Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  He stood and raised his staff, bringing it at arm’s length before him. “We shall recess for the afternoon and reconvene at dusk. When we meet again, I will explain about Silbane’s apprentice. Your insight is needed if we are to plan a course of action.”

  Bowing once, he excused the other council members, sinking wearily into his chair. He watched as they filed out, Kisan being the first out the door. Themun cleared his throat and caught the attention of his friend, “Silbane, a moment of your time.”

  Silbane remained, a questioning look on his face.

  “You must be wondering what Arek has to do with all this. As his master, you have the most insight into his abilities.” He avoided Silbane’s gaze, fingering the runes on his staff.

  “You flatter me,” Silbane replied, “but despite Arek’s talent in combat, we both know he has significant shortcomings when it comes to the Way.”

  Themun shook a dismissive hand and took a different tact. “It is opening. I sense it,” he said, referring now to the Gate.

  Silbane furrowed his brow, a disbelieving look on his face. “As Dragor said, you have a knack for timing. It must feel nice to play us, but I don’t have the power you do. Even I can sense nothing at this distance. And claiming my apprentice is somehow pivotal and yet expendable does not help your position. At least,” he added, “not with me.”

  “And what of Kisan’s suggestion?”

  Silbane pursed his lips, clearly annoyed at the way Themun kept changing the subject. “You seemed overly eager to put her in her place.”

  “She insults the man who made it possible for all of us to live. Stubborn and mule-headed, nothing with her has changed.”

  “You are still the same, so easily angered when it comes to your father.” Silbane offered a sad smile then said, “One or two of us could get in and out of the camp with little to fear. And while trained, I do not relish the role of assassin yet again.”

  “You should have thought of that before accepting the Black. It may come to that, if no other solution is found.”

  Silbane looked into his friend’s eyes. “I know, but you keep feeding us bits of information, so get comfortable with the idea of waiting.” The last bit was delivered with a good measure of sarcasm, a clear indication that Silbane was in no mood to bandy words back and forth.

  Themun closed his eyes, wishing the dull headache that had recently become a part of his life would recede for just a moment. As he heard Silbane get up, he put out a restraining hand and said, “Whoever is helping the nomads could be formidable. Furthermore, the Gate is opening, and we need a way to seal it before it does.” Themun hesitated, then added, “We would need something to mask your approach, and disrupt the Gate itself.”

  Silbane stared at the lore father for what seemed an eternity, then a cold weariness stole over him. This had been a charade, a game played for his benefit. It was a puerile gift from a friend who owed him more than this, more than his life. “He’s just a boy.” Silbane looked away, his eyes shut as if this physical act could keep the inevitable at bay. “He would never survive.”

  Themun’s gaze fell and in a soft voice he said, “Don’t be melodramatic. He’s certainly not helpless.”

  Silbane had no answer. Almost as an afterthought, likely to confirm what he already suspected, Silbane asked, “Has this decision already been made?”

  Themun sensed his friend’s frustration and held up a forestalling hand. “Circumstances would have to be truly dire for us to allow the Gate to remain unchecked and unheeded. I did not come to this lightly.” He blew out a gust of air and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead as he thought about his choices. “Yes. I will do what is best for the land. If that means sending your apprentice on a dangerous but vital mission, so be it.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Dead silence.

  Then Themun barked, “Refuse? We act for the good of this land. All of us! That includes you and your apprentice!” The same anger that told Kisan she had dared too much, now fell upon Silbane. Themun made sure the master knew there was no doubt he would make good on his next promise as he said coldly, “I will assign Kisan to the task, if you decide to ignore your Oath.”

  Silbane was speechless, the Lore Father’s sudden anger shocking him. He stepped back, making his way to the double doors that led out of the chamber. There, he stopped, as though not trusting himself to speak, the sickening realization setting in that Arek’s only hope lay on what he did next.

