Part 11 (2/2)

”The other Chosen,” Myranda whispered in awe.

The apprentice took up a quill and scribbled furiously. The stylus slipped from Deacon's fingers. He understood the voice. Even now it was chanting, almost silent to Karr, but clear in Deacon's head. It was a command. It was directed at him alone. Such a thing was impossible, unimaginable. Hollow did not speak to anyone. If at all, he spoke at everyone. But there could be no question. He had asked what he could do, and this was his answer. The chanting did not stop until Hollow fell silent a minute later, but even then his final words were those that Deacon had strained to hear.

The path is changing. Go where it leads.

The fiery form drifted in the sky, silently surveying the damage. Patches of ground hidden beneath snow for decades now smoked and steamed. Puddles of what had moments before been ice now boiled. The dragoyle, though much the worse for the experience, still lived. The woman, holding the halberd high, had also survived, as did three cloaks that were near enough to share the protection of the weapon. Seeing that her job was not finished, the mysterious fiery savior shot through the air at the woman. With a few deft twirls of the powerful halberd, the enemy struck the charging form with the blade gem. The Chosen was deflected and sent hurtling backward. The brightness of the flames dimmed significantly and seemed to disperse briefly before pulling back together. She floated, her brightness wavering, before finally it faded to nothing and her form dropped to the ground. Where there had been fire, now the form was a continuous, crystal clear ma.s.s of water. It was shaped perfectly into the same form as the fire had been. Where her feet touched the boiling pools it joined them.

”Myranda is better bait than I antic.i.p.ated. Another Chosen has shown itself. Quickly, capture her too!” the woman ordered, her voice a barely audible wheeze. It was clear that the death that she had been cheating was preparing to claim her.

The cloaks obeyed, drifting hauntingly over the smoldering ground toward the fluid form. The watery woman dropped down into the pool below her, appearing to be nothing more than another puddle. They drifted near to it, remaining a cautious distance away. Not cautious enough. Tendrils of water surged up and saturated the cloth creatures. The wind, in a short severe burst, froze the cloaks solid. The watery form rose again, arms crossed and a faint look of satisfaction on her face. Her almost smug display was cut short as the foot of the now recovered dragoyle smashed down over her from behind. The water splashed everywhere, and for a moment it seemed that with that simple maneuver, the bizarre being was defeated. On closer inspection, the water soaked with exaggerated speed into the ground. A shudder nearby grew swiftly, culminating in a rift that opened. A sandy, stony version of the same being climbed out. The fingers were less human, narrowing down their length into cruel claws now. A powerful blow from the deceivingly heavy limb was quite enough to get the creature's attention. A dozen or so more followed with a speed far swifter than a creature composed of stone ought to be capable. Old scars widened, cracks opened, and thick black blood flowed. The relentless rain of blows finally reduced the weakened beast to a lifeless mound of battered rubble.

The stone form s.h.i.+fted its cool, penetrating gaze to the woman in the only snowy portion of the field that remained. Graceful steps sunk a few inches into the baked earth as the living statue moved toward the woman. She had dropped to her knees, one hand holding weakly to the halberd, likely the only thing keeping her from crumpling entirely to the ground. The glazed-over eyes of the woman turned to the ground. She spoke, weak whispers between constant wheezes.

”Stupid (wheeze) worthless (wheeze) creatures. (wheeze) I must (wheeze) have a long (wheeze) conversation with (wheeze) Demont,” she managed before dropping to the ground and into a long overdue stillness.

The stone form reached for the halberd, embedded in the ground as it had been before. The face twisted into a scowl, and she smashed the weapon with a mighty backhand. It flew an impressive distance, cras.h.i.+ng down beyond the edge of the charred region and disappearing beneath the thick layer of ice crusted snow. Behind the fort wall, Desmeres helped Myranda to her feet. With the aid of his shoulder and her staff, she was able to walk. Lain held his sword at the ready, not yet willing to trust whatever it was that had helped them.

”There may be something to this prophesy after all,” Desmeres admitted quietly as the trio approached the unearthly being.

The living statue turned to face them and, for a moment, there was silence. The surface of the creature's body was smooth as marble and seamless. It, as before, bore the general appearance of a woman, the features dulled. The face lacked a mouth, and only a soft rise marked where the nose should have been. The mark that graced the sword, Lain's chest, and Myranda's scarred hand stood clearly embossed in the center of the forehead. In the place of eyes were pristine, lidded white globes that had a faint glow. Its gaze was locked solidly on Lain, unblinking and unstraying. The s.h.i.+mmering eyes narrowed, the s.h.i.+ne grew. Lain suddenly stepped back and drew his weapon.

”What is wrong?” Myranda asked, concerned by the showing of hostility.

