Mythborn III: Dark Ascension (Fate of the Sovereign Book 3)

by V. Lakshman

  A few arrows rained down upon them from a distant platform with elves more hoping than aiming, one halfhearted attempt deflecting harmlessly off Helios’s armor. Arek was grateful again of the Aeris lord’s bulk shielding him. Whatever was happening below clearly had taken the attention off them, at least temporarily, and Arek knew from the reaction to Yetteje’s arrows that fire of any type would be a high priority for a city made entirely of wood.

  It was only when he looked down and saw the conflagration that engulfed the city below that the sickening realization became clear. Kisan and Ash were down there in the middle of that firestorm.

  Helios answered Arek’s unspoken question when he said, “The Lady brings axe and fire to this city.” The normally ebullient Watcher was quiet, then added, “Our comrades . . . I pray they die quickly.”

  The Gate’s Toll

  Legends never die.

  They become greater with each telling,

  until the true person is lost to history.

  - Rai’kesh, The Lens of Leadership

  B

  ernal’s climb back up the Giant’s Step had been arduous, but not only physically. Explaining to Yevaine what had happened to Niall was both difficult and cathartic. Hearing himself describe the events since the coming of Arek shocked him, but also made him realize Niall had not been himself when he followed their prisoner through the gate. If Yetteje was right, his son had been in some sort of mental fugue, ensorcelled perhaps by the demon queen who called herself Arek’s mother. Some of his guilt must have seeped through in his words, for when they finally summited the Step, his wife turned to him.

  “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “You can’t watch over him always. He dreams of adventure and making you proud. How could chores and duty compete with a prisoner claiming he hails from a magical isle? We’ll find him.”

  She drew a shaking breath, then added, “But if you lose him again . . .”

  Bernal smiled. “I know. I’ll pay the Lady’s price.”

  A sharp smack on his shoulder startled him as Sparrow met their surprised stares furiously.

  “Silence!” she snapped. “You give her power over you even now. Be not so obtuse.”

  “Hold your hand, scout,” Yevaine replied, holding Sparrow with her stare. “You strike a Galadine at your own peril.”

  Her eyes did not waver, and to the king’s surprise it was Sparrow who looked away first, meeting Malak’s eyes in some unspoken exchange.

  “I beg pardon, milady,” she finally replied with a small bow.

  “Your Majesty,” Yevaine corrected, still holding the scout in place with her will.

  “No discourtesy was meant. I only sought to warn.”

  Yevaine sighed, then put a hand on Sparrow’s narrow shoulder and said, “And your warning is welcome, but if we are to help one another you’re going to have to be more patient with our ignorance.”

  Bernal watched as the young scout seemed to take this in, but her reply was not what he expected.

  Sparrow shrugged. “Death does not know the difference.” She bowed to them and then made her way a few steps to one side, conferring with a few other scouts just at the edge of their glowlights.

  Malak sighed then said, “She’s still young.” His voice held the tired timbre of a father apologizing yet again for his wayward child. Bernal felt a kinship forming with the man, the kind only bedraggled fathers shared. Bernal watched Sparrow, hoping the young scout could see how much Malak loved her. When he looked back, though, the firstmark had retreated to speak with another elf, and Yevaine had moved closer.

  She smiled at him, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I worry for him, Bern. Can you tell me all will be well?”

  Bernal knew she meant Niall, but Malak chose then to intercede and said, “He’s safe with the highlord. Find us the Gate and he will join you here.”

  Bernal glanced at Yevaine, then nodded. “Follow me. We go up from here to that landing at the split. Then we investigate the room at the far end.”

  Malak arched an eyebrow. “Does something preternatural guide you, o’ King?”

  Bernal had to think about that for a moment. He felt certain about the route, as if his entire body was drawn in only one direction. Did those fish who swam upstream to the lake surrounding Haven feel the same way? Perhaps, he conceded, there was something instinctual guiding him.

