Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  His protection was gone, destroyed, having absorbed most of the dragon’s blow. It was the only reason Silbane still lived. The next strike would kill him and both he and Rai’stahn knew it.

  “Thou art broken. Remove the locks on my prana and I will allow thee to live.” The dragon moved forward and stood over the prone master, within easy killing distance. Nothing Silbane did could stop the dragon now.

  “And what of my apprentice? Do you still intend on killing him?” the mage spat, blood dripping from his nose and ears. If he could just clear his head, if he could just stand up...

  “I will agree—”

  The dragon stopped, his eyes widening in shock. Silbane looked up through bruised eyes to see the dragon-knight caught in mid-sentence, trying to say something.

  The knight’s mouth moved, but only a strange gurgling sound issued forth. A trembling hand rose, picking at the air as if trying to grasp something from behind his massive head. He took a staggering step forward, then fell face down into the desert dune, next to the surprised master.

  An arrow protruded from the base of the dragon-knight’s skull, its dark fletching and shaft almost invisible in the night. A pool of blood, almost black under the moonlight, began soaking into the sand below Rai’stahn’s head.

  “This one’s alive,” a voice said in guttural Altanese.

  Silbane turned to look in the direction of the voice. A booted foot smashed into his face, breaking his nose and burying his head halfway into the sand.

  “The u’zar wants prisoners,” said another, without much interest. Silbane tried feebly to move, but the heel of that boot came down again, twice, and a third time. Each strike smashing into his face and head, breaking bone and cutting flesh.

  The last thought Silbane had was that it wasn’t fair, a master of combat beaten to death, then his world went mercifully black.

  INTO BARA’COR

  Know your weapon intimately:

  The feel of the grip in your hands,

  The press of the guard to your thumb,

  The back of the blade to block,

  The keen edge at the cut,

  And the point that ends your opponent’s life.

  —Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades

  Yetteje pulled away from Niall’s hand as they walked down the stairwell.

  Fairly certain he knew what she was thinking, Niall said, “I know I can’t understand.”

  “No, you can’t,” Yetteje cut him off. “Just drop it. I don’t feel like talking.”

  “You can’t have been serious about going into the camp,” said Niall, ignoring his cousin’s request. “I mean, my father wouldn’t even let me serve on the wall.” This last part came out with a trace of annoyance.

  Tej spun and shoved Niall against a wall. “Do you think playing soldier is what’s important? Is that what you really want to say right now?” She met his eyes with anger in her own. “Imagine your whole family dead.” She pushed him against the wall again and stepped back, shaking her head. “It’s my choice.”

  Niall stood, stunned a bit by Yetteje’s response, but a part of him realized he must have sounded selfish talking about himself. He put up a hand to mollify her and said, “Going into that camp with Ash is certain death.”

  “You think I care?” Tej asked in a small voice. She looked her cousin in the eye, then turned and continued down the stairwell.

  Alyx moved forward and put a restraining hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Leave it. You won’t convince her of anything right now.”

  The stairwell descended back into the fortress proper, away from the main walls and combat areas. As they made their way to the interior, they saw fewer and fewer people, the majority of Bara’cor shuttling between the inner wall and the forward stations.

  This hallway led straight down into the lower halls, then a long walk over to the guest rooms. Between them and their destination lay an adjunct council chamber, used for meetings with lesser dignitaries.

  Their hallway spilled out onto a large circular platform, with an octagonal opening to the council chamber on one side. On the other side was an opening in the floor, the stairwell that continued down to the lower halls.

  Niall and Tej had just exited the hallway when a blue flash erupted from the council chamber. Because of the siege and with no council in session, this level was deserted, and suddenly they both realized just how empty this part of the castle was.

  Alyx motioned for Tej and Niall to stop and made a silencing gesture. That flash had been intense and very real. She leaned in close to the guard behind her and told him to get help. A signal with her eyes gave the other guard his orders: flank left. She then met the prince and Tej’s wide-eyed stare and whispered, “Stay behind me.”

