Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  Themun turned to the remaining adepts, anger in his eyes. “Does anyone else share Thera’s dilemma? If so, you should excuse yourselves as well. Lay down this burden and share not in the load. Make your lives easier, stand aside, and decide you cannot sacrifice your own comfort and moral certitude for service.

  “This is the hard path, the path of the Way. This is a day where we must all make difficult choices, and for that I need only those who can bear the weight. I need those willing to serve.”

  When no one stepped forward, his features softened. He looked down, but when his head rose, the remaining adepts could see the weariness, fear, and sadness that framed Themun’s face. With a sigh, he said, “These are trying times. I hold no anger at Thera, except for the delays in judgment her doubt will surely cause. We do not have the luxury of time, or being sure of ourselves.”

  He sighed, then his voice came out with the certainty of the lore father of this council, “We prepare for Silbane and Arek’s journey. Equip the initiate to give him the best chance of surviving.”

  Giridian said, “What of his ability to disrupt magic? While it is the reason for him going, nothing we give him can withstand his touch.”

  “Not all the objects in the lower Vaults require physical contact,” Silbane offered. “Perhaps we can find something that will aid Arek by its very presence.”

  Kisan asked Silbane, “And what will you tell him? How will you explain you are taking him into a siege?”

  “You can suggest that this is part of his training,” Giridian suggested. “It seems cruel, but it would keep him near you, and obedient.”

  Silbane scoffed. “Arek is powerless, not stupid. When we arrive at Bara’cor, he will look at me as though I’ve lost my mind.”

  “Perhaps,” Kisan answered, “but to be blunt, who cares? By then he will stay near you to stay safe.”

  Themun waited, but no answer came from Silbane. Then, he carefully said, “I have an idea. Perhaps what I suggest will also help keep Arek alive.” The gathered adepts looked at the lore father, who said one word, “Rai’stahn.”

  Silbane looked in shock at the lore father, “How will that help Arek?”

  Themun looked at Silbane and said, “I cannot speak to what a dragon will do or say, only that if there is another way to close a rift, Rai’stahn will know it.”

  Silbane pursed his lips, deep in thought. It was a slim chance centered on the ancient creature’s willingness to participate. He looked at the lore father and asked, “And you think Rai’stahn will help?”

  To this Themun smiled. “I am not without some influence, and as I recall the dragon owes me a favor. I will send word you wish to speak to him.”

  Silbane nodded, but his attention was caught again by a wavering in the air, a displacement. He took a deep breath and reached for the Way, intending to open his Sight.

  “Silbane, a moment of your time, please,” Themun interrupted. “You must keep, as your foremost concern, the Gate and the danger it represents. You must keep Arek with you to remain masked to anyone’s scrutiny.”

  “You mean keep Arek alive until Silbane knows the Gate exists, then push his apprentice through and hope for the best.” This came from Giridian, the comment uttered before he could help himself. “I agree we must verify the Gate’s existence, but the boy... it does not sit well with me,” he added by way of apology.

  Silbane nodded in agreement, looking again for the sign of that something, but it was gone. It was so slight and faint, it truly could be his imagination. It was not a warding, of that he was certain. He decided to keep quiet for now and instead said, “Nor I, but the lore father has presented a plan that may work. What do we know of what a true dragon can do? What is beyond its capabilities? Because of this, I am willing to do my part.”

  Giridian slowly shook his head. He seemed surprised at Silbane’s acceptance. Perhaps to him it brought to mind the desperate actions of a drowning man clinging to a flimsy branch, a branch the lore father had offered. Yet, though the thought disturbed him greatly, he too, said nothing. Something did not ring true with this sudden promise of the dragon’s aid.

  Themun looked to Silbane and said, “You will make plans to leave as soon as possible.”

  “And what of Arek? How will you tell him he’s going into a war zone?” asked Silbane.

  “I won’t,” Themun said simply. “You will. Speak with your apprentice, explain what he needs to know of our plan. Do not speak of how you intend to close the Gate. For all other matters, there is no need to lie to him. He, too, is a servant of this land, as the oath he took requires.”

