Part 13 (1/2)
”If you try that again I will do what it takes to kill you,” Lain hissed.
”What the female said is true. You have been tainted. You are not one of these things. It is only proper that you and I join our minds rather than lower ourselves to their level with language. To threaten my life betrays so much of what they have done to you. It shows that these mindless primal savages have managed to infect you with their temperament, and the suggestion that I could even be killed reveals the ignorance and weakness of mind you must have had to adopt to live among them. That ends here. If you do not leave these beasts behind and join me in our destiny then I will cure your attachment to them in the simplest way possible,” she said.
”That may well be the most subtle death threat I have yet received,” Desmeres remarked.
Lain's ears twitched.
”We do not have time for this. We have been found,” He said.
Before long the sounds that his sensitive ears had picked up found their way to the ears of the others. Hooves crunching on snow. There were at least a dozen men on horseback. They seemed to be coming from all directions at once. Myranda held her staff at the ready, preparing her mind for the task at hand. In this battle, at least, she would not be helpless. Desmeres unsheathed his pair of daggers. Myn unfurled her wings, drove her claws into the icy ground, and bared her teeth. Only the newest member of the group seemed unconcerned. After a few moments the first of the attackers became visible through the trees to the east. Even at this distance, he was clearly a nearman. The crude blank visor covered an inhuman face Myranda had yet to see.
With a few silent steps, Lain seemed to vanish among the trees. Myranda locked her eyes on the soldier. A blur of motion swept past him, a strike from Lain nearly too swift to be seen, knocking him from his horse. A pair of other mounted soldiers appeared from behind and drew Myranda's attention. After focusing briefly on the ground beneath her, Myranda thrust the tip of the staff earthward. A minor wave of motion shook the ground. It was enough to terrify the horses, who swiftly threw their riders. Thinking quickly, Myranda intensified the spell around the base of the trees nearest to the fallen nearmen. An avalanche of snow was shaken from the branches, burying the enemies. Myranda turned to find that three more were rapidly approaching from the north, and four from the south.
Desmeres stepped to Myranda's back. Daggers where not well suited to battling those on horseback. The other Chosen One merely stood, her arms crossed, with a look akin to boredom on her face. The riders began to circle around them. They all bore spears. Two bore nets as well. The nearest of them hurled his in an attempt to ensnare Myranda. She managed a brief burst of wind that blew the net over its caster, tangling horse and rider alike and sending them tumbling to the ground. Myn dove upon the helpless soldier and brought him swiftly to an end. A faint flash of light and scatter of dust as the armor caved in confirmed that these were no humans they fought. A spear was hurled at Myranda. She dove to avoid it. One of the other soldiers raised his weapon to strike her before she could rise. Myn launched herself at the rider, clamping onto the spear-wielding hand and shaking it violently as she worked her wings to pull him backward. He struggled against the dragon, at one point pulling free a handful of scales in attempts at pulling her off. A second soldier attempted to attack before Myranda could get to her feet. A gleam of steel later and one of Desmeres' expertly crafted daggers was protruding from the nearman's neck. The armor was empty by the time it reached the ground. Desmeres rushed to the unoccupied armor, retrieving his dagger and the discarded spear. Myn finally managed to pull her target from his horse and finished him with a blast of flame. Four soldiers remained. Desmeres and Myranda turned to them.
The nearmen focused on the opponents in front of them, neglecting the one who was behind. Before their mistake was realized, Lain had taken two of them. The remaining soldiers turned to face the warrior, and a half dozen more arrived before Myranda or Desmeres could take advantage of the distraction. Myn sprayed flame to keep the soldiers at bay, but they were quickly growing more bold. At the edge of the battlefield, completely ignored by the soldiers, was the other Chosen One. She stood, arms crossed, as though irritated by the distraction.
”Help us!” Myranda pleaded.
”I do not see why you fight at all. You should cease this at once,” the being said.
Bizarrely, her words were heeded, but not by those she had intended. The circling soldiers halted and pulled back. Seemingly unimpressed by the event, the woman continued.
