Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  Silbane shrugged, then continued, "We must capture a man known as Scythe. He’s unstable and left unchecked could cause serious harm, both to what I care about and to Bara’cor."

  "You both are a strange lot. I say you can leave, and you decide to stay." Jebida moved past the man to grab a sturdy wooden desk. With a heave, he pushed it over on its side, creating a barrier. "I hear you on Scythe, and I don’t trust either of you." He paused and flashed Silbane a half smile, saying, "But you already know this."

  The firstmark continued upending tables, stools, anything that would provide cover, as they heard cries of alarm sounding. He buried the point of a spear into the ground and the butt end into one of the tables to brace it, then grabbed another to do the same, saying, "I hadn’t expected help from you but... one doesn’t throw away an advantage."

  "You’re going to trust us?" Kisan asked.

  "Nomads going after you means less going after me. Simple math, so don’t get in my way and stay alive long enough for me to get to their leader."

  "Spoken like a true hero," Silbane said, and Kisan knew Jebida’s part in Arek’s torture would be difficult for the master to put aside. "You can bait the chieftain. It won’t be hard. In the treatment of prisoners, you both have a lot in common."

  Kisan stepped in on the heels of the jibe. "Arek is alive and perhaps healed. You have to let it go. We will capture Scythe and then get to your apprentice. Let’s stay focused." She paused, then looked meaningfully back at the firstmark and said, "Be quick with the chieftain. We need to move fast."

  "You’ll not be waiting on me," replied the giant warrior from over his shoulder. Another chair crashed into the makeshift barrier.

  Silbane looked at the firstmark and said, "You and I are not finished."

  Jebida nodded, not missing the meaning. "If we survive, you know where I am."

  They continued to stare at each other, then Silbane broke eye contact and muttered, "After this." He shook his head and let loose an explosive sigh, grabbing Kisan’s arm. "It’s good to see you again."

  "Likewise," the younger master said, happy the encounter between Silbane and Jebida had not come to blows. "You don’t look too worse for the wear, maybe a bit uglier," she said with a slight smile.

  Silbane reached up and took his half of the Finder, still hanging from a nail in his tent. He looped it carefully around his neck. "I ended up here by making every mistake possible. You made it here by quick thinking and skill. The lore father was right; you have always been a falcon." He smiled back and did not realize how deeply his praise buoyed Kisan’s spirit.

  The firstmark looked back at them, having now secured a crossbow and a stack of bolts. "The two of you might consider talking less and actually doing something."

  Kisan was about to say something to Silbane, but nodded instead in thanks, then took position near the firstmark. "Talking is one of our best skills."

  "Evidently," muttered the firstmark, "but I understand him." He said this while looking sidelong at Silbane. "Let’s hope we live long enough to make amends."

  "I hope that for all of us," answered Kisan, but then her attention was caught by a motion at the tent flap.

  Just then, two nomads burst into the tent. Jebida didn’t hesitate but fired his crossbow, catching the first in the throat. Kisan picked up a bolt and whiplashed it into a throw. It hit the second man as if it had been fired by Jebida himself and took the nomad off his feet.

  Both dove for cover as those outside the tent returned fire, with dozens of bolts smacking into the table Jebida had overturned as improvised barriers.

  "Hold your fire!" a voice screamed from outside. "Silbane, we can discuss this."

  Silbane turned to Kisan and whispered, "Scythe." Then he raised his voice and responded, "If you’re ready to surrender, we accept."

  Laughter, a bit halting, followed. Then Scythe continued, "Clearly someone has used the Finder. I can sense the portal is open and the presence of at least one other like you. So why haven’t you escaped?"

  Silbane motioned to Kisan to take a flanking position to his right.

  Jebida raised his voice and said, "The U’Zar of the Clans is a coward. How many warriors has he brought to help him?"

  "Who dares challenge me!" a guttural voice roared. From the sounds of it, half a dozen men were barely holding him back.

  "Jebida Naserith, Firstmark of Bara’cor," Jebida replied.

