The Book of Deacon by Joseph Lallo Page A

had
been cut off of the sleigh, every symbol of the army's ownership
removed from the equipment.
    "Go. Now!" came a whisper to her ear, harsh and
disguised, but certainly a male. His final word flared with anger,
offering some hint of a voice.
    Myranda gasped as she felt the cold edge of a
knife pressed to her throat.
    "If you so much as glance in my direction, I
will do to you what I did to them," he said, turning her head to
the remains of the soldiers.
    Where once had stood a man now lay a mangled
mass of metal. The snow around the heap was pitted where flecks of
blood melted through, and armor showed smudges of blood far blacker
than she had seen anywhere but the field a few days ago. There was
no flesh or bone among the spent armor either, only a scattering of
bluish-gray dust. There had been more than a blade at work in the
murder of these soldiers. Some unholy magic had ravaged their
bodies. He had taken more than their lives; he had taken their
humanity. Now they could not even be honored for their sacrifice
with a funeral. It was horrible.
    She climbed with difficulty to the back of
the horse. It had never been meant for an individual rider, so it
had no saddle. Myranda had ridden bareback before, but she
preferred not to. Now, however, was no time to object.
    As she snapped the reins and went on her way,
she filled her head with the mindboggling facts of the day. This
bounty hunter captured her, bound her, and stole her most valuable
item. Yet, at the same time, he left her money and made sure to
keep the fire going, even though he did not warm himself by it. The
fire must have been for her--but why? It was clear that she herself
had some value to him, but after killing those who seem to have
come for her, he provided a means to escape and demanded that she
use it. Why? Was this some sort of cruel game?
    Myranda urged the horse forward. Despite the
dozens of paces already between them, she could feel the place in
her back where a knife might slip in at the first hint of
hesitation. She pushed the horse as hard as she could to put as
much space between herself and the killer as she possible. Minutes
passed--she knew not how many--before she reached the fork in the
road and decided she felt safe enough to stop.
    The horse breathed great, steaming gasps as
she gave it its first rest. It was unaccustomed to speed, being
used only to pull a sleigh. She looked to the beast's back and
frowned. Her pack had never been returned to her. All that she had
left was the three silvers that the friendly fox had given her
earlier. It was just yesterday, but it seemed ages ago. She looked
to the south. No sense going back to the man who had sent the
soldiers and murderer after her. She would head to the next town,
replace her lost goods, and decide what could be done.
    Now that the desperate fear had released its
grip on her, she became aware of three things. First, the cold was
absolutely biting. The night she had spent away from it only served
to make it feel many times worse. Second was the pain in her
shoulder. It had been burning steadily from the cold, but she had
only now become aware of it. Last, as the horse began at a gentle
trot, she heard a peculiar jingling. It was different from the
sound of the various buckles and straps of the horse's equipment.
Curious, she looked about for the source of the sound. She soon
found it. There was a bag, tied to one of the horse's straps. The
removed the satchel and opened it. The sight made her head
spin.
    It was the bag of coins she'd had stolen from
her. There could be little doubt. Everything from the
ancient-looking bag to the weathered coins were familiar to her.
How? How had it gotten here? The killer must have been there, in
that tavern, that very night. How else could he have the bag? And
why would he give it to her? Did he want her to know? She shook the
bag and discovered the sheathed stiletto had been placed inside,
along with a note. Eagerly she snatched it out, sure that