  Gathering himself, Themun addressed the adepts around him. “I thank each of you for your guidance. We will prepare for Silbane’s departure.” With a single rap of his black runestaff, he closed the meeting.

  * * * * *

  The first to exit the room was Kisan, the air swirling in the wake of her hasty departure. In a moment, the chamber was empty, save for the lore father and Giridian. Themun felt, rather than saw, the latter come to stand beside him.

  Giridian cleared his throat, voicing a concern that had not left him since Thera’s departure. “This is harder on Thera than the rest of us.”

  “You think so?” Themun looked away. “I have asked Silbane to sacrifice his apprentice to close the Gate. Are Thera’s feelings somehow more important than his, or his young apprentice’s life?”

  Giridian looked at the lore father, not knowing exactly what to say. “Of course not... though at these times is it not more important for us to be united?”

  Themun looked at the burly adept and asked, “Are we not? You worry about Thera, who even now wonders if she acted correctly.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “Do you know what she did after seeing her parents killed? As we moved the villagers to shelter and bedded down for the night, she called upon the earth and eradicated her village. Not a hut, stone, tree, bush, or blade of grass remained, and she was just five years old. She chooses to nurture this world and make it a better place for the living. We need people like her, so Edyn can continue to flourish.”

  “I had no idea she had such power,” Giridian replied.

  Themun nodded, and said, “She will come to a place where she can either support our decisions, or not. Regardless, she will feel justified, and we can all stand by that decision. Thera is the lucky one. Her fortitude will be unwavering exactly because of the challenges placed on her. We should all be so lucky to earn that kind of conviction.”

  “Then what hurdles must we endure?”

  Themun did not smile when he said, “Faith. In us, in all of this,” he said while taking in the room with a gesture.

  Giridian bowed to the lore father, excusing himself with, “I’ll go see how she’s doing.”

  “Thank you,” Themun said, his eyes far away in thought. Faith is a tricky thing, he reminded himself sadly.

  Giridian bowed, then gathered his things and made his way to the door.

  Themun watched him leave the chamber, knowing the upcoming days would be the hardest his council would ever face.

  RESPITE

  The tremble of the blade marks weakness.

  Once seen, act decisively or the moment is lost.

  Remain alert, strike swiftly.

  —The Bladesman Codex

  Bara’cor’s council chamber lay deep in the heart of the fortress, dominated by an octagonal table large enough for two men to lay head to foot across it without touching either end. It rose from the solid granite floor without seam, a natural extension of the rock forming the fortress. Under skilled artisans’ hands, the stone became a work of beauty, flowing from scene to scene, as it depicted what could only be a history of the ancient dwarven people.

  Etched on the floor at each of the eight corners of the table lay another octagon, smaller, but no less intricate. Their surfaces were a complex mixture of pictures and dwarven writings, showing strange vistas that could only be distant lands. The true meaning of the inlays was
lost, however, to antiquity. Anyone who could have deciphered them had perished long ago.

  Bernal had been at the table for much of the night, his eyes absently tracing the rune-carved surface of the Galadine great bow, Valor. It had been in his family for centuries, passed from father to son. His father had trained him for many summers, arduous practice sessions, until he had the strength to string and draw it.

  When he could put six arrows into a space no bigger than his hand at four hundred paces, his father had declared him worthy of its name. Soon it would go to Niall, who had been training tirelessly to wield this awesome weapon. Rarely did the king disturb Valor from its holder at one side of the table, but on some occasions, its presence filled him with a sense of purpose.

  Now, with the horde encamped at his doorstep, he found himself in this room more frequently, his eyes vacant as he pictured the battles depicted on the floor and wall. His thoughts scattered when Jebida entered the council chamber and sat his large frame down across from him. The king nodded in greeting, his eyes reluctantly leaving the runebow. Jebida answered with a grunt, the day’s strain showing.

