseph R. Lallo, and even a message from the mysterious curator who collected the stories. Read it now and be ready for The D'Karon Apprentice, a new Book of Deacon story releasing November 12th, 2015.
Joseph R. Lallo
Once a computer engineer, Joseph R. Lallo is now a full-time science fiction and fantasy author and contributor to the Six Figure Authors podcast.
Read more from Joseph R. Lallo
Pizza Dragon: Vegetarian Supreme with Extra Cheese Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBetween Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Other Eight Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Top Level Player Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Paradoxes and Dragons: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Anthology Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Paradoxes and Dragons Volume 2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to The Book of Deacon Anthology
Titles in the series (16)
The Book of Deacon Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Battle of Verril Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Rise of the Red Shadow Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Great Convergence Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Crescents Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The D'Karon Apprentice Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Coin of Kenvard Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jade Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Redemption of Desmeres Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Book of Deacon Anthology Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Entwell Origins: Ayna Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Story of Sorrel Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Stump and the Spire Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Book of Deacon Anthology Volume 2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Adventures of Rustle and Eddy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHalfax: A Book of Deacon Novella Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related ebooks
The Book of Deacon Anthology Volume 2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Mage In The Making Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The First Bargain Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Sixth Kingdom: Wyvern Master Chronicles, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRune Marked: A Young Adult Fantasy Adventure Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Elder Shamans Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Prince's Son: The Five Kingdoms, #2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Sorcery Code: A Fantasy Novel of Magic, Romance, Danger, and Intrigue Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Cloak Games: Rebel Fist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Traphis: A Wizard's Tale Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Magicians of Night Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Cloak Games: Omnibus One Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Truth And Deception Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCloak Games: Hammer Break Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Crescents Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Broken World Book Four: The Staff of Law Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSilent Order: Royal Hand Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Cloak of Ashes Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Omensent: Wrath of a Dragon God Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Darkness Rising 2: Quest Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Final Waystone Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCloak of Dragons Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Skull Trees Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Dreaming in the Dark: Soul Force Saga, #4 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Saga of the God-Touched Mage (Vol 1-8): Saga of the God-Touched Mage Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Frostborn Omnibus One Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Ghost in the Sun Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Cloak of Blades Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Silicon Mage Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Fantasy For You
The City of Dreaming Books Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Picture of Dorian Gray (The Original 1890 Uncensored Edition + The Expanded and Revised 1891 Edition) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Tress of the Emerald Sea: Secret Projects, #1 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Fellowship Of The Ring: Being the First Part of The Lord of the Rings Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Piranesi Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Priory of the Orange Tree Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This Is How You Lose the Time War Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Assassin and the Desert: A Throne of Glass Novella Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Silmarillion Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Stories of Ray Bradbury Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Babel: Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Assassin and the Pirate Lord: A Throne of Glass Novella Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Measure: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Immortal Longings Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Assassin and the Empire: A Throne of Glass Novella Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Fairy Tale Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Eyes of the Dragon Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Assassin and the Underworld: A Throne of Glass Novella Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Wizard's First Rule Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Phantom Tollbooth Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Lord Of The Rings: One Volume Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Nettle & Bone Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Don Quixote: [Complete & Illustrated] Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Talisman: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Black Sun Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for The Book of Deacon Anthology
12 ratings6 reviews
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I would have given this 4 stars if it didn't have so many editing mistakes in it.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Enjoyable start to the trilogy, following the evolution of a female character as she gains experience and learns of her destiny.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This review will contain spoilers.I enjoyed this book a lot. Myranda, the main character, is a pretty decent to follow. At first she's only trying to survive. The northern countries where she lives have been in a perpetual war with the southern country. She wanders from place to place just trying to keep her stomach full enough. After she finds a campsite where the man had died, she happens upon his sword and it leaves a mark on her. Her only thoughts for the sword are to sell it so that she could have her basic needs met, but soon she's being hunted down by her own country.She meets a malthrope named Leo, one of the first people she's been able to talk to freely since she was a child because she's seen as a sympathizer with the enemy. Malthropes are seen as wicked creatures, so Leo, too, is unwelcomed by the world.There can be a bit much of Myranda stumbling onto things, but it wasn't enough to bother me. There were also a few occasions where Myranda had an odd opinion that I didn't understand.For example, maybe halfway through the book, she ends up in a secret village kept hidden from the rest of the world. Until then she'd been trudging through constant snow, barely surviving from city to city, didn't trust the people around her, and everyone pretty much looked the same because most people wore the exact same color of cloak. She was barely surviving and had no friends.When she arrives in the village it's a safe haven from the outside world and it has all kind of color to it. But when Deacon tells her how difficult it is to get back out and seems content with staying there, she starts complaining how sad that is. It didn't make sense to me. She only just got to safety from a world she had no particular reason to be fond of. People were trying to kill her all the time. Why would her immediate thoughts about the village be about how awful it must be to live there your whole life?It felt almost like she had those thoughts just for the sake of being contrary. I thought it would have seemed more natural if she thought it was the greatest place in the world for awhile, and then changed her mind after being there for awhile and finding that most of the people were only concerned with learning. There was a lot she could have been disillusioned by.The romance between Myranda and Deacon is close to non-existent. I actually like this. She doesn't even meet him until about halfway through the book, and when she does there's no obsession over how the other looks or anything. They start talking a lot and spending a lot of time together as Deacon explains things in the village to her and supports her.I think Deacon made a surprisingly good romantic interest because he's so lacking in the ways of romance. His entire life he's lived in a village that's all about learning and less about friends. He's awkward and obsessive about his books, but he's cordial and supportive of Myranda the entire time. The fact that Myranda was going to him for help and to talk to made sense. Their friendship didn't feel forced at all, and it was easy to see how both could be drawn to the other - Deacon because it might be his first time having an actual friend in a long time, and Myranda because she's been so alone in a hostile world.Deacon doesn't even seem to be aware of his shift in interests, which makes sense. He's lived in the village without much in the way of friends, but the people there aren't particularly hostile towards him, so becoming friends with Myranda would be a more subtle change in his life than in Myranda's.They have some differences in views. Deacon firmly believes what he's been taught in the village, and thinks fate will happen on its own so they can just sit and wait for things to fix themselves. Myranda, on the other hand, thinks she needs to play a more active role in fate.Overall, I think it was worth a read and I'd recommend it to someone who enjoys a nice fantasy novel. It took a little bit to get into, but I'm rating it based on the fact that I was invested by the end and would continue reading.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A generally fun story. The characters can feel a bit juvenile at times, but the story remains enjoyable because, as is the case with other good fantasy series (Harry Potter, Earthsea, Kingkiller Chronicles), the author has thought through how exactly magic works, and made it enjoyable to follow his imagining the potentials created by its existence.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Book Of Deacon is about Myranda, a so-called "Sympathizer" in a land that's gotten used to war, thus making her unwelcome almost anywhere. Myranda's been on the road for years, desperate for somewhere to call home or at least for a place to have a meal. Her life is changed forever out in the frozen wastelands of the North. A fun, engaging read that's a good size, The Book Of Deacon is pretty well written, especially considering that I got it for free for my Kindle. Definitely one of the best free books I've read, and well worth the time.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5The premise was fine but the books are poorly written. The prose is clunky and the so-called heroes never stop whining.