  * * * * *

  Outside the tent, Scythe put up a restraining hand as Hemendra surged forward again, "Hold, Clanchief. He seeks to bait you. There is no need," he said, indicating the hundreds of men now surrounding the tent, and the thousands behind them.

  "No need!" Hemendra growled. "The man insults me on the very sands of my people. Do not speak to me of need."

  Contrary to Scythe’s belief that he was angry, Hemendra knew the expectations of his brethren. If he said nothing, other warriors may think to challenge him for leadership, and that, he could not tolerate.

  Scythe turned to the huge warrior chief and said, "You risk much. It is not important in the grand scheme. Control yourself; he is a coward hiding in a tent, instead of facing you openly."

  The Clanchief took a deep breath, letting the Redrobe’s words have a seemingly calming effect. He turned a deadly gaze onto the closed tent flap, then nodded. "I can—"

  Silbane’s voice rang out, "Scythe, give your dog permission to fight. We understand who really leads the clans."

  Hemendra screamed, a guttural roar designed to scare the men around him as much as strike fear into this unknown warrior, a sound like an animal charging. He bellowed, "I accept your challenge! Crawl from your hole." The gathered troops quickly formed a circle in the sand outside the tent. "No one touch this man or I will kill you where you stand."

  A moment went by, then the tent flap parted and a man emerged. The u’zar appreciated his opponent immediately. The man stood close to his own height, with a great axe held casually in one meaty fist. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light, then nodded to the clan chieftain. "You’ll be the man whose blood soaks the sands today." Jebida smiled and moved forward.

  Hemendra could see the grace with which the man walked. He hefted the axe with an easy familiarity born only through countless hours of training and surviving the fields of battle.

  * * * * *

  Scythe gave a mental sigh, but realized this combat would have no effect on the outcome of his entry into Bara’cor. He had a far more powerful ally now than Hemendra of the Altans, as everyone was about to see. He smiled, then made his way closer to the tent holding Silbane as the two combatants neared each other.

  He was more curious as to why Silbane and this other adept had not left through the portal. His plan had counted on any rescuers taking the quick path back to Bara’cor and dragging in his portal web strands, thereby locking it open. He was also curious because this other was clearly not Arek. Who was she and why had she come to Silbane’s rescue?

  * * * * *

  Hemendra picked up his axe and moved into the circle created by his men. "My axe is called, Blood Drinker." He smiled at his opponent.

  Jebida smiled and glanced down at his axe. "Donkey." He looked at the men ranged in the circle around him, his eyes finally coming to rest on the Clanchief. "A better name for my axe than for the dead man standing in front of me."

  The Clanchief’s confusion turned to a cold, calculating rage when he realized the man mocked the traditions of his people and his ancestors. To offer a weapon an unworthy name? Still, he was too disciplined to let this stone dweller’s words affect his fighting style.

  "You will die here," he said simply. He measured the space between him and his opponent, his hands gripping his own axe with a strong yet supple caress, the result of years of swinging the killing stroke. "Those who fear, talk."

  Jebida nodded with a hint of a smile, then burst forward with lightning speed, his axe blade flashing out for the clan chieftain’s eyes.

  The su
dden attack forced Hemendra to move his head and blink, and Jebida dropped low and stabbed downward with the spear-tipped point of his axe haft. The point entered the chieftain’s shin, but missed the vital bone and instead cut into the massive muscle of the barbarian’s calf. He pulled the point out, twisting it expertly to enlarge the wound. The resulting grunt of pain that surely gave the firstmark a sense of satisfaction that, while rewarding, would be short-lived.

  Hemendra looked down at the point where his opponent’s axe tip had exited his shin and the resulting eruption of blood, already slowing to a trickle. As usual, he felt no pain, just anger that someone had pierced his flesh, the holy flesh of a true Warrior of the Sun.

  But his anger, along with every other emotion within the giant clanchief’s heart, was held in check. He would only show what was necessary to be seen, but had notched his regard of his opponent a bit higher. The man had committed to his attack without hesitation once he realized the stage Hemendra had been setting.