  He grabbed a piece of the rock wall, pulling a small damp chunk off and crushing it in his hands. The surface was brittle, but the stanchions holding the ladder seemed solid. Nodding to the firstmark, he said, “I know the way. Let’s get going.”

  Yevaine took a step and winced, a hand going to her hip. Bernal watched with concern, but his wife never looked to him or anyone else for assistance. It was clear she was nearly healed, a miracle given the nature of the injury. She took position near the group, waiting for everyone to get organized.

  The fact that she was whole, alive, and here, was something he couldn’t easily believe. The elves had saved her life. Tossing the detritus of the wall away, he rubbed his hands clean and looked in the direction of Sparrow. “We owe her a lot, Firstmark.”

  Malak nodded, “She has no allegiance to fire, water, air, or earth. We call these, rareborn, and they often follow the path of healers.” The firstmark paused, then leaned in conspiratorially closer to Bernal, “I did not mean to listen, but your son sounds not so different from my own child. Her name comes from the kaoruvi, the bird that wanders far, yet finds her way home again. She has given me more moments of worry than I can share.”

  Bernal met the firstmark’s eyes, pleased the man had voiced what Bernal had just been thinking. Then he carefully replied, “Your Sparrow has real skills. She can keep herself safe, and you should be proud. Niall is more . . . sheltered. I hope he has sense enough to stay near your highlord.”

  “I heard that,” said the queen, an eye glinting at Bernal while she coiled rope.

  Bernal closed his eyes, one hand rubbing his forehead to hide his grimace. When he opened them it was just in time to catch Malak’s white grin as the firstmark turned to an elf waiting to give a report.

  “We haven’t lost anyone, and gained six more,” Malak said, when the soldier had finished. “Her Majesty has a weapon that will kill Aeris”—he nodded pointedly at Falken, strapped to Yevaine’s back—“but the rest of your men need to be equipped.”

  He motioned to Sparrow and the scouts, who began handing out sheathed blades to Kalindor and the queen’s men, followed by shields made out of some kind of light wood engraved on the front with a phoenix, its wings outstretched.

  Sparrow said, “These come from our men, who have given their backup weapons and shields for you. Do not waste their magnanimity by dying.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying, ‘we hope you survive,’” offered Yevaine.

  While it could have come out harshly, something in the queen’s delivery made Sparrow smile instead. The scout flourished a hand wave into a small bow of her head and said, “It is the only reason we are here.”

  Bernal asked, “How will we prevail against so many?”

  Sparrow shook her head. “We were chosen for a reason. Be assured we’ll not sell ourselves cheaply.”

  “When we find the Gate, move swiftly.” Malak pulled the king closer to the queen. “Our only hope lies in securing the opening while Sparrow completes the ritual. Once she does so, she will go through and bring back reinforcements.”

  “And Niall,” the king said, meeting Malak’s gaze, his question obvious.

  “Of course, but the highlord is readying to assault the Lady’s forces. It is doubtful he’ll send your son through without first securing this side.”

  Yevaine raised her hand and asked, “Won’t you be endangering your city? What’s to stop the Aeris from using the gate to invade Avalyon?”

  Malak glanced at Sparrow before answering, “We are using blood magic to realign the gate. Only elves may use the gate until the highlord aligns the ot
her end, a necessary protection for our home. Once that’s done, any living thing may travel through.”

  Something in the firstmark’s voice caught the king’s ear. He looked at Yevaine, who seemed to have heard it too. “What aren’t you telling us, Firstmark?” he demanded.

  Again that look between Malak and Sparrow, as if they shared a secret none of the others knew. When the firstmark turned back, grim determination was carved into his face.

  He sighed and lowered his voice so only the king and queen could here, and said, “I told you the highlord sent us at great personal loss. All blood magic requires sacrifice that has meaning.” He paused, then said, “I am the highlord’s most beloved, his first creation. I stood with him when he was alone in Arcadia. To him, I am his first son, and he is my only father.”