Book preview
The Book of Deacon Anthology - Joseph R. Lallo
Table of Contents
A Message from the Curator
The Book of Deacon
The Great Convergence
The Battle of Verril
Jade
The Rise of the Red Shadow
Entwell Origins: Ayna
The Stump and the Spire
From the Author
A Message from the Curator
Greetings, reader. If you are reading this, you may already be familiar with a man by the name of Deacon. If not, you shall soon learn of him, as this collection bears his name with good reason. Though he is not without his flaws, the man has been tireless in his chronicling of what he rightly identified as the most important moments of his times. Through his efforts both mundane and mystical he has dredged up endless information that would have otherwise been lost to the ages. This is by no measure the whole of his writings, which reach far beyond the lifetime and perception of any normal man. However, some years ago it struck me that as comprehensive as his record has become, it has also become untenably diffuse. Beyond the books which he himself keeps and guards, tomes I have come to call The Memoire and The Grimoire, the written histories he’s worked so hard to assemble have become exceedingly difficult to find. They have followed him to places which others cannot go, and thus might never have been seen by the greater world he has so fervently served. He would be the first to observe that such an outcome is precisely the opposite of his intention in creating these records. And so, it has fallen to me to gather them.
Who I am is inconsequential. You have read of me, or will read of me, in the pages that follow. I am privy to all Deacon has seen and much he has not. We have what I am comfortable calling a mutual respect. It is out of that respect that I have begun to gather his key records. Admittedly, my selections may seem haphazard. The same can be said of their ordering. Both Deacon and I share, among other things, a distinctive relationship with chronology that has led us to think in ways far less linear than most.
For your benefit, the tales have been gathered into a specific order. This order is not according to any clock or calendar. It is not the order in which they occurred, nor is it the order in which they were written. It is, as best as one can determine from a man’s intention, the order in which they were meant to be read. If you are new to this story, it is my recommendation that you read this message no further and instead begin where Deacon intended, a story aptly named The Book of Deacon. The information below may introduce you to things better revealed in their due course.
Those already familiar with the tales, on the other hand, may be curious how exactly each tale fits into the flow of time. As such, for your benefit, I shall below arrange them into an informal ordering I’ve developed to help one understand their place in the grander scheme. All years are measured from a point in time that shaped the world irrevocably, the beginning of The Perpetual War.
The Age of the Shadow: Year 0 - 155
This era is so named because it was during these years that a being known as The Red Shadow was shaped into the figure he would be when fate called upon him to make his greatest contribution. It begins with his birth, an event which occurred just days before the Perpetual War began.
The Rise of the Red Shadow
Entwell Origins: Ayna
The Age of the Chosen: Year 155 – ~250
This era begins with the moment fate saw fit to begin making its selections of what warriors would rise to its defense in its greatest time of need.
The Book of Deacon
The Great Convergence
The Battle of Verril
The Age of Ignorance: Year ~250 - ~1250
A dark time in the history of the world, its exact start and end at best uncertain and at worst unknowable. During this time the people of the world grew distrustful of the teachings of old and allowed themselves to slip into darkness.
Jade
The Stump and the Spire
I hope this information has been enlightening, and likewise do I hope that the lessons of the pages below do not fall upon deaf ears. A world is shaped by the scars of its mistakes, and though those scars are necessary and proper, there is nothing to be gained by blindly repeating those same mistakes. Read, learn, and enjoy. It may well keep you and your children from facing the same trials that very nearly brought a noble world to ruin.
-The Curator
The Book of Deacon
Book One
Joseph R. Lallo
Foreword
The Book of Deacon is the first book I wrote, but interestingly, not the first one I intended to write. When I was a little kid some friends and I dreamed up this silly story, largely inspired by a series of games known as either Dragon Warrior or Dragon Quest depending on your region and era. This was the book I had intended to write. In it, I would tell of the exciting tale of a group of warriors descended from great warriors of the past. I started and abandoned that story a number of times, but eventually I realized it seemed silly to tell a story about descendants without first establishing who the ancestors were. Since by this time I was a bit older and a bit better at storytelling, this new story became more interesting to me, and it eventually filled a stack of spiral notebooks. After trimming it as much as I could, it was still over one thousand pages long, so I decided to split it into parts.
My original intension was to traditionally publish. Actually, that’s not true. My original intention was to let it sit on a shelf and never even tell most of my family members that I’d ever written it. A few friends gently, then aggressively, suggested I do otherwise. I’ve got a low tolerance for rejection, though. After a few dozen agents either ignored me or rejected me, all but one having done so without even asking to see a sample of the book, I was ready to give up. Those same friends convinced me to take the indie author route. The rest is history. I hope you enjoy the story. My new life began with these words.
Chapter 1
The end of an era is always a time of great importance. Sweeping change. Advancing into a new age. These are surely things worthy of a place in the memory of a people. Too often, though, it is a single event that brings about the most direct change that receives the attention. The blow that ends the battle, the last brick to fall. In our worship of these moments, these endings, we neglect the journeys, the trials, the hardships, and the battles endured to make them possible.
Whosoever is fortunate enough to find this book shall finally hear the greatest of these tales. I have spent much of my life piecing together the words that follow. Most of what you shall read comes from the mouths of the people who lived it. It is my hope, in recording the path taken by these heroes, that those in the years to come will not be blind to the dangers that threatened this world once before. If the unthinkable is once again allowed to come to pass, perhaps the knowledge and the deeds of the heroes of old will stir others to their greatness.
