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   Chapter 30 No.30

The Book of Deacon By Joseph R. Lallo Characters: 5317

Updated: 2018-01-19 12:03

She swallowed hard and looked to the darkening scar on her left palm. That blasted sword had marked her in more ways than one. Her life had been far from pleasant, but it had gotten worse with each passing moment since the instant she had touched the cursed blade. Perhaps the spell that had branded her hand carried with it a hex that would plague her with such misfortune for the rest of her days. Her heart sunk further. Magic had always intrigued her, but she'd seen it at work only a handful of times. Now it seemed that magic was at work, making her wretched life into a positively abysmal one. She closed her hand.

"Pardon me?" she asked the waitress.

"Yes?" came her chipper reply.

"Do you have rooms to rent?" she asked.

"Not here. Look for Milin's Inn. Right across the way." She pointed.

"Thank you, " Myranda said.

She left the restaurant in search of a better place to wash up and keep her horse until she had bought the supplies she would need. She found the inn quite easily, and found facilities for the horse alongside of it. She gave a few coppers to the stable hand and directed him to see to it the horse was taken care of. Inside the building, she found a well-lit, tidy lobby. A man with an eye patch stood behind the counter, with a young boy slouching in front of the door. Her entry provided the same degree of excitement that it had in the restaurant earlier.

"Welcome to Milin's Inn. What can I do for you today?" the owner asked.

"I need a room for the next few hours, " she said.

"I am very sorry, but we require that our customers pay for

ildren, the disabled, and anyone else unfit for the role of soldier. These were the people who had populated the towns for as long as she could remember. It wasn't long after childhood that she herself had begun to feel the questioning stares of the townsfolk, wondering why this healthy young lady was not on the front, putting her life on the line for the war effort.

She had heard that women had not always been obliged to go to war. They were to stay behind and tend to the affairs of the home. Those years were long gone. Now the towns were growing more and more sparsely populated as the generations of people were being killed in battle before they could even spawn the next crop of warriors. The faded bloodstain on her cloak was likely the only thing keeping the people from questioning her presence in this town, earning her the assumed status of injured soldier on leave. Such were not uncommon in the larger towns until a few months ago, when they stopped showing up. She quietly thanked fate for the rare bit of luck, and went about her tasks.

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