  High above the granite walls the sun rose, coloring the sky pink as it slowly peeked above the horizon, but the air told him a different story. Storm clouds would be brewing, and his bones said there was magic in the air, but he did not mention that to Jebida. He could taste the metallic tang and knew today would bring a tempest of wind and sand, not rain.

  “The men are sore pressed, my lord,” began Jebida quietly. “It is well the enemy does not have siege engines—”

  “Aye, we are fortunate in many respects.”

  Bernal’s bitter interruption elicited a raised eyebrow from the firstmark, who knew the king’s moods well. “Nevertheless, we are quite lucky. Land’s Edge prevents them from surrounding us, and provides us with a means of escape... should it come to that.”

  The king nodded, realizing he was venting his frustration on the one person who would take it, “I am sorry. Just wish we knew why they are here. Why Bara’cor?” Bernal pounded his fist into his palm. “It makes no sense.”

  “Not much does,” he answered, then a thought occurred and he asked, “What of the queen’s mission? Will Haven reinforce us?”

  “Doubtful,” replied the king. He knew the political atmosphere in the capital city and ventured, “Haven will see to its own safety, as it always has. In the end, it will come to a vote of the Senate.”

  Jebida sighed. “Shornhelm and Dawnlight, for all their willingness to bend their knee, have never truly supported you.”

  The king nodded, knowing his military actions against both had brought peace, but also difficult relations. They would never openly work against the King of Bara’cor, but during a senatorial vote would certainly not be supportive of his queen. “Yevaine has the right of one vote for Bara’cor. The legates from the other fortresses make up three more and the chancellor for Haven is one. She will need to turn two of them in order for the city to release the militia.”

  “Can the queen not pull two more besides herself?”

  “Never mind the fact that I am repelling a siege on Haven’s doorstep,” the king replied, “it will not stay the deft hands of Shornhelm and Dawnlight. They will use this to sway the chancellor, if that is even necessary. Only Tir will stand with us.”

  “They why—?” began Jebida, but a slight smile emerged as the king’s motivation became clear. “You’re occupying her with something impossible, and keeping her away from here in case Bara’cor should fall.” The firstmark shook his head, simultaneously admiring the king’s bravery and foolhardiness. “I wouldn’t want to be in your boots. You’ll have the Lady’s price to pay when she finds out.”

  The king gave a rueful grin and said, “It won’t be the first time.”

  Jebida sighed, “Politics,” but it came out like a curse. Then he continued, “I can’t say I’m flattered by your faith in me.”

  With a smile the king replied, “You know I believe we’ll prevail, or Niall would have gone with her.”

  The firstmark scoffed at that. “And somehow Kalindor pulls light duty.”

  “Strange,” the king said with a laugh. “I thought you assigned him.”

  The giant warrior didn’t bother to deny it, knowing the king had somehow heard everything, as usual. The silence stretched on, then he said quietly, “He could have been firstmark had he so desired. You know the man is not happy without a spear in hand and enemies at the gate. His fault, not mine.” He paused, then added with a smile, “But he deserves the rest.”

  “For all your bluster, the men should know you have a kind heart,” the king offered, tilting his head in half joke, half praise.

  “Tell anyone, and the story of you and that golden-haired dancer from that inn in Moonhold will surface. Innocently, of course.”

  The king shook his head, laughing. “Younger days, before all this.” Then his expression grew more somber.

  “When Yevaine and Kalindor return,” Jebida said, “at least we’ll have Fourth Company back to reinforce us.”

  Bernal paused, knowing the truth, and said, “Haven will not allow the queen or Kalindor’s Company to leave. If she fails to turn the vote, they will likely be ordered to support the militia in Haven’s defense.” He paused, then added softly, “In either case, Yevaine is safe, and I have sacrificed any chance of salvation from that quarter.”

  Jebida was quiet, but his next words seemed to be designed to lighten the king’s dark mood. “I don’t envy Captain Kalindor when your wife sees through your ruse. He’ll be paying for your trickery.”

  “His fault for accepting light duty, and better him than me,” stated the king flatly, which elicited a small laugh from Jebida in return.