  Jebida spun and dodged to his right as the barbarian’s great axe whistled down, missing his head by a hair’s breadth. The nomad’s axe did not bury itself in the sand, but rather spun up and wove a figure eight, attempting two more times to connect with his opponent’s neck.

  Hemendra never overextended himself and finished the short, deadly circles with his axe where they started, protectively across his own body. Jebida braced himself, then launched a swing that could have sheared a man’s head from his shoulders with ease.

  Hemendra barreled forward, ducking under the horizontal swing and catching the Bara’corian warrior in the ribs. He swung an elbow around, hammering into the man’s collarbone and driving him down to a knee, then brought his own knee up in a short, brutal arc. It caught his opponent under the chin, driving him up again to almost a full standing position. Before he could recover, Hemendra spun and struck with his axe. Only a slight misstep, causing the flat of the blade and not the edge to connect with Jebida’s breastplate, saved him.

  Jebida was hurled backward in a shower of sparks from steel on steel. The firstmark hit the ground on his back, but curled into a roll, coming to his feet in a moment.

  Hemendra stalked forward, his axe held across his body. He raised it as if to strike at Jebida’s head, but then switched to a dangerous undercut swing. The axe whistled in, unerringly toward its target.

  Jebida moved forward quickly, angling slightly away from the blow, but not too far. While he did so, he raised his arm, bracing himself. Hemendra’s axe blade slid up the side of Jebida’s body, but missed his groin, the chieftain’s intended target. Then Jebida clamped his arm back down over the axe blade, trapping it before it could gain its full deadly momentum. It saved him from certain death and trapped Hemendra’s axe against his body, too close for the nomad to use effectively.

  The Bara’corian firstmark punched, once, twice, before the clanchief raised his offhand and trapped Jebida’s axe. For a moment they stood, axes locked and eye to eye, each straining for leverage. Neither said a word, but then the clanchief punched Jebida in the face with the knuckles of the hand still holding his axe. The strike broke the firstmark’s nose. He blinked furiously to clear his eyes. Then he grabbed his axe handle, still held trapped by Jebida’s armpit.

  They re-engaged, each choosing to keep his opponent as close as possible, looking for any small advantage, taking in each other’s measure, concentration, and focus. Nothing needed to be said as they pushed and strained, looking for one mistake.

  * * * * *

  Jebida knew he had countered the Chieftain’s advantage well, but one of them would have to disengage to use his weapon effectively, so he readied himself. When he let go, his opponent would push forward to build his own momentum for another attack. He had only one choice.

  Jebida sucked in and spit blood into the clanchief’s face, then heaved his axe up. The axe didn’t move, but the sudden spittle combined with his great strength pushed the clanchief off balance. He used this to get his center lower, then spun in place pivoting on his forward foot, the hand holding his opponent’s axe hilt and circling down and then up.

  The movement looked like a children’s dance, but the outcome would be deadly for one of them. It forced his opponent to circle with him or lose his weapon, and this was the trap. The Chieftain would fall out of position and the battle-knife in Jebida’s hand would make short work of the Clanchief... but the strike never happened.

  Even as Jebida spun, he felt a punch to his back. Suddenly his body went numb, the shock traveling up and down his spine. He felt his side go limp, yet strangely, no pain. He looked back at his opponent, both locked in an embrace separating them by mere inches, and had a moment of regret. He couldn’t remember why he had wanted to kill this man. The edge of his vision became gray and he looked questioningly at the nomad chieftain.

  "Sleep, Firstmark. Better men than you have fallen to my blade." Hemendra pulled the short dagger in his left hand out of his opponent’s spine.

  Jebida’s eyes cleared for a moment and he knew exactly what had happened. He could feel the life gushing out of him. He looked into the nomad chieftain’s eyes and saw no remorse. He felt shame for dying in his killer’s arms.

  Still, the bone-hilt of his own knife had been in his hand, or had he dreamt that too? His thoughts became jumbled and gray, no longer sure what was true. His mind turned to what he loved above all else, lost so many years ago. He could see them now, waiting for him, just ahead. A smile flitted across his face and he whispered to himself the promise of rejoining them at last, "My family..." One hand outstretched, gripping nothing but hot desert air.

