Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

It was dwarven-made, with towers and minarets reaching gracefully into the desert sky. The stone itself was shaped in a manner unlike any known in the land, as if poured and then hardened in place. It was beautiful, and bespoke of a mastery of stonemasonry long since lost.

  Still, the citizens of Bara’cor could not entirely dismiss the obvious intent of the original builders to protect their work of art. Bara’cor held a strong military presence and surrounding its fragile inner city were hundred-foot walls of solid granite, rising out of the desert floor. It stood alone along the cliff’s edge like a great stone fist so only the walls facing the desert were open to possible attack.

  Atop those walls were catapults, standing like silent sentinels. The area in front of the stronghold was mostly sand with a few boulders strewn haphazardly, as if some giant had upended a sack of rocks, none of which were big enough to afford any protection against the deadly barrage of missile fire Bara’cor could bring to bear.

  One of the most astounding facts about the fortress, Silbane read, was the natural lake within its walls. Fed through underground springs, Bara’cor had an unlimited supply of fresh water, a commodity worth more than gold to inhabitants of the Wastes. Silbane sat back for a moment, the last thought repeating in his head.

  Closing the book, he moved out into the main room and settled down near another large window. The afternoon sun shone with its usual springtime intensity. In the distance, he could hear the rumble of the waves crashing onto the surf. He noticed a few of the older apprentices gathering for informal practice on the hill behind the tower, their brown uniforms contrasting with the bright green of the grass.

  The nomads could be after that source of water. Though it did not seem logical, no explanation could be ruled out. But there were easier ways to get water, including trading between the people of the desert and those of the fortresses—a practice well respected and known.

  Also, it failed to answer how the nomads had already destroyed three other fortresses, and now looked to the fourth. Nothing about this fit with the ways of nomadic life, nor with their favored style of warfare, fast-moving and mounted. It gave him a very uneasy feeling.

  Opening the window, Silbane breathed in the cool sea air and watched the initiates gathered on the hill, not without a bit of envy. Simpler times, with simpler pleasures, he remembered fondly. Silbane had been brought here almost eighty years ago, a wide-eyed lad of perhaps nine. He had expected to see all sorts of magical beasts and eldritch incantations of power. Instead, much to his disappointment, his first years exposed him to stacks of books, none of which were magical. Themun and the other teachers had pounded the basics of reading, writing, history, and mathematics into his young mind until finally he passed his entrance examinations, proving he was intelligent enough to continue. Mathematics in particular had been emphasized. For some reason, it had been shown that those with the highest aptitude in numbers had the greatest connection to the Way.

  From that day forth, Silbane had been subjected to intense physical and mental conditioning, something he had not at all expected. Each day had been dedicated to hardening his body in unarmed and bladed combat, and sharpening his mind on logic and numerical puzzles. The mantra of this phase of his training was repetition, an ideology Themun in particular seemed to inflict upon him with a special zeal.

  When the time came, he had taken the Test of Potential, proving once again he had a connection to the Way. His formal apprenticeship had begun that very same day, with him turning in his old white uniform for dark green. During this time he had been regaled with the histories of the land, and the Demon Wars.

  The First Council had been ill-prepared for the war. They had not concentrated nearly as much on the physical aspects of combat, instead investing much of their time on more arcane manifestations of power. This decision, in Silbane’s opinion, rendered them incapable of protecting themselves when they needed it the most. Their bodies, lacking in physical endurance and stamina, had succumbed to the immense needs of facing Lilyth and the armies of demonkind that followed.

  Themun and his Second Council had vowed never to let their adepts face such a situation unprepared. “A fool expects the same song to end on a different note,” was another favorite saying of his instructors.

  As a result, a significant portion of an adept’s training now lay in the physical arts of combat. This ensured their ability to survive in situations a pure scholar could not, regardless of magical potential. The path to the Way was often thought of as hanging onto a rope, with an adept’s stamina eventually wearing out. To combat this, one needed to train both the mind and the body, before they could truly master the Way and the arcane energies flowing unseen throughout the world.