The tale you shall read is of the Perpetual War. If you live in a time or a place that has allowed you to forget this dark era, consider yourself fortunate. To be ignorant of these events is a blessing. However, knowledge of the evils of old is the only protection against their return.
The Perpetual War, at the start of our tale, had been plaguing the world for one and a half centuries. It was a conflict that divided our people. The large farming kingdom, Tressor, formed half of the conflict. It was a land of fertile fields, a land of plenty, that covered most of the southern part of the continent and was home to more than half of the people of the world. They opposed a union of the three remaining kingdoms--Kenvard, Ulvard, and Vulcrest--that had come to be known to its people as the Northern Alliance, and by its enemies as the Nameless Empire. This was a land of snowy fields, dense forests, and icy mountains. Despite a vast disadvantage in strength and size, this Alliance had managed to withstand decade after decade of battle. This conflict was a constant part of the lives of all, and is the reason that what follows must be told.
My place in this tale is small. There are others better suited to put to words what came to pass, but most have taken their final steps down their own paths. Thus it falls to me, lest the tale go untold. I shall endeavor to recount the events in as straightforward and impersonal a manner as possible. Do not imagine this as a tale told by a man. It is merely a record. Words on a page. Words that tell of the most unlikely of events, beginning in the most unlikely of places . . .
#
The end of the fall had only just come, and already the air could chill one to the bone. Of course, this far north, one could seldom expect anything else. It was not the cold that bothered her, though. She'd dealt with that all of her life. Pulling the tattered remnants of her uncle's old cloak closer about her, she pressed on.
As Myranda strained her eyes against the blistering wind, she saw nothing more than horizon. It would likely be another full day of walking before she saw anything but the unbroken field ahead of her. She shook her head, a faint frown cracking her dry lips.
I should have known,
she said aloud to herself. He seemed a shade too eager to give me directions.
Myranda had taken to talking to herself to fill the long, lonely, and all too frequent trips like these. With no companion, the only thing likely to interrupt the ceaseless howl of the wind was the periodic noisy complaints from her stomach. That much concerned her. She could afford to buy no supplies in the last town, and no tavern or inn had been willing to serve her thanks to a simple yet disastrous slip of the tongue. Anyone could have made the same mistake. In another time, it might have gone unnoticed--or, at least, unchallenged--but in the world of her birth it was inexcusable.
Two older women had been standing in the street, discussing the most recent news of the war. These days one would be hard-pressed to find a different topic of discussion. In this instance, it seemed that the Northern Alliance had pushed back a rather sizable advance. After three long, bloody days of battle, the Alliance troops had managed to take back the very same piece of land that they had started on. The cost of this maintenance of status quo was the lives of the better half of the troops in the area. In and of itself, such a tale was anything but notable. Indeed, a day without such a battle was rarer than a day with one. The difference on this day was that the Tresson army had lost even more.
The two women cackled and bragged over the victory, each telling exaggerated tales of their nearest war-going relative. My boy promised to kill three of those swine just for me,
one would say. Another would respond triumphantly that all four of her children had made the same promise. It was during this exchange that Myranda made her fateful slip.
All of those lives . . . wasted,
she had said with sorrow.
Wasted! Having your child give his or her life for the cause was the greatest honor a mother could hope for. To speak of such noble efforts as a waste was tantamount to treason. How dare this wandering woman speak ill of the war! After countless generations, it had ceased to be a simple struggle between two lands and had become a way of life. Those who opposed this sacred tradition of noble battle were unwelcome. That one word--wasted--may as well have sealed the poor girl's doom. It had kept her from filling her pack and from filling her belly. Worse still, it had led a seemingly good man to send her through this frozen waste, claiming it to be the fastest way to the next town.
She shook her head again. It was one lesson that she could not bring herself to learn. If someone was going to tell a lie, they would tell it with a smile. Now she found no less than a day of solid travel between herself and another human being. The cold was tightening its grip on the icy field with each passing moment. In perhaps an hour, the last glow of the sun would leave the sky, taking with it the meager warmth it had cast upon the world. The cold of the day was unbearable, but the night was unlivable. Worse, there was a darkness due to the impenetrable sheet of clouds overhead that warned of a snowfall in the coming hours. She had yet to find a replacement for her thin summer blanket, and she could neither afford nor carry a tent. If Myranda was to survive this night, she would need a fire.
Alas, there were but three types of terrain in this land: vast, treeless fields; dense, forbidding forests; and rocky, impassable mountains. She found herself in the first, an icy, barren stretch of land with not a plant to burn for warmth save some sparse grass and tough lichens. Neither would be good for producing anything more than smoke and ash. She scanned the endless horizon for a tree, a bush, anything that could yield a flame. Finding none, she made ready to bed down where she was and hope for the best.
Just as she stopped, the last rays of the setting sun peeking through a rare break in the cloud cover reflected their crimson radiance back from the east. After squinting, rubbing her eyes, and blinking only to find the fading twinkle still present in the distance, she was convinced that whatever it was, it was real.
It was probably nothing,
she said. She glanced back in the direction she'd come, then in the direction she'd been heading. Which beats every other direction, where there is certainly nothing.
To fill the time as she approached the mystery object, and to take her mind off of the rather dire position she found herself in, she busied her imagination with thoughts of what it might be.
Shiny . . . a mirror. Perhaps a caravan of nomads came by and dropped wares. Or perhaps it is a jewel. A dozen or a hundred jewels. And gold, too. A king's ransom left behind by some daring thief where no one would ever find it, in no man's land. Ha, that would be my luck. To find a pile of treasure when all I need is a pile of wood,
she said to herself.
The time passed quickly as she dreamed up objects and ways to explain them. She'd not yet reached the object when the sun's rays failed, leaving her without a reflection to guide her. Her sense of direction was nearly flawless--a fortunate fact, as it was all she had left to lead her to the mysterious object. The sunset-painted clouds gave little in the way of light, but night brought utter darkness. Neither moon nor stars could hope to break through the solid sheet of gray overhead. That was no different from any other night, though. Even without the stars to follow, one found ways to stay on course in this land.
