Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  Arek and Tomas burst out laughing at Jesyn’s impersonation. Curtseying once to her small audience she retook her seat and smiled at Arek. “You don’t have to worry about Piter. You have more Talent in your little finger than he’ll ever have, and he knows it.”

  Arek wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, saying with mock severity, “Thank you, most noble adept-to-be. Your praise is most deserved, and of course, I’m not going to argue with you.” Smiling, he leaned back, these friends of his making him truly happy. He had not realized how much he missed them, which made the fact that he was leaving doubly hard.

  Leaning forward again, he made up his mind he would tell them what his master had decided. He needed them to know, to understand, and to see that the idea scared him to death. Magic or not, he knew they would be his friends first.

  He realized they must have sensed his mood, for both of them had quieted, waiting for his next words. His face solemn, he began, “I must confess something to both of you, but it’s hard. I’m not sure—”

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  Arek turned his head to the voice, knowing already it belonged to Piter. He stood a table’s length away, looking a bit eagerly at the group. Arek sighed, then looking at his friends, said, “Let’s go. I can tell you later.”

  Piter looked down, a hurt expression on his face. Then he looked up and snarled, “What was so funny?”

  “Get lost, Piter.” Tomas locked eyes on the smaller initiate, tightening his grip on his chair, which creaked in protest. Both knew that in a physical confrontation, Piter was no match for Tomas’s muscle and size.

  Emboldened by the knowledge that severe punishment faced any fighting this close to a test, though, Piter stood his ground, casually breaking contact and looking at Jesyn, who did not meet his gaze.

  She felt uncomfortable any time these three squared off. She didn’t like Piter’s need to show off, but Tomas and Arek didn’t give him much opportunity to join them either. It hadn’t always been this way, but cruelty seemed to be the basis of their interactions of late. All that changed was who outnumbered whom.

  “Some news has been conveyed to me by my master; news I thought most interesting. It concerns those of us who are testing.” Piter’s emphasis on the last part caused a knot of trepidation to form in Arek’s stomach, but before he could say anything Piter continued, “He won’t be testing with us.”

  Jesyn looked at Tomas, her unspoken question mirrored in his eyes. Looking back at Piter with confusion and annoyance written on her face, she then saw Piter’s smug stare focused on Arek. Tomas saw it too and looked at his friend, who still did not meet his gaze.

  “Arek, if this isn’t true, say something,” Tomas urged in a low voice.

  “As usual,” Piter sneered, “his master is protecting him.”

  Arek stood. “That’s a lie!” He could feel his heart fluttering, as every fear he had of failing, of not being their equal, seemed to be coming to life.

  “Prove it then, Apprentice.” Piter’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeing Arek for the first time. “Do... anything.” Piter spread his arms magnanimously.

  A moment went by as Arek stood, watching Piter’s unwavering stare, his peripheral vision picking up Jesyn’s fidgeting as her nervousness became more apparent. He could feel a small bead of sweat trickle down his back, leaving a wet, cold trail that faintly itched. Somewhere, deep inside, he knew there was nothing he could do or show to contradict Piter.

  Finally, it was Tomas who broke the tension by saying, “Do what I said earlier and get lost.”

  “I have a better idea.” Piter looked down at the table, concentrating. “He’s a jinx, a defect. In fact, I’ve been spending time researching a counter to it.”

  Arek knew Piter was trying to bait him and it was working. “I’m not a defect.”

  “No?” Piter smiled. “What do you call it then when a mage can’t cast spells and interferes with others who can? It is at least... inept, no?”

  Tomas stepped forward and demanded, “Leave.”

  Piter glanced at Tomas, then turned back to Arek. “How long will you let others fight your fights?”

  Arek stepped forward and said, “You want a fight, you got it.” He shook off his gloves and assumed a combat stance.

  Piter made a gesture with his hands. Instantly his body encased itself in a shimmering gossamer glow, like a second skin, but this “skin” was a dark blue and faintly reflective.

  A collective gasp escaped the group as they realized Piter had learned to create something similar to, but not the same as, an adept’s flameskin. An impressive feat, speaking of true artistry on his part. Any appreciation, though, was lost on the gathered group as they squared off.

  “This skin amplifies whatever disruptive thing you seem to be doing and sends it back at you,” Piter warned.

  Arek didn’t move. His concentration stayed on Piter’s eyes, where he knew any intent to attack or strike would appear first.

  Jesyn said, “Please, stop. This is insane!”

  “Really?” Piter asked. “Like when you guys laugh at me behind my back? You don’t think I hear it?” His attention turned back to Arek and slowly he too raised his hands in front of him, settling into a combat stance. “You won’t laugh after this.”

  Tomas reacted first. He placed his hand on Piter’s shoulder, intending to push him out of the way.

  Piter did not move. As Tomas touched him, the force of the slight impact was amplified tenfold and redirected back at the hapless initiate. Tomas flew backward, hitting a bookshelf with a dull crack and dropping to the floor unconscious. Only a slight smile betrayed that Piter was happy with the first test of his protective spell. “I’m waiting, jinx.”