  Silbane wondered how the lords of the First Council had ever made the journey to Sovereign’s Fall, leaving their cloistered lives behind. Their bodies could not have been ready for the hardships they would face.

  In truth, the Second Council’s adoption of physical and mental excellence had made them better prepared in some ways for this crisis than their forebears. Their bodies were at the peak of conditioning, and enhanced by magical energy, could accomplish feats most would consider impossible. What they lacked in raw, overt, power they partially made up for with enhanced speed and strength. If the sham of the upcoming council “vote” went the way the lore father had engineered, the final task would come down to infiltration and assassination, something Silbane was especially well trained to do.

  He cursed himself for daydreaming and moved away from the open window. His apprentice’s life lay in the balance, for Themun would not hesitate to send Arek with Kisan. If the Gate had opened, then Themun’s solution would be to push Arek through. To Silbane, it was clear the lore father believed Arek’s peculiar ability to dampen or disrupt magical energies was the reason behind this.

  It might close the Gate, he conceded, but if successful would leave Arek stranded in Lilyth’s world. Silbane could not live that. His only choice would be to find a way to protect his apprentice, and that meant he would have to accompany him. He could no longer trust the lore father or anyone else to keep the boy safe, and this was exactly what the lore father had counted on. Silbane could see he was being manipulated and hated it.

  Putting down the leather-bound tome, he rose and went back into his library. Searching the stacks, he retrieved another book, The Altan Nomads. He moved back to his chair and sat down, preparing for some intensive research. Being angry at the lore father was a waste of time, he semi-chastised himself. If there is an answer to the nomad’s actions, and a chance to safeguard Arek, it will be in here. Opening the old book, Silbane leaned back in the afternoon sun and began to read.

  HISTORIES: MAGEHUNTERS

  A bladesman does not kill;

  He allows one to live, purely by his own will.

  He kills or grants life when wielding his blade.

  —The Bladesman Codex

  How often have you done this?” His voice came out nervously, looking to his lieutenant. He wore the dark mail and cloak of the king’s Magehunters, blue edged with silver. In his right hand he carried a torch, its dancing flame sputtering and hissing in the light rain. It painted his young face a lurid splash of orange and black, as light and shadow danced in the dismal night. He didn’t want to do this, but talking to his lieutenant kept him in good spirits.

  “Half a dozen, Stiven, maybe more. Stop worrying.” He was not much older than the boy he spoke to. He rubbed his face clear of rain and looked up, silently cursing the weather and the clutch of new recruits like Stiven he had to look after. Dumber than a bag of onions, and not even as useful, but he could not afford to have the boy panic at the wrong time. He put a conciliatory hand on Stiven’s shoulder and said, “The king’s mark is with us. She’ll deal with any trouble. Just worry about your shieldmates.”

  Stiven gulped, looking at the storm clouds, then turned a wide-eyed stare back to his commander and said, “Garis said they have powers... that we can be turned into
things... unnatural things.”

  Lieutenant Kearn shook his head and smiled. “What makes you think you’re so normal now?”

  Another soldier bumped the kid with an elbow and said, “Don’t worry Stiv, you’ll likely be turned into a man. That’ll be a real trick.” Good-natured laughter followed as the platoon of men moved through the forest toward the village. Then the rain began to fall in earnest, ruining the moods of many. They had spent close to a fortnight on the hunt and wanted nothing more than a roof that didn’t leak and a dry, warm bed.

  Their mood was further darkened by the woman who rode next to them on her black destrier. Her name was Alion Deft, the king’s mark, and her job was to hunt down and kill those who would threaten Edyn again. She wheeled her horse, then signaled Kearn to stop. She cantered over and met the young lieutenant’s unvoiced question with a flat statement. “I’ll address the men here.”

  Lieutenant Kearn nodded, then motioned to his sergeant to have them form up but keep silent. At this distance, sound could still carry to the village, though the rain had muffled much of their progress through the undergrowth.