  The king realized where this was going. He grabbed the man’s forearm with his own in a strong warrior’s grip. “You cannot—”

  “Don’t,” warned the firstmark in a strange imitation of the king himself. “The gate cannot be aligned without sacrifice, and I am that for my people. Only my death will bring the anguish needed to open a path.” His eyes were hard when he said this, but they flicked down and he pursed his lips in contemplation. He squeezed the king’s forearm and said, “Find the Gate. We must succeed or none we love will survive.”

  Malak stood then and issued orders, leaving a speechless king still standing with his wife. Finally, Bernal turned to Yevaine and shook his head. “It seems unfair.”

  “Niall can’t return unless he does,” she said flatly.

  His limited time with the firstmark hadn’t given him so much as to feel the way he’d felt when Jebida had chosen to join in the infiltration of the nomads’ camp, but he sensed the man was a kindred spirit to his fallen friend and companion. Perhaps because of their similarities, Bernal found himself missing Jeb even more. He let out an explosive breath, drawing his blade and fixing his shield in place on his arm. He gave Yevaine a short nod and made his way to where the firstmark stood. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Sparrow and the scouts moved ahead and the squad reformed with the king just behind, followed by Malak and the rest of the men. Bernal caught a glimpse of Yevaine two-thirds of the way back, surrounded by her own men, but Kalindor had come up and stationed himself to Bernal’s left. The captain looked at the firstmark and gave him a short nod of acknowledgement, somehow conveying both his respect and his support in that brief gesture.

  They made their way quickly back to the split and then proceeded carefully forward. The dull roar of the waterfall and the cool mist reminded Bernal of just how deep they were below Bara’cor. Their passageway widened a bit, then opened after a series of turns onto a landing.

  A rectangular opening stood before them with blue-white light spilling out. Shapes moved in the light and Malak whispered orders. How the rest of the elves could hear was a mystery to Bernal, yet they reacted as if the man had barked out the commands on the field of battle.

  They formed a wedge with the tip pointing at the door. Bernal and his party lay secure in the center with the queen’s men forming a small protective circle. Then the group charged through the opening like a spear thrown at a target.

  Elven blades flashed in the blue light as they entered a cavernous chamber. In the distance, about an arrow’s flight away, stood the steps of a four-sided pyramid. The blue-white light came from a circular portal scintillating at the top. Arrayed all along this area were hundreds, perhaps thousands of mist-like figures, clawing and weaving in and around one another.

  The clash of the leading elves against these mistfrights could be heard: animal-like screams and grunts, followed by the sounds of blades biting into flesh. As the Aeris pushed into the elves, the elven formation compressed, going from an elongated spear to something resembling more of a triangle. Blades swung and long spears stabbed as the outer line of elves held their shield wall firm.

  The king tripped, going down hard on one knee. He looked down and saw the body of an elf, his eyes wide open in death. Before he could move, Kalindor grabbed the spear in the dead elf’s hand and began using it in earnest, stabbing over the heads of the elven forces to skewer black shapes rising from the mist.

  Yellow light suddenly flashed—erupting from the gate itself—and out strode a warrior wreathed head to foot in fire the color of the sun. He surveyed the scene, then dipped forward a blade that gleamed gold. From the portal poured forth hundreds of winged Aeris, armed and armored. The mistfrights pulled back as this new threat descended the steps.

  “You cannot win,” declared the figure in a guttural voice that sounded familiar to Bernal. “Even if we fall, thousands more stand ready.”

  “Hold!” cried Firstmark Malak. “By the Old Laws, I would know who we face.”

  The figure raised a hand and his forces stopped. He reached up and pulled off his helm, looking down at them with disdain.

  “Hemendra,” whispered Bernal, “the leader of the nomads.”

  Mithras seemed to have heard. He nodded and said, “More than that, King. Hemendra gave himself so that I might rise again as Mithras, the Morningstar of the Lady. And as he promised you, Bara’cor will be ours.”

  “This is the man who killed Jeb?” asked the queen, her eyes never leaving the hulking figure on the pyramid steps.