  "If they live in Bara'cor, they will join you soon," the chieftain replied softly.

  Slowly, with a small sigh, the last breath left Jebida Naserith’s body and the light went out from his eyes. His lips, however, were still curled into a small private smile, as if he had at last found a small measure of peace before the walls of his own fortress.

  * * * * *

  Hemendra pushed the lifeless body of his opponent away from him and raised his dagger in triumph, but the assembled warriors did not cheer. He felt suddenly weak, and stumbled a few steps back. His leg brushed something and he looked down. Jutting out from the inside of his thigh was a black-hilted dagger. Blood flowed freely from the wound and down his leg, quickly pooling at his feet.

  The clanchief stumbled again and fell to one knee.

  "Healers!" he bellowed.

  A haze came over his vision and a figure stepped from the crowd. It was Clanfist Paksen, who cocked his head at the clanchief. "Hemendra, we cannot request a healer for a challenge accepted."

  "I am victorious! Call a healer, Paksen." The words came out thick and jumbled, barely above a whisper.

  Paksen leaned forward, grasped the black-boned blade, and pulled it out. A sudden warmth of blood spurted out even more quickly, a gush timed with each beat of his heart.

  "I am sorry, U’Zar, I cannot help you."

  Journal Entry 21

  I have survived, but not in the way expected. Through my failure, I have learned a truth, and it comes from my imps.

  They saw me create the blood Marks and believed these have power. When the raids came, my Marks failed, but their power manifested itself. Each imp unexpectedly took up one of the Marks in my defense, and tasted my blood.

  They evolved into frightful behemoths, sentinels who stood watch throughout the night. They are my guardians, my belief lending them power. It is truly amazing to behold, but what have I learned?

  The young Aeris cannot affect reality, but they are available for use. Our faith gives them power. I can already feel mine growing as stalwart friends come to my defense.

  I have now seen the defense they can muster and fashioned their Marks for wearing on arm, each consecrated with my blood, shields against harm.

  Swords will be next, made of birch and pine. It matters not, for they believe if it is touched by my blood, it becomes blessed with power. They belie
ve and are changing the Way for me.

  I am becoming a true Shaper.

  BROTHERS IN ARMS

  In the din of battle, choose your enemies wisely.

  Trees are known by the size

  Of the shadows they cast.

  Your prowess will be defined

  By whom you defeat.

  —Kensei Shun, The Lens of Shields

  Silbane and Kisan glimpsed portions of the battle through the slight opening of the tent, watching carefully for any advantage they could take. While it was conceivable they could have just attacked or left the tent in stealth, the portal into Bara’cor sat behind them, wide open for anyone to enter. Leaving it unguarded or calling attention to it before finding Scythe was tantamount to putting out an invitation and killing the men and women who defended the fortress.

  Then, before either of them expected it, Jebida fell. Kisan began to move forward but Silbane stopped her with a look. "No heroics, we must find Scythe and escape. The portal will close behind us once the Finder goes through."

  "Find him, where? Through thousands of nomads?"

  "Scythe is here, close by, and we cannot leave him behind."

  "Is he that important?" asked Kisan, though with each heartbeat the chance Prime had taken care of her problem with Arek increased.

  "Very," he said. "We need him to close the Gate."

  Kisan understood the other master’s plan and grudgingly acknowledged its need. She nodded, preparing.

  Even as they repositioned themselves, they heard Scythe call out, "We have a mutual friend, Adepts."

  Silbane’s eyes widened in shock. A sudden explosion of psychic power erupted near the outside of the tent. He said, "We’re in real trouble."

  Even Kisan, who did not have the sensitivity Silbane did, could feel the incandescent burst of energy. "What was that?"

  As if in answer, bladed claws grabbed the tent and pulled it up from its moorings, smashing and tossing it aside like so much tinder and cloth. The sun flashed in, blinding in its brilliance.

  Kisan and Silbane stood amongst the wreckage of the tent. Surrounding them were hundreds of nomads, but they held themselves outside a larger circle occupied by an enormous black-scaled creature who took their breath away. It was the great dragon, Rai’stahn.