In the thick blackness that surrounded her, she literally stumbled over what she was looking for. There was what seemed to be a large mound of rocks surrounded by a liquid that was sticky, despite the cold that would have frozen most things. There was also a bundle of irregular metal plates that she heard clang and crunch as she stepped on them.
What happened here?
she asked no one in particular as she tripped blindly through the obstacle course she'd found. Two more steps, though, brought a squeaky crunch that made her heart skip a beat. It was the sound of icy wood. She must have stumbled into the remains of a camp site, and now stood ankle-deep in her salvation.
She knelt by the fireplace and began to pull away the icy crust that eventually formed over anything that remained outside long enough. Soon all that remained was the powdery remains of the fire that had occupied this place not long before. It was bone dry and better than kindling. A single spark and she would have a fire in no time. The overjoyed young lady pulled her flint from one of her tattered pockets and reached blindly for one of the metal plates she'd heard clang free when she'd nearly tripped over it. She struck the flint to the metal and in moments had a warm bed of embers. A few moments more and the largest of the charred pieces of wood had caught, casting a delicious warmth and light on her immediate surroundings.
Now, with light enough to see what she held in her hand, she looked over the piece of metal. It was oddly shaped and not nearly polished enough to have caused the reflection that had led her here. On the curved interior of the metal plate, she found a few torn leather straps bolted to it. The outside bore an embossed symbol that looked to be a crest--one that she did not recognize.
It must be a piece of armor,
she decided, turning it about one last time.
Satisfied that the fire was in no danger of going out, Myranda stood to inspect the strange place she'd wandered into. She found the bundle she'd stepped on and could now clearly see that it was indeed a full suit of plate armor. It appeared to be badly damaged and fairly frozen to the ground.
Why would an empty suit of armor be in the middle of a field?
she wondered aloud. The answer came quickly and brought a chill to her spine that the iciest of wind never could. It was not empty.
She backed slowly away, dropping the piece she held. Myranda hated death above all else, a fact that had made her life a good deal more miserable than those of the war-hardened villagers who shunned her. They saw death not only as a necessary part of life, but a positive one, a source of glory, respect, and honor. They heaped more praise upon a fallen soldier than the poor man or woman could ever have hoped for in life, a fact that bothered Myranda all the more.
As she moved away from the body, her eyes darted all over. Something caught her panicked gaze and froze her in her tracks. Peeking out from beneath the frost-covered shield was a patch of coarse brown cloth. A pack! One could not live in a time of war and not know what such soldier's packs contained. Money, water--and, best of all, food. The body could not be more than a few days old. In this cold, the rations in his pack would still be edible.
Myranda may have hated death, but if being near to a corpse for a few minutes could save her life, she would not hesitate. She grasped what little of the cloth was visible and pulled with all of her might, but it was no use. The pack was frozen to the ground and pinned beneath the heavy shield. If she wanted to free the pack and its precious contents, she would need something to pry the metal sheet off of it.
Myranda's eyes swept across the cluttered campsite. Surely there must be something she could use, but what? The chest plate from the corpse? It had been partially torn free, but the thought of tearing the piece of armor from the fallen soldier's ice-cold body turned her stomach. Not nearly enough, though, to make her forget how starved she really was. Reluctantly, she locked her cold-numbed fingers around the frost-covered metal and threw her weight against it. After three failed attempts, she kicked the plate in frustration, her other foot slipping on a patch of loose snow. She lost her balance and tumbled to the ground, her head striking something far harder than ice.
The impact dizzied her. As she rolled to her knees, she punched the ground. The food that could keep her alive for another day was mere inches away and she could not get it. It was maddening. Myranda rubbed her sore head and looked up with her blurred vision to see what had delivered the painful blow. The light of the fire danced on a highly polished, almost mirrored surface. Even before her eyes had regained their focus, she knew that this was the object that had led her here.
Standing out of the frozen earth was a sword that was beyond elegant. The hilt was covered with a myriad of different jewels. The blade itself, at first seeming to be a flawless surface, revealed itself to be engraved with an exquisite design, composed of countless lines as thin and delicate as a spider's web. It was a weapon unlike any she'd seen before. The price of a single jewel from the hilt could keep food in the bellies and clothes on the backs of an entire family for a year. The sword as a whole could easily provide her with a lifetime of luxury and leisure far greater than she could ever imagine.
The value of the sword did not concern her--at least, not at this moment. Regardless of the price it might fetch in the future, at the moment it represented a far greater find. It was the means to extract the only thing that mattered to her right now, the food that would give her the strength to leave this frozen wasteland. It represented life itself. When her senses at last returned to her in full, she reached out to the lifesaving tool.
The very instant she touched her skin to the ornate handle of the exceptional blade, she felt a crisp, sharp burning. It originated in her palm and shot straight down her arm. She hit the ground hard, agonized and trying desperately to pull her hand from the torturous burning. Her fingers, though, would not obey her. Instead they locked tightly about the source of the torment and would not release. The pain grew to the point that Myranda was certain it would force her into unconsciousness. She was a heartbeat from blacking out when the pain relented, her fingers loosened and her hand came free.
Myranda gasped for breath, cradling the afflicted hand. What was it that had just happened to her? Had she triggered a booby trap? She turned her watering eyes to her left hand, fearful of the state she might find it in. Her survival was unlikely enough without a wound to deal with. Slowly she opened her fingers. To her great relief, the palm was merely red and tender, as though she'd scalded it in hot water. A simple bandage would suffice. Myranda pulled herself back to the fireside to recover.
This is why I hate weapons. I find a sword and it manages to injure me twice without once being held by its owner,
she said, eying the offending tool angrily.
Myranda touched the tender hand to the lump that had already formed on her head from the first encounter with the blasted weapon. She cursed the blade over and over again in her mind, never once thinking about the fact that if her head had found one of the weapon's cutting edges when she'd fallen, she would not have lived to suffer. When she was through letting her anger pour out at the sword, she stared broodingly into the fire and tore a bit of her inadequate blanket to treat her hand. As she did, light from the flame danced on the ground around her. Slowly her hungry eyes drifted to the sword, then to the pack, then back to the sword . . .