  They nodded in answer, then silently, the remaining three drew their swords. The guard still with them moved around and to the left of the entrance.

  Niall watched him, then began to do the same, his eyes wide. Cold fear made his grasp weak and his legs tremble. He couldn’t get a good grip on his blade. Then he could feel something coming toward the entrance they now surrounded.

  They didn’t have long to wait. From inside the great octagonal doors poked a blond-haired head. The face was intense, with pale blue eyes that shone with intelligence. He was dressed in a dark, armored leather jerkin and breeches, functional without adding bulk. With a start, Niall realized this intruder was close to the same age as himself or Yetteje.

  Alyx was the first to move. “Stay where you are,” she said, with her sword pointed directly at the boy’s face.

  The boy’s eyes tracked the weapon for a moment, then drank in the rest of his surroundings as if dismissing her as a threat. That, Niall thought, was his first mistake. Emboldened by the sergeant’s courage, he moved into view and flanked the doorway, his weapon held low and in front of him.

  “You’d be wise to listen... Who are you?” Niall asked.

  “Intruder!” the guard flanking the door yelled.

  Before the word had echoed up the hallway, the boy exploded into action. A liquid silver sword appeared in his hands and he moved with blurring speed. He crossed the distance to the guard before he could draw another breath.

  The guard brought his weapon up, but the boy slapped it aside like an afterthought and slammed the pommel of his weapon into the man’s face. A heartbeat later he struck with an elbow followed by an open palm to the guard’s stomach. The air whooshed out of him and the guard sank unconscious to the floor. Niall had never seen anyone move so fast.

  The sergeant was already in motion, moving quickly to counter any killing stroke the boy might level at the unconscious guard. She struck at the back of the boy’s head, her blade almost whistling as it cut through the air.

  The boy ducked under the blade and punched her in the face, then spun and caught her in the forehead with the flat of his blade. The blade made a dull thwack and snapped Alyx’s head back. She staggered from the blow, her equilibrium gone.

  As Niall watched, dumbfounded, the boy stepped in and took the sword out of the sergeant’s dazed grasp, then almost nonchalantly punched her in her helm with her own sword’s pommel.

  Alyx dropped as if poleaxed and the boy tossed her own sword away from her unconscious body before turning to face Tej, who yelled back to Niall, “Attack at the same time!”

  She launched herself at the intruder, attacking with a flurry of strikes aimed at his head and midsection. Tej had been well-trained; her strikes came out fast and true, a dance of steel that should have scored first blood more than once. To her detriment she attacked alone, as Niall stood by and watched, paralyzed.

  To Niall’s amazement, the boy blocked everything thrown at him, his breathing even. On the last strike, he countered with a sharp knee to Yetteje’s stomach, then a ridge hand to her forehead. Before she could recover, the boy spun in place and kicked her with a booted heel to her jaw. Niall watched Tej knocked senseless. She fell like a ragdoll, her eyes rolling into the back of her
head. Incredibly, her opponent had never even used his sword.

  The boy continued his spin, landing and facing Niall with his weapon pointed on a spot directly between the young prince’s eyes. As their gazes met, Niall knew he had hesitated too long and lost a critical advantage. Worse, one look at Tej’s crumpled form and he knew he had also failed his cousin.

  Niall started to back up, but the boy moved again with that blurring speed. He closed his eyes and raised his weapon, hoping to block, but met empty air. He then felt the stiff steel side of the boy’s weapon batter him across the chest. He lurched forward and felt a sharp blow and an explosion of pain to the back of his head.

  His vision blackened and he fell forward, but strangely, could still hear. He heard running feet in the hallway and Ash’s voice yelling, “Halt!” Then a final strike with what felt like a booted heel crashed into his head and he felt no more.

  * * * * *

  Ash surveyed the scene before him. The guard had reached them even as he heard the cry for help. They had immediately raced down the stairwell and into the hallway, only to find Alyx, Niall, Tej, and the remaining guard down, perhaps dead. The intruder didn’t look like a nomad, but that meant nothing. They could have hired an assassin to enter the fortress and Ash was taking no chances.