”We are Chosen. You are mortal. When you are faced with the trials that we must overcome, death is the only possible result. If you survive this battle or any other, it will be by our discretion, and every motion that we spend to preserve your lives distracts us from our true goal. The most useful thing that you could do would be to simply bring yourself to an end more swiftly and spare us further delay. Turn your weapons on yourselves,” she declared.
The nearmen obeyed. Swords were drawn and plunged into the chests of their wielders. In moments the entirety of the attacking party was reduced to dusty piles of armor. Myranda stood in open-mouthed wonder at the act. Desmeres scratched his head for a moment before shrugging, collecting the trio of liberated scales, handing them to Myranda, and gathering the reins of three of the now riderless horses. Myn was content to simply stand down without an explanation, and Lain seemed more interested in concealing the armor beneath the snow than asking questions.
”What happened? What did you do to them?” Myranda asked, confusion swirling in her head as she absentmindedly stowed the scales in her bag.
As expected, the newest member of their group had no intention of answering her. Desmeres led a horse over to Myranda. Gritting her teeth and shaking her head, she mounted the steed with her question unanswered. He offered the reins of a second horse to the woman. She extended a hand and, rather than clutching the reins, took hold of a single hair from the mane and plucked it free.
A moment later the solid form of the woman wafted away, replaced instead by an intensely swirling ma.s.s of pure wind that held, briefly, its former shape. Quickly the swirling form altered posture, a.s.suming the four legged stance of the animal. Limbs lengthened and narrowed. The overall form grew. Soon the general shape of a horse stood where the woman had. The wind suddenly intensified where the limbs met the ground. Steadily this tighter swirl rose, leaving behind the solid approximation of a horses hooves, then legs, then body. Before long a replica of the offered horse stood before the original.
”Impressive. It wasn't strictly necessary, though, was it? You could simply have ridden the original, couldn't you?” Desmeres asked.
The animal gave no answer. There was the possibility that she lacked the capacity to speak in this form. It was doubtful. Somehow, the smugly superior look that had so marked the face of the woman managed to persist in the horse. The effect was absurd, an animal that showed weariness bordering on frustration with those around it. When a pa.s.sable job of concealing the battleground had been managed, Lain, Myn, and the shape s.h.i.+fter moved onward on foot. Myranda and Desmeres continued on horseback. Lain's seemingly inexhaustible stamina allowed for a pace near gallop for the horses. As they rode, Desmeres conversed with Myranda as best he could.
”They follow orders,” he said Myranda's expression communicated her confusion.
”The nearmen. That is what she did. She was in the form of one of the higher ranking leaders. The woman she killed. The nearmen were following orders. That is why they killed themselves,” he said.
”Would they really do that?” she asked.
”In my experience with them, I would say they wouldn't have a choice. It was different once. There was a time when they were just as you or I. Now, I doubt that they've a mind of their own. They live, or more accurately die, to serve,” he answered.
Myranda was still attempting to come to terms with such a horror of existence when they reached the empty section of forest that apparently contained the hidden entrance to yet another of the many storerooms and safe houses that Desmeres and Lain kept. Lain reached down to a patch of ground rendered featureless by a blanket of frost and ice that would never fully thaw. Gripping what appeared to be an icy stone sunken into the ground, he pulled open a hidden door. Myranda moved toward the opening.
”Just a moment,” Desmeres said, wrestling his boot from his foot. He dropped the article into the hole. A rush of air and quiet cl.u.s.ter of hisses emanated from the opening.
Slowly he lowered himself down. Lain sent the horses running off in the direction that they had been headed before entering. Vanis.h.i.+ng into a swirl of wind again, the shape s.h.i.+fter swept inside. Myn dove in after, and finally Myranda joined them. A few weak flames flickered to life when the hatch was drawn closed. The vault they found themselves in was barely the size of a large room. Even before the five occupants had entered, it was well crowded with bundles, chests, and sacks. There was scarcely room to stand. The shape s.h.i.+fter settled back into her human form, arms crossed and the smug expression bearing a shade more frustration than before.
”Make yourselves as comfortable as you are able. Before we search these bags for something that is not yet too rotten to eat, there are a number of pressing matters that must be discussed,” Desmeres announced.
”There most certainly are,” Myranda agreed.