No! It would take a fool to try to grab that blade again. I have lasted for days without food. One more day will not kill me. Besides, that food is probably rancid. It has been out in the open for at least a number of days. Why risk burning the other hand to free some spoiled food?
she reasoned aloud.
Her stomach growled loudly.
Of course, the touch to the sword wasn't that bad. It did not kill me. After all, it was probably a booby trap, and how likely is it that it would be set to trigger more than once? It is cold out, so the food has probably been preserved fairly well,
she reasoned again, this time the hunger getting the better of her.
She moved carefully toward the weapon and, extending her bandaged hand to the handle, while keeping the rest of her body as far from the blade as possible, touched her fingers to it. She cringed at the expected onslaught, but when none came she knew it would be safe to use the hand that still had some strength in it. She wrapped her right fingers around the grip and pulled, but the icy ground held tightly to the sword, allowing only the slightest movement. Myranda put her left hand around the grip as well and pulled as best she could. On a normal day the sword would have come free quite easily, but hunger had robbed her of more strength than she knew. Had she not taken the chance tonight to free the food, the morning would have found her without the strength to stand.
Finally, the weapon came free. She dragged the sword across the icy earth and slid its tip beneath the edge of the huge shield.
I am very sorry about this, sir,
she grunted to her fallen benefactor. I do realize how disrespectful this is.
Grunt. But I am left with very little choice.
Several minutes of prying and apologizing later, she'd cracked the icy buildup and freed the pack. Eagerly, she pulled it open. Savior! Salted meat and hard biscuit. By no means a banquet, but it was more than enough to save her. The food was well past its prime, but so long as it was still edible, it would serve its purpose. Aside from the food, she found a small bag of copper coins and a rock-hard frozen flask of water. There was also a pan for cooking and something that roused her spirits even higher. There were two loops of fabric across the top of the pack that could be only one thing.
"Tent straps! You had a tent, stranger! And if you had a tent, then I have a tent. I just have yet to find it," Myranda said.
Grabbing the unlit portion of the largest stick in the fire, Myranda held the makeshift torch, swept it about near to the ground. Before long, she found what was left of the tent. It was flat against the ground and crusted with ice, one of the supports shattered. Myranda set what was left of the tiny tent near the smoldering fire. The heat slowly filled the half-collapsed cloth shelter and gave her the first comfort she had felt in days.
She had only just fastened the tent flap when a heavy, wet snow began to fall. Myranda put the pan on the coals and heated some of the food she'd found, smiling to herself about her accuracy in detecting the coming snow. It was a skill to be able to read the clouds. The northern lands were shrouded in thick, gray clouds for most of the year. One could not simply see clouds on the horizon and predict rain. It was more a feeling, a nearly imperceptible change in the color of the gray, a new quality to the wind. Even she wasn't quite sure how she knew, but whether it was to be rain or snow, hail or sleet, she always knew. It was a gift.
She nearly burned herself as she snatched the meat eagerly from the pan. She had stood the hunger this long, but the smell of the cooking food made the pain a thousand times worse. Myranda took her first bite of food in days, the first full meal in more than a week. Her eyes rolled and her jaw tingled at the first taste of food. When she'd eaten the ration for the day, she slipped into a sleep few would ever know. If there was one thing she'd learned in her years of endless travel, it was that starving made any meal a feast, and exhaustion made any bed fit for a king. She was warm, full, and happy now, and that was all that mattered.
In a flash, she found herself in the middle of a sun-drenched field. She was bewildered and disoriented. The ground was warm against her bare feet. As her eyes adjusted to the light, they saw the beauty of the field. It was the finest sight she had ever seen, a vast meadow of lush green grass as far as the eye could see. She breathed in the freshness of the air and let out a triumphant sigh of joy. Myranda closed her eyes and began laughing, sheer happiness spilling out of her.
When she opened her eyes to take in more of the splendor, they came to rest on a tiny speck of black. It was the smallest fleck of darkness, but in such a place nothing could have been more foreign. It floated near to her, then off and way, almost out of sight. Slowly, it drifted down and touched the ground. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the ground began to darken. The life-giving soil turned a charred black color, spreading outward like a stain across the countryside. The green grass faded slowly, so slowly that it was barely noticeable. She stood, helpless, as her paradise blackened. It was as though the world was being consumed by night from the ground up.
When all of the life had been drawn from the grass it spread skyward. Night flooded the field in spite of the sun above. In a grim finale, that too was blocked out by a curtain of black clouds. Only darkness remained, a darkness stirred by a frigid wind. Myranda strained her eyes, searching desperately for some wisp of what had been before. She saw faint, flickering lights far off in the distance. She rushed toward them, but one by one, the embers of light winked out, swallowed into the darkness as all else had.
No!
Myranda screamed, opening her eyes. A sliver of light peeked through the flaps of her tent.
It was not real. The horror she had seen was false, a dream. The horror she had felt, though, was real. She took several minutes to catch her breath and steady her pounding heart. Never before had a dream been so vivid. She shook herself in a vain attempt to chase the tormenting images from her mind. The only comforting thought came in the words her mother had spoken to her long ago. Even with the eternity that had passed since she lost her mother, the voice still echoed in her ears. Now memories were all she had left.
A nightmare is the best kind of dream. The only one that brings happiness when it ends,
she repeated.
The fright had brought her to full wakefulness instantly, with no hope of returning to sleep. She smiled as she wiped a drop of sweat from her brow. How long had it been since she had been too warm? The feeling of sweat trickling down her back was one she'd not felt in weeks--months, even. Of course, once the cold hit her when she left the tent, the novelty would wear thin rather quickly. Carefully, she pulled the flap of the tent aside. A cascade of snow from the previous night's fall assured her that it was at least not dangerously cold, or else the wetness of the snow would have frozen it into a shell of ice. She crawled out of the dilapidated tent, favoring her stricken left hand.
With the light of the morning filling the field where she'd slept, she could finally see the scene she had stumbled through in darkness the night before. It had all been blanketed with several inches of dense snow that elsewhere might have been a terrible storm, but amounted to little more than a light flurry to the people of the Northern Alliance. She waded into the ankle-deep snow and surveyed the campsite.