  “Maybe.” The king’s voice was now filled with doubt. “Or maybe it’s something inside that man’s body, possessing him.” He brandished his blade and finished, “Only way to find out is to cut him open.” Then he looked at Yevaine and winked, a small part of the tough old warrior smiling as he flashed her a smile.

  Mithras pointed with his blade at the king and said, “Your man did nothing I deem of worth. He died a failure, crying for his wife and child. Like him, you each will serve the Lady.”

  “And yet, he killed you.” Bernal stated flatly.

  The golden warrior nodded, replacing his helm. “And despite that, another scion of Bara’cor shall fall to my blade today.”

  At that, the forces with Mithras swept forward as the demon in flames swept down upon them, howling with bloodlust and anger. They had not counted on the firstmark and the discipline of the elves selected for the mission. None broke rank. Instead, they contracted their shield wall into a semicircle to absorb the charge, spears and blades ready to counter.

  The mistfrights and Aeris warriors hit the shield wall like a hammer striking a body. The center collapsed in a predetermined plan, pulling the charge in as the sides moved up to envelope.

  Now the killing began in earnest as elves on three sides stabbed in with spear and blade, brutal and efficient. Those Aeris who could retreat did so. The rest died where they stood, unable to withstand the elven counter in time.

  Yet the elves were not done. At the firstmark’s command, they reformed their triangle and pushed forward one step and stab at a time, killing dozens. Because the Aeris that died dissipated into black smoke, they did not hamper the elves’ forward movement. They began a rhythm of step-cover-stab, the triangle formation moving inexorably for the base of the pyramid and Mithras himself.

  A mistfright managed to pull an elf out by his legs, but the shield wall contracted to cover that spot as a new elf moved into place. Now that they had seen that vulnerability, the men crouched to better protect themselves. To Bernal’s amazement it looked as if they were already halfway to the pyramid and had lost only two elves. Firstmark Malak led with calm efficiency, bolstering weak spots by cycling out those who lagged with fresh men. More than one Aeris warrior died on spear tips thrust out from in between the shields, forcing the entire contingent of Aeris to slowly trail the small elven force as they neared the base of the pyramid.

  When Bernal’s foot hit a step, it took him by surprise and for the second time he stumbled forward, catching himself a heartbeat from another fall. He realized they were ascending, with the flame-wreathed Mithras ahead and hundreds of Aeris behind. If Mithras fought like Baalor, he could endanger this group
by quickly scattering it.

  Bernal turned to Malak and said, “You rush the top, let me and my men take Mithras.”

  “We stay together,” Malak hissed, appraising at the scene with an expert eye.

  “He’ll wade in and separate us. We need a distraction,” Bernal replied. He believed his assessment, but he had to remind himself that when it came to fighting Aeris, Malak had more experience than he did.

  Even as he thought this, Mithras leapt, smashing his blade down into the group just as Bernal had predicted. The group scattered but left three elves dead on the steps. Mithras’s blade sang out horizontally in a sweep of fire. One unlucky elf was cut in half.

  The golden warrior paused, as if hearing something, then rumbled, “His blood will taste good, beloved.”

  Their group scrambled to rejoin but Malak yelled, “To the top! Reform at the gate!”

  Every man sprinted up the steps, running for their lives. Those positioned lower did not make it far, pulled back down by the mistfrights that flowed up the steps like black, oily snakes. The king looked at Kalindor and Yevaine, then dashed for Mithras.

  The giant man smiled from beneath his helm and met the king’s charge with a burning downward slash. Bernal raised his shield, taking the blow that fell off it just as Baalor’s had. Unlike that fight, Bernal now knew the power of these Aeris lords and was not taken by surprise at its violence. He did not meet the strike head on but instead held his shield at an angle, where the blade bounced off and cracked the stone step with a deep V.

  Bernal spun out of the way. Another elven warrior thrust his lance in, cutting the Aeris lord across the front of his knee, opening it up with a gout of blood.

  Mithras fell forward as his leg buckled, catching himself before he tumbled down the pyramid face.