”Foremost, this is not a halfway house for wayward wanderers, and Lain and I are not caretakers. It is long past time that each of us went our separate ways,” Desmeres stated.
”Lain is Chosen and I will not leave until he has joined with the others of his kind and turned to the task at hand,” Myranda declared once again.
”Yes, that has been established, but--” Desmeres began. The voice of the woman cut him off.
”There are no others of our kind,” she remarked.
”What? No. There are five!” Myranda objected.
”There had been, but the enemy has been most thorough. We two are all that remain who may call ourselves Chosen. It is thus of the utmost importance that we be delayed no further. Each moment the forces against us grow more powerful. Where once victory was a.s.sured, now it shall be a costly endeavor, if it is even an achievable one. We alone shall not be able to quell the storm we are certain to bring upon this world through our actions. The death throws of the war may well make its final days bloodier than the decades that preceded it,” she said.
Her cold tone was maddening. If what she said was so, then, if victory was possible, it may well cost more lives than it would save. The possibility had haunted Myranda. There was already evidence that as the fiends who controlled the Alliance Army grew more concerned, their actions grew more drastic. Their soldiers permeated the north. With the nearmen to consider there was likely two warriors for every civilian. If they were to seek the death of the Chosen at all costs, the devastation would be complete, even if the soldiers of the south did not sweep in to take the land they had been fighting for. Somehow Myranda had managed to convince herself that when the five were united they would be able to prevent this. Now a being better suited than anyone to know the truth announced that such a miracle would not come to pa.s.s. She wrestled with the implications.
”How? How can you know? How can you be sure?” Myranda demanded.
”I have spent centuries in a state of global awareness. I spread my mind to the far ends of the world with the sole aim of locating the other divinely gifted beings when they arose. Four beside myself surfaced. The murk and haze of time and s.p.a.ce have since swallowed three again,” she answered.
”Did you see them die?” Myranda asked.
”I grow weary of your questions. I spoke in hopes of dissuading you from your stated purpose. I have no interest in addressing the depths of your ignorance,” she said.
”Perhaps you simply lost sight of them! Perhaps they still exist but have escaped your notice!” Myranda said.
”Nothing escapes my notice,” the being fumed.
Behind her, Desmeres smirked at the remark.
”I will find them. There is still hope,” Myranda resigned.
”Hope is a lie. Hope exists only for those who do not know the truth. For the truly intelligent there exists only certainty. Who do you think you are, human, to even suppose that you might contradict a being such as I? I who have existed since the first whispers of eternity. I who am among the first masterpieces wrought by the G.o.ds,” the being spoke. Strong emotion flavored her words as she progressed, but she endeavored to appear as cold as she had been.
”Fate led me to you. Fate led me to Lain. Fate led me to the fallen swordsman. Fate gave me this!” Myranda cried, throwing down her staff and opening her scarred palm. ”Fate has a place for me. Fate has given me a purpose.”
The being lashed out, grasping Myranda's wrist and twisting it painfully to gain a better view of the afflicted hand.
”Blasphemy. Sacrilege. It is far better that I relieve you of this limb than allow the symbol of divine purpose to be squandered on so lowly a creature,” she said, the malice of her words seeping through her cold exterior. As she spoke, the grip grew tighter, the twist more cruel.
Myranda dropped to her knees. Myn leapt to her side, baring her teeth. The young woman turned her eyes to the emotionless stare of the shape s.h.i.+fter. Slowly the mark upon her forehead, the very one she now punished Myranda for bearing, began to reveal itself. It had only been present when she was in one of the elemental forms until now. An instant before the enraged dragon would have attacked her, the being relented. She rubbed her own mark, her face revealing a glimmer of confusion and pain ever so briefly before her expression and the mark each faded to nothing.
”You are not worth the effort,” the being decided. ”That mark speaks nothing of purpose. It merely labels you as a curiosity. If anything you are a mistake, a failed attempt at greatness. The spirit of my fallen would-be partner, the swordsman as you called him, must have branded you as a message of his defeat. With that message delivered your brief, pointless role is fulfilled. I was quite aware of his pa.s.sing.”
”Because nothing escapes your notice,” Desmeres repeated.
”Precisely,” the creature agreed.