Where she had thought there was a great mound of rocks the night before could now be seen for what it really was. Even buried beneath the snow, the mound clearly had the shape of a beast. The form indicated a dragon, but it was a bit bulkier than she'd imagined a dragon to be. Of course, she had no interest in finding out if she was correct, particularly because she would have to step into the pool of blackish liquid that stained the snow around the fallen creature. A liquid that was too thin to be pitch, and too black to be blood.
Well, you killed it and it killed you,
Myranda said, looking at the fallen soldier, its form barely discernible through the snow. She looked to the dragon. That goes for you too. But why were the two of you here, I wonder? The dragon can come and go as it pleases, but this is awfully far from the front to find a soldier from either side.
She knelt and brushed the snow from the shield. It was standing nearly straight up after the prying she had done to free the meal the night before. She expected to find the crest of the Northern Alliance, or perhaps that of the southern land of Tressor. Instead she found the same simple crest she'd seen among other marks on the sword and armor. It resembled a smooth, curving letter V, with a rounded bottom and downturned ends, or perhaps a pair of smooth waves with a trough between them. Centered above them was a single point.
So, you were not of the north or the south. That must be why you were in this forsaken place. You fall into the same lonesome caste as I. Non-supporter of the Perpetual War. You refused to join either side. You should consider it something of a triumph that you had managed to be killed by something other than an angry mob. I know it is no consolation, but the end you came to here prevented my own. I sincerely thank you for it, and I hope that whatever powers pass judgment on you in the great beyond will take that into account. I thank you for the food, the shelter . . . and the sword.
It had not been her intention to take the sword, but even she could not resist such a treasure. Even the most treacherous buyer would be forced to dole out a sizable price for such a weapon, and it was unlikely she'd find a buyer of any other kind. Myranda never even entertained the possibility of being paid a fair price for the piece. These days the shopkeepers were nearly as cutthroat as the soldiers, with barely enough wares to go around. Still, something of such value was sure to at least provide her with the funds to buy a horse, a tent, some food, and perhaps some clothes more befitting of the season.
She rolled the sword in her blanket and took some of the softened biscuit for breakfast. She then transferred the food, as well as the water and the heavy blanket, from the soldier's pack to her own lighter one. If only it had been smaller or she had been stronger, she could have taken the tent with her, but the days of walking would be made difficult enough with her newly-filled pack without a mound of heavy canvas and wooden poles. When all had been prepared, Myranda went on her way.
Chapter 2
It was surprising how much spring was put into one's step by a decent meal and good night's sleep. Myranda's pace was twice that of the weary trudge of the day before. A trained eye and the clouds overhead told her that it was just past noon when she finally saw something on the horizon. A building with a spire. A church. The sight brought a wide smile to Myranda's face. She'd been turned away by every type of shelter, but never a church.
Quickening her pace, she came to the door of the small building and pushed it open. There was not a single occupied pew, nor was a single candle lit. The only light was that which filtered through the clouds to the simple stained glass window.
Hello?
Myranda called out.
In the priest's quarters,
came the answer.
Myranda walked up the dim aisle and, on the wall left of the pulpit, found a door.
May I come in?
she asked.
Of course, all are welcome,
the kindly voice replied.
Myranda opened the door. Inside, the warm orange light of a cozy fire danced in an otherwise unlit room. A large, fine chair faced away from the doorway and toward the fire. Aside from the luxurious-looking seat, the room was nearly bare. The walls were empty, not a painting to break the view of plain wooden planks. In the center of the room, a simple table and chair stood awaiting the next meal to be served. The corner held an immaculately made bed with a coarse gray blanket and single pillow. The only other furniture in the room was a suitably humble chest of drawers and a cupboard.
What brings you here?
asked the unseen priest.
I thought I might warm up a bit before I went off on my way again,
Myranda said.
Well, I am always glad to share what the heavens have provided for me,
he said without rising.
I am quite grateful. If you don't mind me asking, why do you keep it so dark?
Myranda asked as she walked into the room of her gracious host.
I've little use for light these days,
said the priest.
When she was near enough to spy the face of the priest, the answer to her query became quite clear. He was a kind-looking man, dressed in plain black vestment. Old, but not terribly so, he had sparse white hair on his wise head and a carefully shaved face. Most notably, though, was the blindfold over his eyes. Myranda had a vague feeling that she'd seen him before.
Oh, I am so sorry!
Myranda said, covering her mouth. You are blind!
Now, now, not to worry. It was none of your doing,
he said.
How did it happen?
she asked.
It is the place of a holy man not to burden others with his troubles, but to relieve others of their burden,
he said.
His voice had a powerful, clear tone, deep and commanding. It radiated wisdom and authority. He sipped something from a clay mug and cleared his throat before speaking again.
May I offer you some tea, my dear?
he asked, raising his cup.
Oh, I couldn't bother you for that,
she said.
No bother at all,
he said, slowly rising from his chair.
Oh, please, let me,
Myranda offered.
Nonsense, nonsense, sit down. You are my guest. Besides, if you get in my way I may lose my place and be lost in my own home,
he assured her.
Myranda took a seat and watched as the priest paced out a practiced number of steps to the cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents until he found the correct canister. It was astonishing how smoothly he navigated the task without the aid of vision. In no time at all, he had placed her cup on the table and found his way back to his seat. She slid the cup in front of her, warming her near-numb hands on its warm exterior.
That was amazing,
she said.
Oh, yes. Folks come from all over the kingdom to watch me make tea,
he said lightly.
I only mean that I had thought that losing one's sight would leave one helpless,
Myranda said.
I've still four senses left. A hand without a thumb is still a hand,
he said.
But you cannot count to ten,
she said.
You can if you remember how,
he answered swiftly. My goodness, why are we talking about me? I have been here for years. You are the newcomer, what about you?
What would you have me say?
Myranda asked.
I would not mind a description. My ears can only tell me so much. I know your height from where your voice comes from, and your build by the creak of your chair, but try as I might, I still have not found a way to hear hair color,
he said.
Oh, well, I have got red hair, long, and brown eyes. My clothes are gray,
Myranda said, embarrassed.
And I am sure you are every bit as lovely as your voice,
he said.
Oh . . .
Myranda blushed.
And your name?
he asked.
Myranda Celeste,
she answered. And yours?
You may call me Father,
he said. So, from where are you headed?
North,
Myranda said.
North West or North East?
he asked.