  He moved forward, his sword held in a relaxed grip. Yetteje was nearest, so Ash moved slowly over to the princess. Without taking his eyes off the intruder, he listened and heard the faint sound of Tej’s breathing. At least the girl’s alive, he thought with relief. He turned his full attention to the would-be-assassin and realized for the first time that he was a boy, no older than Niall himself.

  “Who are you?” Ash demanded. He raised an open hand and said, “Put down your weapon and we can talk.”

  The boy put his sword point on the back of Niall’s unconscious head. The meaning was clear.

  “Spill the blood of the crowned prince and yours will surely follow,” promised the armsmark.

  The boy looked down at Niall’s prostrate form in shock, and Ash used that moment of distraction to attack.

  He moved in, aiming for the boy’s sword arm, hoping to disarm him quickly. But the boy reacted with the reflexes of a snake. Instead of jerking his hand away, he lowered his shoulder and moved into Ash, getting under the blow and striking the armsmark in the chest. The boy was good, thought Ash, very good.

  The blow wasn’t strong, but it knocked the armsmark back and off balance. The boy followed with a short heel kick to the armsmark’s forward shin. This locked Ash’s knee backward painfully, but Ash knew what was coming next.

  He aimed three lightning-quick strikes to the boy’s head, only to see all three blocked and turned. Before the boy could complete his counter attack with a finishing stroke, the armsmark went with the pain in his forward knee and twisted to one side, falling to the ground and rolling.

  The liquid silver blade swished through empty air and then turned, point down. As he rolled, he saw the boy’s sword bury itself into the space his head had just occupied.

  Ash continued his motion and used his legs to trap the boy’s in a scissor hold. The boy fell facedown to the floor, pinned under Ash’s weight and immobilized by his crisscrossed legs. Ash never hesitated, bringing his elbow into a short, brutal arc that came down hard on the back of the boy’s head, smashing it to the stone floor. In an instant, it was over.

  He felt the boy go limp and quickly pushed his sword away, then moved over to check the prince. Praise the Lady, he thought, Niall was alive. He then made his way over to Alyx. She, too, lived. Something was strange. An assassin who did not kill? Ash was struck by the odds of having all of them survive an encounter with someone of this boy’s skill.

  He turned his attention back to the intruder, who was unconscious and except for the painful bruise he’d likely have on his head, unharmed.

  This boy had training—real training from someone who knew how to fight and how to kill. He remembered the boy’s concentration, his breathing. So why were they still alive? Something didn’t fit, and Ash didn’t like unsolved puzzles, especially those that pointed to luck as the answer.

  Ash looked at the clothes and the weapon. It was silver, with a green gem set in the pommel. Silver runes danced down its keen edges. For a moment, time seemed to slow and Ash felt a strange stirring within him. The sword was beautiful, more beautiful than any he had ever seen. Then, almost as a whisper, Ash thought he heard a word - beloved.

  He stood transfixed, the echo of her voice in his head. Then a guard came and placed a hand on his arm, and he snapped back to the here and now, the voice and the stirring forgotten.

  “Are you injured, sir?” the guard inquired, concerned. Many men didn’t notice wounds in battle that later proved deadly.

  Ash ignored him, his mind turning over the facts. With that training, the boy could be a very highly paid agent. The question was, whose? Still, doubt surfaced when Ash considered his age. Who would train a child to this level of expertise, and more importantly, why? Most of what the boy wore seemed to be close-fitting armor designed for unimpaired movement. It was of a style Ash didn’t recognize, but it was definitely not nomadic.

  Motioning to the guards he said, “Search him and secure his items, then take him to a cell. Bind him there and report to the Firstmark.” The guard gestured to his compatriots, who moved quickly to obey the order. Ash winced as he put weight on his injured knee and added, “And send a medic. We’re all going to need one.”

  Journal Entry 8

  My sense of time is gone. Weeks or even months may have passed. It makes no difference, for it all feels like an eternity. I cannot return through the Gate. Betrayed by dragons is the same as forgotten. What can I do, except endure?