  Then, something caught his eye. The master detected a wavering of the air, as when the sun bakes the earth, except this stood in the shadows behind Themun. His gaze narrowed, but then the mirage was gone, dissipating like the release of a breath long held.

  “What was that?” Silbane motioned to the space behind the lore father.

  Themun paused, leaning on his armrest, but said nothing.

  When it was clear the lore father was not going to answer, Silbane shook his head then turned and left, his stride betraying the anger he felt at being manipulated.

  Themun watched him go. Events were unfolding, and if Rai’stahn was to be believed, the fate of their world hung in the balance. His mind spun through every permutation to come up with a solution that did not involve sacrificing one of their own, but came back to the same place.

  “You have to be more careful,” Themun said aloud to the empty chamber. Silence was the only answer, though he had expected nothing more. Nonetheless, it was not his place yet to question the will of the Conclave.

  What, he wondered, would you have counseled, Father, and am I now living by your lessons? Privately, he doubted his father would have been proud of anything he had done today.

  Journal Entry 1

  Banished.

  It is with a heavy heart that I share my thoughts, but history has a way of remembering us as she wants, and she is a fickle mistress. Having been branded tyrant, usurper, and worse, this may be my only voice.

  Dragons are traitors, and first amongst these is Rai’stahn. I name him so you can greet him with death, for he deserves no better absolution than cold steel. He never understood his place, and now survives on the victory I seized with my bare hands.

  It is a wish, and I admit a selfish one that you know of the sacrifices I made for all of us. Though they think me dead, I gain an immortality of sorts, for my legend will never die.

  It is a small solace, perhaps noble to you, hollow sounding to me. I am not content with the way the dice have rolled. I do not accept my fate. It does not sit well with me. Let those who pray for my death continue to do so. Nothing they do will change who I am, but their prayers give me strength, life.

  And just whose tribute do you read? Will knowing impugn your sense of fairness? Will you wish for the axe on my neck, or place the garland at my feet? We will walk the road a bit longer in anonymity, so you may yet be more charitable to my memory, in light of my many sacrifices.

  It will not be the first time a hero stood maligned, nor a commoner such as yourself learns the truth.

  Come, there will be much to tell you in the pages ahead...

  THE NOMADS

  Those who show no fear, tend to inspire it.

  —Altan proverb

  The desert dunes glowed red in the setting sun, shimmering from the day’s heat. Occasionally a small windspin would swirl the sand into a cloud of grit and dust, working under any amount of protection a weary traveler might have. The Altan Wastes were inhospitable at best, deadly at worst.

  A lone figure stood atop a dune, his robes streaming behind him in the hot wind. Raising a massive arm, he unhooked a pack from his heavily muscled back and dropped it to the sandy floor, grunting as he released its weight.

  Hemendra, leader of the clans, tribes, families, and kinsmen who called themselves the Altan, unwound the light cotton shahwal from his face. His eyes squinted at the wavering image of the fortress, rising just out of catapult range. He wore the loose fitting robes favored by the desert nomads to protect h
imself from the harsh wind and sun. As it beat down on the sands, he reached to his belt, detaching his water skin. Taking a small sip, he then corked and replaced it with the efficiency of a man who had survived fifty years under the desert’s baleful yellow eye.

  He was soon joined by two other men dressed much as he was. Though both would be considered large, they were almost tiny compared to the sheer size of the clanchief. He acknowledged the leader Paksen’s bow with a grunt before turning to look back at the fortress.

  “Mighty U’Zar,” said the lead man, addressing Hemendra, “I come to ask if you wish to pull our troops back. The Redrobe has begun the summoning of the storm and wishes our men to be ready.”

  Hemendra inwardly grimaced at the mention of the strange man amongst them, but was careful in his response, especially in front of clanfists as ambitious as these were. The twenty or so clans they alone controlled, the largest number under one man besides himself, had come to worship the man in red robes with an almost religious zeal, thinking him chosen by the Great Sun itself. Hemendra worried this Redrobe commanded too much consideration, but had to be careful how he dealt with it. As long as Bara’cor’s walls remained intact, this man was necessary. As long as that remained true, his lifewater would remain unspilled.