Lain did not answer. Instead he stepped forward, making it clear that he was quite willing to use the weapon he held. The glow in the eyes of the being faded, and it slowly raised the stone talons that had made short work of the ma.s.sive dragoyle just moments ago. Lain tensed, ready to defend or attack at any moment. In a smooth, deliberate motion, the being ran a talon along the blade. With a long, crisp ring of the blade, the stone creature collected a few drops of the fallen woman's blood. Almost immediately, a change seemed to happen. The blood vanished through previously absent cracks in the fingers. The cracks spread and connected, causing flakes of the stony surface to fall away. Beneath, pink and vibrant, was what appeared to be . . . flesh. The change continued, flaking away up the arm revealing healthy skin behind. Soon the reaction quickened, cracking away large patches of the surface. Here and there the flakes seemed to hang in the air before connecting with one another and taking on the texture of the cloth the woman was wearing. Before long a full garment hung in the air. It draped itself around the shoulders of the now nearly human figure before them. The hood pulled into place, hiding the face just as the final plume of stone flakes drifted into nothingness. The hands of the being, now a perfect replica of the fallen foe, rose to the hood and pulled it back. Everything, right down to the full head of long brown hair, was just as it had been on the woman. Had the body not still been on the ground in front of them, they would have believed the enemy had somehow torn herself back from the beyond yet again.

”You have done well, Chosen One,” the being said. ”I am impressed with your ability to blend with the lower creatures.”

The being approached Lain. He held the sword tightly, tip leveled at the throat of the woman, keeping her at bay.

”What are you?” Desmeres managed through a rare look of wonder.

The being did not acknowledge him, her gaze locked on Lain.

”Answer!” Lain ordered, moving the sword to within a hair's width of her throat. The woman was unaffected.

”I am not in the habit of dignifying the questions of mortals with response. I will answer you, if you wish,” she said.

”Do it!” Lain growled.

”I am like you. I am a guardian of this world. I am Chosen,” she said.

”Why are you here?” Lain demanded.

”To join you in battle against the enemy,” the woman said.

”I neither want nor need help,” he said.

”Nor do I, but it is decreed by the powers that govern all of existence that it must be,” she said.

Lain drew in a long breath of air.

”The soldiers that survived your escape are coming back,” Lain said, scanning the surroundings for the best route of escape.

”That show she put on likely has every soldier from here to the horizon on the way,” Desmeres said.

Lain spoke to Desmeres in a bizarre language Myranda had heard spoken in Entwell. He responded with a nod.

”We need to leave, now,” Lain said.

”Agreed,” Desmeres said, Myranda offering a weak agreement.

”You aren't actually afraid of these animals, are you?” the woman asked, a hint of disdain in her voice.

”I do not want to deal with them. Not now,” Lain said.

”Mmm. Yes. Then let us go,” the woman said.

”You will not be joining us,” Lain said, moving swiftly to the west.

Myn trotted to Myranda's side as Desmeres helped the weary girl to follow.

”I must. It is destiny,” she said.

”Lain, you must allow her join us. She is Chosen,” Myranda agreed.

”These creatures use this word . . . Lain . . . ” the woman said.

”It is his name,” Myranda said.

”Inform your mortals that they are not to speak to me,” she said. ”I cannot approve of their continued presence. The very fact that you have allowed them to label you as they label themselves speaks volumes of the fact that you have spent too much time among them. You are Chosen, you mustn't allow yourself to be lowered to their level.”

Lain was silent. Myranda's reverence for this mighty being was quickly slipping away. It, like most elements of the prophesy she'd encountered, was not as she had imagined. Far from the n.o.ble, benevolent, caring being she had expected, the woman before her had managed in the s.p.a.ce of only a few sentences to firmly define herself as a rigidly superior, tactless creature. Everything she said had a cold, sterile feel to it. In a way her att.i.tude was similar to the one Myranda had a.s.sumed as a Tesselor, but her tone made it far worse. At least Myranda's words had the sting of sarcasm. This woman spoke frankly, as though there was no doubt that anything she spoke was anything less than absolute fact.

”What is wrong with you? We are the people of this world! It is your duty to protect us, not lord over us,” Myranda said, her irritation briefly pus.h.i.+ng her weariness aside.

”Tell your human that-” the woman began.

”Tell her yourself and be gone,” Lain growled.

He increased his westward pace to a speed difficult for the ailing Myranda to match, even with the help of Desmeres. The woman released an irritated sigh and turned, for the first time since that day in Entwell, to Myranda. She then proceeded, with infinite calm, to shatter any lingering hope Myranda might have had that she was the hero she'd hoped for.

”My duty is to the world, not the inhabitants. I am to protect you insomuch as you are a product of nature. Past that, I see little distinction between yourself and the charred ground you stand on, and were you to suddenly be changed from one to the other, I would hardly consider it a change at all. I have watched over this world since the dawn of time and have found the brief fraction of history that you and your ilk have inhabited it of no more consequence or interest than the eons that preceded it. Your society has proven itself to be shortsighted, dim, and quite likely to bring itself to a prompt end without any enduring influence in the grand scheme of things whatsoever. I consider it an enormous concession that I have even bothered to learn this sequence of squeaks and grunts that you call a language. I would not be speaking at all but for the fact that the one you call Lain seems unwilling to communicate by spirit. He is the only being besides myself worthy of any distinction at all,” she stated before turning back to Lain.

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