  The men shambled into a loose square facing their sergeant. The fact the order had been obeyed instantly was the only indication these were seasoned fighting men. Some pulled their hoods farther forward as the rain fell harder. Lieutenant Kearn looked at the ragtag grouping and scowled at the lax formation, but then said, “Shield rest.” The men relaxed, but only a bit, waiting for their commander to speak.

  Deft moved her warhorse forward to face the men and dismounted. Her cloak was the same dark blue as the others, but her armor was silver and steel, with a circular symbol stamped upon her breastplate. Her fingers rubbed it absentmindedly, a ritual before every cleansing. She looked at the assembled soldiers and asked, “Why are we here?”

  There was no answer, and she seemed to expect none. She pulled her sword from its scabbard, the steel ringing its own note of death, and continued, “There is a pestilence. I mean to remove it.” Her gaze swept the men while the clearing remained silent. The only sound, rain falling through the trees. “I act on the king’s order, and by his grace and our Fathers, so do you.” Her eyes hardened. “No mercy.”

  The men shuffled a bit, but nothing they heard was new. At a nod from the king’s mark, they all knelt. Deft raised a circled hand in supplication and said, “Let us pray.”

  The men lowered their heads as the king’s mark intoned, “Fathers, bless our acts tonight. Aid us to smite the demons who wish harm upon your good lands. Let us be the hand that delivers justice, in peace.”

  “In Peace.” The men responded. They slowly rose, some making the sign of the Circle and kissing their fists. Soon, they knew, it would be over.

  Kearn watched Stiven look at the king’s mark as she stood there in the rain. “She’s beautiful,” he heard him whisper, to no one in particular.

  “Aye,” said the sergeant who had lost an eye during one of the many border fights following Lilyth’s defeat, “and deadly. Stay away from her when it starts.”

  “Why?” Stiven asked, in a voice that sounded like a boy more than a man.

  The one-eyed man turned back and said, “Just stay out of her way.” He cinched Stiven’s pauldron closer, tapping it with a mailed fist to be sure it sat securely on his shoulder, then walked away, disappearing into the wet gloom.

  Stiven stared at the sergeant’s back until Kearn thumped him out of his reverie. “Come on, Stiv. You’re assigned to the catchers. Grab some torcs.” He motioned to a basket holding dozens of metal collars, dull and gray. Still, every so often the light would catch one just so, and the coppery orange metal would flash into life.

  Stiven moved over and grabbed one of the collars, holding it as he had been taught. It didn’t weigh much, but Kearn knew Stiven had seen what it could do. He clutched it tighter, making the thrusting motion once, twice, as if to remind his own arm how it was used. Then he took two more and hooked them onto his belt, within easy reach, and was obviously relieved to see the others do the same. Everyone knew Stiven hated standing out.

  The sergeant whispered a command to douse the torches, and Stiven’s went into the wet ground with a hiss. The clearing where they stood fell into inky darkness, until his eyes adjusted and Kearn could make out the rest of the men. They looked like shadows, disappearing between the rain, leaves, and trees, and death followed their every step.

  * * * * *

  Alion Deft stood where she had delivered her prayer, scanning until her eyes came to rest on an older man, grizzled and gray. He had the look of one who scowled regardless of the weather. His mouth worked a repetitive chewing motion that spoke to the wad of hazish within. He stood near a small cart they had wheeled along with them. It was made of wood, and along one side held a small door, bolted closed. The king’s mark nodded her chin at the cart and said, “Malioch, bring her out.”

  “Royal whelp.” He said the words like they were a private curse, talking at Alion, but not about her.

  The king’s mark moved in front of him, her eyes fixed on the man until he acknowledged her with a spit to one side. She waited a moment longer then said, “Bring her out.”

  It was the flatness of her voice, the dead calm that gave the man pause. He spat again, a brown liquid, foul smelling and pungent, then produced a large iron key. The bolt unlocked with a snap and he pulled wide the door. He waited a moment, then thrust his hand inside. “Come on!”