  Turning from the sight of the fortress, he addressed the lead clanfist, “We shall camp, Indry. Have the brothers dig themselves in for the storm and shield the fires.” Hemendra paused for a moment, looking out over the Altan Wastes. So beautiful, he reflected, yet as deadly as a sarinak’s sting. Turning back to the two waiting chieftains he finished, “Tell the sun sages to begin the bloodletting for their spells. Tomorrow, under cover of the storm, we advance on Bara’cor again.”

  “And the Redrobe’s orders?” Indry asked, looking at Bara’cor with hunger in his eyes.

  Hemendra eyed this nomad chieftain, his hand casually straying to rest on the bone hilt of his fighting knife, a knife that never left his side. He saw Paksen’s eyes widen as the second clanfist realized his companion’s error and prayed the chieftain would react so he could kill him, too. Wisely, Paksen did not move.

  “Tell me of the asabiyya.”

  The other chieftain spun to face the u’zar, the simple question laced with deadly undertones, and realized his error. He fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the sand. “Mighty U’Zar—”

  “Tell me, Indry.”

  The man stammered, then said, “Me against my brothers; my brothers and me against our cousins; my brothers, cousins, and me against the world.”

  “And what family is the Redrobe to you?”

  Indry shook his head slowly, almost as if he knew his fate. “He is nothing, Mighty U’Zar.”

  Slowly, Paksen also fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the sand. “Of course, Mighty U’Zar, your orders are not to be questioned.”

  Hemendra waited for a moment, looking towards the camp. He could hear the priests chanting their spells, ones that banished fatigue or called up springlets of fresh water from the dry, windblown wastes. Looking down, he growled, “Look at me, Indry.” At first he thought the man would refuse, as what could only be a stifled sob ran quickly through him. Then, as Indry’s head slowly came up, Hemendra kicked him under the chin.

  Blood spurted as the ill-fated clanfist bit through his tongue and went tumbling backward down the dune, landing in a heap at the bottom. Hemendra strode down and grabbed him by his neck, picking him up like a rag doll. Dark blood ran freely in rivulets out of the nomad’s mouth, dripping off his chin and staining the front of his robes. He was on the verge of screaming when Hemendra’s grip tightened like a vise, choking off any sound. “Your lifewater is accepted.”

  The man fought, his desire for life overcoming any fear he had for the clanchief. He tried punching, kicking, and pushing the gargantuan man, trying to find any kind of purchase or weakness, but Hemendra’s grasp was like iron, unyielding. Indry’s punches soon became lethargic, then feeble. Finally, they stopped all together.

  Hemendra waited, watching until life drained from the man’s eyes, then he released his hold. He flung the dead nomad to the desert floor, feeling his fingers stick together where blood had congealed. Stalking back up the dune he stooped to grab a handful of sand and began to rub off the drying blood. Paksen, who he noticed had not moved, slowly came to his feet and paid the proper homage, palms to forehead. I will have to watch this one, he thought, angry at himself for letting the Redrobe’s presence affect him so.

  He could have let Indry’s lapse go unpunished—killing nomads for slight transgressions was not sustainable, not for a true leader of the Altan—and Indry had brothers and cousins who would now feel obligated to retaliate. They would die too, in a ripple of violence, but to what purpose? He had been foolhardy, he knew.

  Yet another part of him forgave his harsh action. Indry had given him what he needed most, a show of strength in front of a clanfist as powerful as Paksen. Fear was a strong motivator, and killing one to maintain order and discipline was valuable in its own way. It also stripped Paksen of an ally, should he think to challenge the u’zar. And it was clear to Hemendra that Paksen’s ambition would soon exceed his caution. He nodded permission as Paksen bowed and went to see to his orders.

