The Book of Deacon by Joseph Lallo

sword, and he told her where
to go. Apparently she had not learned her lesson about who to trust
for directions. The cloaked figure must be a bounty hunter. Things
were looking grim. If the Alliance Army had come to take her away,
she might be witnessing her last sunrise. In criminal matters, only
an accusation was needed to be thrown into prison, and if the
weapon was valuable enough to hire a bounty hunter and alert the army, she would
remain locked away for the better part of a decade.
    As she worried what the future held for her,
the exchange between the bounty hunter and the soldiers became very
heated. The other soldiers, who had stood silently until now, began
to encircle the blade-for-hire. The leader stepped between the door
and his underlings and began working at the ropes, blocking
Myranda's view of the spectacle. Despite the overwhelming emotion,
she could not help but notice an odd quality about him. It was
something in the way he moved. It seemed . . . foreign.
    A flash of light reflecting off of something
metal shifted her gaze to the action behind the approaching leader.
The soldiers began to move back, but never even made it to a second
step. One by one the soldiers jerked awkwardly and dropped to the
ground. Their ends were brought in a heartbeat by a single strike
too fast to see. The clang of falling armored bodies drew the
attention of the leader. His head had not yet turned when a blur of
steel removed it from his shoulders.
    Myranda backed away, but the grim spectacle
lingered in her mind. She stumbled back from the door, her head
spinning and her stomach churning. The sight had physically
sickened her, and she could not keep her feet. She settled dizzily
to the ground, coughing and gagging.
    Somehow she managed to maintain her
composure. When she felt well enough again, her eyes turned to the
door. The murderer was still out there, she could feel it. The
tides had turned again. Her desire to wrench the doors open and
taste freedom was swiftly replaced with a repeated prayer that they
remain shut, that monster outside would not come in. She kept her
gaze locked on the door for what seemed like an eternity, fearful
even to blink.
    The light of morning crept across the floor
in front of her. Myranda strained her every sense to try to learn
what the killer was up to. Only the occasional whinny of horses and
the drip of melting snow broke the silence. Slowly, careful to make
no sound, she rose to her feet and crept toward the doors, eyes
focused intently on the slit of light between. She was only a step
or two away when the ribbon of light darkened. She rushed backward,
tripping over a piece of wood and hitting the ground hard. There
was a blur and a hiss as the fiend's blade split the restraining
ropes. The doors swung open, leaving the dark silhouette of the
murderer as the light reflecting from the snow fairly blinded
Myranda.
    Squinting against the sudden brightness,
Myranda felt for a piece of wood and brandished it. She'd seen what
he could do to trained warriors, but no one would take her life
without a fight. If this monster was going to finish her off, she
would be sure to make the decision a regrettable one. The form of
the bounty hunter had only begun to clear when it leapt from the
light. Now it was hidden somewhere in the darkness inside.
Myranda's eyes were useless, as the contrast of light and dark kept
her from seeing anything. Before she could even react, she felt the
board she'd grabbed torn from her grip. Her arm was pushed
painfully behind her back and she was forced forward.
    Fighting all the way, Myranda was led
outside. Each time she resisted, a sharp pain in her
already-injured shoulder forced her to continue. The snow was
ankle-deep at its shallowest, and as tall as she in drifts. When
she was nearly to the horses in front of the sleigh, her arm was
released with one final thrust. A second iron grip locked onto the
back of her head, keeping her gaze forward. One of the horses