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   Chapter 66 No.66

The Book of Deacon By Joseph R. Lallo Characters: 5565

Updated: 2018-01-19 19:02


But how? How could one of their steeds have gotten past her without either of them noticing? And why did it have no rider? Perhaps it was the horse that had run away from the leader of the Elites when Myn had scared it during the rush to the Locke's Woods.

Her mind turned to the footprints and hoofprints. If there was an Elite horse here, then perhaps the Elites had been in this place, days before, leaving behind those traces. But how? They had to be behind her! Myn proved that! Unless they had split up, but then they could have confronted her days ago! None of this made sense! Myn trotted back, pleased that she had frightened away the assumed threat.

"Myn, " Myranda whispered, "this is very important. How near are they? The bad ones."

Myn did not understand. Myranda took a series of sniffs to illustrate what she meant. The dragon imitated, but seemed no more disturbed by the scent than usual.

"Again! You need to be sure!" Myranda demanded as a change in the wind brought a blast from the south.

Myn caught a whiff of this new wind. Instantly, her eyes shot open. She turned to the south and took off like a bolt, sprinting across the ground like a creature possessed.

"Myn! No! Not now!" Myranda called out uselessly. She hurried after her friend, following the deep claw marks left by her sprint. This could not have happened at a worse time.

Minutes of running as fast as her legs could carry her had aggravated her ailing lungs severely. She stopped briefly to catch her breath, leaning against a tree. When she took her hand away, she felt something sticky. She looked to the culprit and found her hand reddened with blood. Fresh

his body that did not suffer from some malady or another. Even the long hair that he'd displayed when she first met him had been rendered a scraggly mess, as though it had been cut away with a dull blade. This, coupled with the scrawny, malnourished appearance of his muscles and the patches of blackened, almost charred fur, told the undeniable tale of torture.

Myranda set her mind carefully to the task of healing the most grievous of injuries first. After forcing him into a deep healing sleep, she spoke the words to close the wounds that still leaked blood. When they had been tended to, she relieved the smaller cuts and swelling. Each spell robbed her of more of her own strength, but the months of training had brought her enough stamina to perform the task at hand. By the time she had cast the last spell she could manage, Leo was far from healthy, but he was most assuredly out of danger. She leaned dizzily to the tree he was slumped against and slid to the ground. Myn, who had watched the whole spectacle with nothing short of angst-ridden worry, curled up between the girl and her patient.

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