Just North,
came her reply, worried about the line of questions that were sure to follow.
There is nothing north of here but miles and miles of tundra,
he said.
I know,
she said gruffly.
The only things that would send a person through that waste are very good confidence or very bad directions. Not to offend, but I am inclined to believe that the latter is the case,
he said.
No, no. I just . . . misunderstood; I asked for the shortest way to Renack, and he sent me this way,
she explained, hoping that the priest would not pry further. Her story was suspect enough as it was. The truth would reveal the reason she had been shunned, and she would at least like a chance to let her feet stop throbbing before she was thrown out in the cold again.
Oh, well, that certainly would explain it. It could have used more conflict, though. The best fairytales always have plenty of conflict. The essence of drama, you know,
said the priest, clearly aware that Myranda was hiding something.
What? How did you know I was lying?
she asked, realizing the purpose of the comment.
Listen hard enough and you begin to hear more of what people say than they had intended. Care to tell the truth--or, at least, a more compelling tale?
he asked.
I wanted to know the easiest way to get to the next town. That was true, but I was purposely misled,
she said.
Why would someone do that? You could have died out there,
he wondered.
I had made myself . . . unwelcome,
she said, carefully dancing about the key bit of information sure to cost her the respect of her host.
Do I need to ask, or will you save me the trouble?
he asked, clearly in search of the missing piece.
Myranda sighed heavily. There were no two ways about it. She simply could not lie to a holy man.
I . . . showed sympathy for the soldiers killed in a battle . . . both sides. From that moment on, no one there would help me. When I finally found someone who would speak to me, I asked for directions and he sent me through the field, assuring me it was the surest way,
she confessed.
A sympathizer,
he said coldly. It stands to reason why you would have been sent down such a disadvantageous path.
I will leave, I don't want to--
Myranda began, rising from her seat.
No, you may remain. I am a man of heaven and it is my place to show compassion. I will hear your confession and oversee your penance,
he said with poorly-suppressed disgust.
I will take my leave, I have caused you enough trouble,
she said, gathering the pack that she had only just let slip to the floor, and turning to the door.
Young lady, for your wrong to be forgiven, you must repent,
he demanded.
Myranda froze. She turned back to the priest.
Forgiven? Wrong?
she said, anger mounting.
When the priest asked her to redeem herself, it stirred thoughts she'd long ago pushed aside. So long as she'd cost herself the comfort of the shelter already, she may as well at least free her mind of its burden.
"I will not apologize for what I know in my heart is right," she cried out.
You have sympathized with the Tressons. These are men who seek only to kill your countrymen. Every soft thought for them is a knife in the back of a brother,
he said.
Don't you understand? Somewhere on the other side of the line that splits our world, another priest is giving this same speech to a person who had shed a tear for the Alliance Army. Any life cut short is a tragedy. I do not care how or why!
she proclaimed, giving voice to feelings long suppressed.
"If we allow our resolve to weaken, we will be overrun! Today you waste thoughts on an enemy. Tomorrow you poison the mind of another. Before long, there will be no one left with the will to fight!" the priest said, spouting the same tired ideas that Myranda had heard all of her life.
At least then the war will be over,
she said. I will take an end to this war regardless of the cost. Enough lives have been lost already.
Even if it costs you your freedom and the freedom of all of the people of the Northern Kingdoms?
he asked.
Freedom? What freedom do we have? In the world we live in, there are but two choices to be made: join the army or run from it. If you join, you will pray each day that you will live long enough to pray again on the next. Pray that the impossible happens, that you live to see your children march off to the same fate as you try for the rest of your life to wash the blood from your hands. And if you cannot bear to throw your body into the flames of war, then you can live as I have. A fugitive, a nomad. Known by no one and hated by everyone. What worse fate could the Tressons have in store? What worse fate exists?
she proclaimed.
It is talk such as that which will cost us victory,
the priest said.
Victory!? There is no victory in war! War takes everything and gives nothing! I only wish my words were as destructive as you would have me believe! If that were true, I would shout myself hoarse, I would not sleep until my words had poisoned the thoughts of everyone who had ears--but the cold truth is that nothing I say or do will have even the slightest effect on this wretched war. I am nothing! A shadow! A whisper! Dismissed and forgotten!
she ranted.
Her heart pounded and tears clouded her eyes. She shakily lowered the tea cup to the table. In the heat of her impassioned speech, she had managed to douse herself and a good deal of the room with the piping hot contents. The bandage on her left hand was dripping with it, rekindling the faded pain of its last scalding.
"I am very sorry for how I have acted, and I am sorry for the trouble I may have caused you, but I am not sorry for the thoughts and feelings that you insist are wrong. I will leave you now, before I say or do something deserving of regret," Myranda continued, in control of her emotions again.
Were I you I would turn left at the sign post that you will find outside of my door,
the priest said. The people of Renack are decent, patriotic citizens. Should they discover your sadly misguided beliefs, I doubt they would trust an icy field to do you in. Bydell is to the east. Nothing but scoundrels and deserters. You just may find someone there who shares your blasphemous views.
These last words were heard through the slammed door of his quarters. Myranda moved with swift, motivated strides. She would have no more of this place if she could help it. The cold wind of the outside staggered her like a blow to the face. It had grown even colder than when she had sought shelter just minutes before. The patches of scalding hot tea turned icy at the first exposure to the stinging cold. The fuming girl gritted her teeth and leaned into the wind. It never ceased to amaze her how, seemingly regardless of which way she turned, the wind blew in her face. It was as though someone up above was toying with her, seeing how much torment it would take to break her. She turned her eyes skyward.
You will have to do better than that!
she assured her unseen tormentor.
Not long after storming out of the church, she found the signpost of which the priest had spoken. Renack to the west and Bydell to the east. Both were ten miles away. A few hours by foot. It was a long hike by any means, but along a road, she could make it to either town well before nightfall. She might even make it to a pub before the tables had filled for supper. But which town to go to? Reluctantly, she headed off to the east.
Chapter 3
As Myranda walked eastward, trying to put the anger of her confrontation out of her mind, she questioned her choice. The advice of a person who knew how she felt about the war had nearly cost Myranda her life the previous day, and here she was making the same mistake.