  A squeal sounded from inside the box and Malioch cursed, then grabbed a handful of hair and yanked. Out came a girl, dumped unceremoniously into the wet mud. He kicked her so she tumbled forward again, falling face down. “Curse you, witch.”

  Alion watched this without care, waiting for the girl to rise. Slowly, as the desire to stand and stretch overcame her inherent fear, the girl came to her feet. What was once a white robe was now matted with filth and stains, hanging from her bony shoulders. Dark hair that had not felt a loving hand in weeks fell in clumpy strings. When she finally looked up, what had been a face filled with laughter held only the frightened gaze of someone trying desperately to avoid another beating. The girl cringed with her entire body and spirit, looking far younger than her twelve summers would indicate.

  The king’s mark stepped forward and stooped so her eyes were level with the girl’s own. She noted the prisoner still wore the torc around her neck. As she neared, the girl stepped back but Alion held up a hand, “Steady now, Galadine. You know your job, yes?”

  The girl looked as if she were about to cry, but nodded vigorously.

  “Do as I say and you may have your father’s love again.” Alion lied without a second thought. This vermin, along with the rest, would be food for worms long before the king forgave her sins. Alion did not care. Using these magelings had become a necessary evil. How else would they be able to find others like her?

  The Talent ran strong in the Galadine line, their curse to bear for being faithful stewards of the land, and the king’s willingness to sacrifice his own blood spoke to his character and nobility. Still, the need to consort with this thing filled her with disgust. She could only imagine the royal family’s shame that they should be so afflicted.

  Despite these thoughts, her revulsion, along with the deepest desire to thrust her blade into the heart of the creature, never reached her eyes. She said the words with utter sincerity, allowing the briefest hint of a smile to play across her features, reassurance that everything would be all right.

  She stood and motioned to Kearn. “Take the torc off.”

  As the lieutenant obeyed, she looked back at the girl and said, “Kalissa, you know what happens if you run?”

  * * * * *

  Kalissa Galadine nodded again, not saying a word. The instant the lieutenant touched the torc, it unlatched with a small click and the metal collar opened.

  Power flooded through Kalissa’s senses, reawakening her connection to the Way. It sang into her heart, healing minor injuries, succoring her wearine
ss, and cleansing her soul. The pain fell as if washed away like her mud stains. She felt reborn, but knew this was only temporary. If she did not obey, her father would keep her here. Nothing she did, no connection to the Way, would ease the pain of what she had to do next.

  She opened her eyes and Saw, then pointed and stammered, “Th-through the trees. There are two you want.”

  Alion looked at the girl for a moment then asked, “Just two? Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  Alion looked up, her eyes calculating. “You stay near me for this.” She handed the reins of her warhorse to a nearby soldier who secured it to the cart, which would remain behind.

  Kalissa came forward, standing woodenly next to the king’s mark. She never took her eyes off the glowing folk she could see, amongst the less bright signs of the people in the village around them. They stood not more than two hundred paces away, beacons of Talent marking them for death.

  Next to them, she saw a third, brighter than they were, someone with the potential for true power. Her eyes flicked once to the knight standing next to her, then back to the village. This third one was young, a girl not more than five or six summers old. Kalissa did not know who she was, only that if the girl were discovered, it would likely mean her own death.

  Why would the king’s mark need her Talent if another, younger child were found to do her bidding? The shame of the decision to let this girl be put to the sword along with the rest of her village would have caused her anguish in the past, but now it barely registered. If her own father could give her away to someone like Malioch, why should she be any more merciful?

  Adults with Talent were killed, but children were harvested and put to work, just as she had been. She would not take the chance these men would choose this new child of power over herself, and she did not care anymore about the consequence to her own soul. She would live and that was all that mattered. It was not the first time she had chosen her own safety over others and she knew it would not be her last. It was simply a matter of survival.