  The young Aeris (I have given up on calling them “infinitesimal particles” it is too much to write, forgive me) permeate the planes and do not need the rifts. They suffuse all things, incoherent power from undirected thoughts and dreams. I envy their freedom.

  I know I create them, but what if everyone does? They do not seem to be able to manifest themselves except through the will of others. I burn through them easily to create fire, home, and hearth. A part of me enjoys it. In my own way and out of spite, I free them too. They are easy fodder for use by our Way, but in that action lies our undoing. Using them creates more, and that eventually gives rise to greater beings, the Aeris Lords.

  I have come to understand a truth, something I did not understand when I stood before Rai’kesh. Aeris Lords are given shape, not by one person’s vision or will, but instead by our entire people’s beliefs.

  Given no impedance, they run amok, for they are nothing less than children demanding whatever they want, with the power to enforce it. Lilyth is one of these, and our world suffers from her attention.

  If every belief from our world has given life to a god or goddess, I wonder how, or even if, these Aeris Lords can be defeated...

  THE SCYTHE

  When your opponent’s intention is in doubt,

  Watch his eyes,

  For the eyes are the windows to his soul.

  —Kensei Shun, The Lens of Shields

  Silbane awoke suffocating, his nostrils clogged. Blowing hard caused chunks of dried blood to come free, but with that came a gush of warm, fresh blood and pain. Still, his breathing became easier. He spat coppery blood out, imagining how gruesome he must look, but thankful to be alive to feel anything at all. Then, he took stock of his surroundings and realized he sat, secured to a pole in a tent, on hard earth. Around him were various instruments of war, razor spears and barbed whips, coiled and ready, offering any willing hand the release of their deadly intent.

  “You look rested.”

  Silbane started at the voice, coming from just outside of his field of view. Straining, he turned to identify the speaker, then cursed with pain as his neck and jaw protested. It was clear his face had borne the brunt of that last nomad’s attack, and it was likely the damage was not just superfici
al. Silbane centered his thoughts, reaching for the Way to heal himself. Nothing happened.

  “That won’t work.” Soft footsteps followed and red robes slowly came into view. They belonged to a tall man, striking because of his calm demeanor and confidence. Most of all, the man projected power. “I’ve blocked you. Surprisingly, not very difficult,” the man continued. He stooped to come eye to eye with his captive and his pale gaze narrowed, but he said nothing else. Strangely, the man reminded Silbane of someone.

  Silbane croaked through a bruised and parched throat, “Who...?”

  The man moved forward and offered a few drops of water from a small skin. Then, as the mage drank, he carefully offered more. Silbane could feel strength flow back into him as the cool water eased his wounded throat, but that moisture brought with it a fit of coughing that wracked his chest. Fresh blood flowed again, and with it more chunks of dried grit and blood. Silbane spat again, clearing his mouth, then he looked back up.

  For his part, the man looked unperturbed. He smiled and offered a bit more water, then said in a soft voice, “I am the Scythe. Like the reaper’s tool, I ascend those found worthy, or wanting.” His head tilted to one side, as if he looked past Silbane and at something else. “I judge you worthy, but I am curious.”

  Silbane winced at the new pains he felt from renewed circulation, but his voice was stronger with the water. “I owe you my life.” It was not a question, but a statement of fact mixed with an involuntary undercurrent of thanks.

  The man nodded, settling back onto a waiting stool. “I would speak with you plainly. I have ways of finding out what I want, but if you cooperate, I promise things will go more comfortably.” When Silbane did not respond, the man continued, “I will tell you I side with the Way.”

  The man settled back, as if they sat across from each other in the comfort of a home. “Shall we begin?” he said simply. “You are Silbane Darius Petracles, noble born of House Petracles, now a master in an order of monks residing on an isle in the Shattered Sea. I won’t go into all the boring details, but I know where you’re from and all the inconsequential shames anyone has after a life as long as yours.” The man paused, then added, “You are a good man. What I don’t know is, why?”