Her father would have frowned on this. Her thoughts turned to him. It had been even longer since she'd seen his face than her mother's. She had to struggle to remember his features. He had been a soldier, never home more than a few weeks before he was off to another tour of duty. He still found time to teach her some of the most valued lessons she had ever learned, though. Even though she had not been more than six when she last spoke to him, he had made sure she knew something of the real world. He would tell stories of adventures he'd had, always with a piece of advice at the end. Above all, he'd taught her to pay attention and to learn from her mistakes.
She shook the memories away. Those days were gone now, too painful to remember.
With her reminiscing over, the infuriating words of the priest quickly returned. Again, she physically shook. What she needed now was distraction, anything to distance her mind from the pain and anger.
So, Bydell and Renack. Each the same distance from the church. What other towns have I been to that shared a church between them? Lucast and Murtock . . . Skell and Marna . . .
she thought aloud.
She grimaced as the distraction proved inadequate to force the words of the priest from her mind.
Bydell!
she forced herself to consider. Where did that name come from? I wonder if it is by a dell.
Myranda continued to force her mind onto this and other suitably pointless subjects for the remainder of the cold and lonely trek. She had exhausted nearly every last meaningless avenue of consideration by the time she sloshed into the smoky, dark interior of the Bydell tavern. The sign over the door labeled this place The Lizard's Goblet, a name she wished she'd had to toss about in her mind on the trip. The reasoning behind such a name could have filled at least a few minutes. The smell of roasting meat and the tantalizing sound of wine being poured set her mind firmly on her empty stomach.
The tables of the noisy room were all at least partially filled. As she scanned the establishment for a place to sit, she could feel eyes staring back. Myranda's eyes passed the faces of at least a dozen men far too young and healthy to be anywhere but the front line. They each had found some way, likely underhanded, to avoid their obligation to serve. Now they sat, drinking and laughing in this place, criminals for choosing life. Among the rogue's gallery of faces was a particularly suspicious-looking person in the dark far corner, still shrouded in his gray cloak. Nearly every man in the whole of the room wore a similar cloak, as the King had made them available for free as a favor to the downtrodden masses.
When she finally located a seat she would be comfortable in, she moved quickly to claim it.
The seat she chose was at the counter where the drinks were served. The odd plate and knife scattered about the bar assured her that she would be allowed to take her meal there as well. It was not the most luxurious of chairs, but with a handful of empty seats between herself and the nearest denizen of the bar to ease her nerves in such a rowdy place, it would do well enough. She sat and awaited the tavern keeper's service.
Several minutes passed, punctuated by stomach rumblings reminding her of the fact she had yet to be served. A glance down the bar revealed the keeper to be in a very spirited conversation with a gruff customer he shared more than a casual resemblance to. She decided that they must be brothers, and chose not to interrupt their conversation. Surely he would take her order soon. As this thought passed through her mind, a particularly thick cloud of pipe smoke wafted past her face. It was all she could do to keep from gagging. She turned a watering eye to the source of the offending fumes.
Behind her, an old man with a patch over his right eye let out a long, raking sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. The outburst lasted for a disturbingly long time, shaking his body as it progressed. The long, thin pipe he gnawed on was lodged securely between two of the only teeth left in his mouth. The half-rotten things had been used to clutch the stalk of the pipe so often they had parted to make room for it. She winced as a second, far more powerful outburst spread his lips far enough to confirm the solitary standing of the pipe-holding teeth. Another man sat at the table with him, staring intently at her. He looked as though he had not slept in days. On his shoulder was a scraggly bird of some kind. He whispered to it dementedly, prompting another long, raking laugh from his companion.
Sneaking another scan of the patrons of the tavern, she realized that most of the other men were staring at her as well, a fact that made her more than a bit uncomfortable. Myranda turned back to the bar. A trio of flies were enjoying the remains of the meal left by the seat's previous occupant. It was seldom warm enough outside for flies to survive, so it was more than likely that these creatures had lived for generations due to the lackluster housekeeping skills of the Lizard's Goblet's staff.
The flies drifted lazily off to their next meal when a particularly tipsy couple bumped into the bar on their way to the stairs that were at Myranda's right side. The collision nearly knocked her from her seat, but the couple merely stumbled up the stairs without so much as an acknowledgment of their rudeness. There were half a dozen similar bumps and jostles before the innkeeper reluctantly headed in her direction.
Make it fast, missy, I am in the middle of something,
said the less-than-hospitable man.
What have you got over the fire?
she asked.
He sighed heavily as he turned to the kitchen.
Goat,
was his rather unappetizing description of the meal when he turned back.
I will have some of that and some wine,
she said.
No wine,
he said.
Why not?
Myranda asked.
Haven't had a drop in weeks. Very expensive stuff, you know,
he said.
Myranda turned to a nearby table where a man was pouring himself a tall glass of the very beverage she sought.
Are you certain?
she asked.
Wine is very expensive,
he repeated. People who cannot afford wine usually order ale.
Now it was clear. The wine was reserved for the better-off of his customers. He did not think she could afford any. Judging by how this man did business, the price was surely prohibitive.
Ale will be fine,
she said.
He pulled a heavy tankard out from underneath the bar and held it below the tap of one of the numerous kegs that lined the wall between himself and the kitchen. He dropped it down in front of her, sloshing a good deal of it onto the sticky surface of the bar. Myranda wiped the rim and sampled the beverage as she watched the keeper shuffle into the kitchen in no particular hurry. His back was to the girl when the intensely bitter flavor of the ale struck her, sparing him the rather contorted face it brought about.
In truth, it was not particularly a bad brew, as ales went, but she not been fond of the best of them, and this was not nearly as good as that. She briefly entertained the notion of skipping the drink and simply awaiting the meal, but the barrel clearly indicated that this was a home brew, and the owners of taverns tended to take great pride in their creations. It was best not to turn her nose up at it. For the sake of harmony, she took another swallow. At any rate, it was a darn sight better than the leathery rain water she had been living off of from her flask day in and day out, and she did not look forward to the flavor of the contents of the soldier's flask either.
The plate of food was set before her: a slice of rather overcooked goat meat accompanied by a mound of boiled cabbage. A knife clattered to rest beside her plate. She carved a piece of the charred meat, speared it with the knife tip, and tasted it. The morsel required more than its share of chewing to render it fit to