  His eyes followed the retreating form of the clanfist, flat and empty of emotion. That day, he knew with cold certainty, would be the day Paksen died. For now, though, he would carry the word of the killing back to the men, and sprinkle the waters of doubt into their cups of ambition.

  Behind him, over eight thousand nomads made ready to assault the walls of Bara’cor again. As the Great Sun dipped below the western horizon, he could see the fortress’s minarets, the flags atop unfurled and rippling in the wind: a golden lion on a black field. Hemendra rewrapped the shahwal, careful to cover his mouth and nose. Tomorrow the storm would be here in full force and his nomads would hide in its swirling sands.

  “Once again we follow you, Redrobe,” he whispered into the warm desert breeze, but the words came out like a curse.

  Casting one last look around, Hemendra made his way down the dune and back to his tent to perform his evening ablutions. Storms, spells, or not, he vowed, Bara’cor would soon see its last sunset.

  THE MASTER

  In preparation for close combat,

  Take heed of your opponent’s stance;

  In making a strike, his arms;

  In giving and taking blows, his chest;

  In all else, watch your opponent’s eyes.

  —Tir Combat Academy, Basic Forms & Stances

  Silbane moved through the wide hallway toward the stairwell that would take him to his quarters. This is insanity, he thought. Using Arek could not be the only answer. There were always other options. Still, the danger to Edyn was great. Were they not pledged to serve that need? And as the lore father had pointed out, his apprentice intended to take the same oath of service as an adept, a Binding Oath. It was not a decision taken lightly.

  In fact, the Binding Oath did much more once uttered, for it combined the true intent of the two who pledged it, heard and enforced by the Way. Breaking the oath had varying degrees of punishment, from something as simple as blindness or deafness, to complete annihilation. A dark cloud would appear, and the person would be forever changed. None had ever escaped its punishment, so the uttering of such an oath was taken with the utmost sincerity.

  Was Arek not already committed by his allegiance to the council, and his intention to test for the rank of adept? Was he not governed by his intention to take this very same oath, whether uttered or not? Silbane did not trust himself to answer that question now.

  Another thing troubling the master was that the other fortresses of the land had been destroyed. This only strengthened the argument that something was happening, and it was not some random testing of strength. There were many other targets, ones more convenient and easier to defeat than an armed and guarded fortress of granite. Regardless of his opinion of nomad stre
ngth, Silbane knew that desert warriors armed with horn bows would not survive an assault on a fortress stronghold. At least, not without help. Themun had surely gone through the same line of reasoning, and staged that charade for his benefit. Silbane inwardly cursed, then asked himself, what had been the point?

  He strode up the circular stairway, exiting on a level high above the main training halls. He ignored the bows of respect protocol demanded students and servants offer as he passed, his mind deep in thought. If Bara’cor is the last fortress standing, then the nomads have combined their strength with someone else, and Themun is correct... it did not bode well for the security of the Gate.

  Silbane strode through the double doors to his quarters, which swung silently shut behind him. Placing his things in a corner, he made his way into his personal library. There he searched the stacks for a particular manuscript on the history of Bara’cor, snapping his fingers when his eyes fell on its faded brown leather cover. Retrieving it, he settled into a plush chair near a window and began to read.

  Bara’cor, it stated, stood at the southwest corner of the Altan Wastes, straddling Land’s Edge, aptly named for the two thousand foot cliff face separating the upper desert region from the lush, abundant grasslands surrounding the capital city of Haven below. The fortress stood with its back to Land’s Edge protecting the one safe way down, a wide road cut out of the sheer face of the cliff.

  As a result, Bara’cor had found an ever-increasing amount of people traveling through its walls, the pass between the upper and lower regions creating the perfect atmosphere for trade to flourish and grow. The fortress served as the protective nexus for traders from the Wastes and those from the lower, fertile valleys to meet in a neutral place that welcomed all.