  The firstmark waited for a moment, then asked, “No news from EvenSea? Has Ben sent no word?”

  “Nothing,” replied the king. He didn’t add the obvious, that no news generally meant bad news, and he feared for the lives of King Ben’thor Tir, the rest of Yetteje’s family, but most of all for Yetteje’s mother and his sister, Clarysa.

  Jebida rose, the stress of the night watch showing in his eyes. “Your leave then, my lord? They will attack soon and I need to review our defenses. Already the wind has picked up and the sands begin to swirl. The storm will hit and we will be effectively blind.”

  “Ash holds the wall?”

  “Aye, my lord. He is prepared for the assault.”

  Bernal could not miss the pride shining in Jebida’s eyes when he spoke of the young armsmark. He suspected that over the summers, Ash had taken the place of Jebida’s family and had become the son the gruff firstmark never had. “Well then, you may as well turn in and get some rest.”

  “Sir?” the firstmark asked in confusion.

  Bernal stood, facing the firstmark. “Was I not clear enough? Go to your quarters and get some sleep. Ash and I will handle the wall today,” and as Jebida hesitated, the king continued, “or do you not trust us?”

  “It is not that, my lord! Just, I had hoped to assist—”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a certain son of mine,” the king interrupted again. “And by that I mean stubborn.” He said this while moving around the table and laying a hand on Jebida’s massive shoulder, steering the firstmark toward the exit. “You and I both know there is little you can do after a long night watch. Get some rest. If anything happens, I’ll send for you.”

  “What about you?” Jebida paused at the door, looking at his old friend. “There is little you can achieve by staying on the wall when you are in more need of rest than I.”

  “Perhaps. Still, my presence bolsters the men. Now, begone. I will not have my commanders falling asleep in their boots. You’re ordered to get some rest.”

  “I’m starting to understand how Kalindor felt,” offered Jebida.

  The king didn’t answer, instead pushing the reluctant firstmark through the door and toward his quarters. He watched Jebida’s broad back disappear a
round a bend in the flickering torchlight before casting his gaze upward, imagining he could see the first dark thunderheads as they raced across the sky to block out the bright rays of the rising sun.

  IN HARM’S WAY

  In the contest of blades,

  Each parry and riposte is

  Opportunity dancing with chance,

  And the prize for victory, is life.

  —Kensei Shun, The Lens of Shields

  Arek awoke early the next morning, sluggishly throwing off the covers and making his way to his washbasin. On his desk lay the book Master Silbane had given him, open to the page he had been studying well into the night. Squinting in the bright sun shining through his window, he began his morning ritual, splashing cold water on his face and neck. I have studied that stupid fortress so much I can’t think of anything else, he thought with irritation.

  He dried his face and sat down at his desk, his eyes automatically finding the place he had stopped before. Though his eyes stared at the page, his mind wandered, picturing the fortress as it must have been at the time of the dwarves. King Bara had held it then, his ancestors being builders. It was said that between the great fortress and the small trade city within, Bara’cor could hold close to two thousand people. Strangely, it was said everything in Bara’cor was big, as if made for a race of men larger than normal.

  Arek leaned back, closing his eyes. What he did not understand was why King Bara had turned the fortress over in the first place. After the final battle, it was rumored the dwarven king had said, “The dwarven people seek their Sovereign.”

  He had then handed Bara’cor over to a young lieutenant by the name of Thorin Hayden and left the great fortress. They marched into history and oblivion, never to be heard from again.

  Arek focused his attention back on the pages before him when a discreet knock on his door caused him to turn his head in consternation. Rising, he beckoned to whomever it was to enter. He was surprised to see a small boy in a white uniform cautiously push his door open.

  Arek immediately recognized Benjahmen, a Whiterobe some seven years old. In Ben’s hands was a scroll tied with a black cord, signifying the message was from the council. Arek allowed a small smile to crease his face as the boy moved forward and bowed, holding the scroll out with both hands. Kneeling, he tousled the boy’s brown hair and said, “Well, Benjahmen, it seems you have grown a bit since I saw you last.”