  Time slowed as Arek’s focus shifted and his battle sense took over. He could feel the indrawn breath as Piter began to say something. He sensed Jesyn running to Tomas’s side, her concern for him overriding anything else. He could feel the weight of the table next to him and knew where every plate and eating utensil lay. Even the tiny dust motes in the air seemed to pause, caught in his heightened awareness. Most of all, he saw where Piter stood and knew where the opening would be.

  Then something happened. Arek watched as the scene unfolded, slowed by his battle-sense. Something had appeared in the air around Piter. It was a creature, a ghost, barely visible, manifesting itself over the other initiate.

  Arek tried to understand what he was seeing. The creature seemed armored, standing superimposed over Piter’s frame with enormous wings outstretched to either side. The features were blurred and indistinct, but it lay over him like a gossamer sheet, an ethereal winged knight flaring the same color as Piter’s flameskin, a deep, reflective blue. A name sounded then in his head and he knew this creature called itself, Kaliban.

  Then, to Arek’s horror, Piter reached back and the Kaliban mimicked his action. A glow of flame began to form between the creature’s hands and Arek knew he only had a moment to interrupt it.

  In a liquid motion Arek’s hand shot forward, his wrist hitting Piter’s, even as his elbow came around that wrist toward Piter’s jaw. However, the moment their wrists touched, a black flash occurred, a detonation of force blasting the two apart. Arek had the distinct impression of the winged knight falling backward, the ethereal fireball exploding silently and prematurely.

  He felt the heady rush of strength and power flow into him from that contact, infusing his body with a glow that rivaled the sun. It surged into him, powerful, ancient, and unyielding. It echoed through him with a boom, and a feeling of utter triumph and ecstasy flooded his every sense. He knew, for an instant, what he could be. This winged creature surrounding Piter was his to take. He could feel his body hunger for it like food, like some sort of basic sustenance, ethereal, but real. He knew it.

  He could hear something gibbering, screaming, pleading for mercy, but years of frustration, of feeling inferior, crystallized into a black dagger of hate. Arek exulted in this feeling of
power, of strength, of total control.

  In that instant, he knew he held a life in his hands and felt an incoherent thrill as he made a fist and felt it snap! The life-force shattered into an infinite sea of particles and light, then flowed into him. He drank it in, consuming what had been Kaliban. He could feel it become part of him, suffusing him with all it had been utterly.

  Then, when there was nothing left, not even a shred within the empty husk that had also once been Piter, blackness surrounded him and Arek felt nothing at all...

  ASSAULT

  In general melee, do not focus too narrowly.

  Instead, use the mountain stare,

  And drink in all that surrounds you.

  Danger comes from all sides.

  See, or be feast for the crows.

  —Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades

  Ash fixed a steely gaze on the horde spread out before him. Turning to Captain Durbin he said, “Have Captain Sevel and your men ready for our signal. Stay under cover and fire on my command.”

  “The men’ll be ready, sir, the Lady willing. Just lay the catapult barrages on their heathen heads and we’ll take care of the rest.” Saluting smartly, fist to chest, the captain wheeled and made his way to the command tower and Captain Sevel of Second Company.

  Ash watched him leave and turned his attention to the desert floor. He could see the barbarians milling about, just out of arrow range. Straining his eyes, he could just see their encampment, a motley collection of tents called ger set in a haphazard circle just beyond the main force of nomads. The semblance of order came from the openings, which all faced south. Why this was so was a mystery to him. Still, he thought, if only I had a catapult that could reach that far.

  The king exited a stairwell and caught his attention, smiling in greeting.

  Ash saluted, then clasped the older man’s callused hand. There was a look of tiredness around the king’s eyes, a look Ash respectfully did not comment on. Instead, he turned to the outer lip of the wall, encompassing the nomads with a sweep of his arm, “They will attack soon. Look on the horizon, already the clouds gather.”

  Bernal followed the armsmark’s pointing finger to the line of purplish clouds, slowly advancing across the sky like a spreading bruise. The wind had picked up, gusting through the battlements and whipping his cloak out behind him. Soon, the sand itself would become their worst enemy, swirling up in the wind and blinding the archers to their targets.

  He turned to the armsmark and said, “Soon the wind and sand will make it impossible to speak or be heard. You’ll use the flags?”

  Nodding, Ash asked, “I assume you are commanding the center wall, my lord?”

  “No, these are your men. Both the Firstmark and I have complete trust in you. Besides, one day you may be Firstmark. Might as well start applying for the post now.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder at the jest. “I won’t tell Jebida.”

  The king paced over to the wall’s edge and unslung Valor. “I shall stand with the archers. If the Lady blesses us, we will not see nomad blood touch the walls today.”

  The armsmark watched the king’s corded forearms bulge as he strung the powerful runebow with ease, and checked the weapon for signs of wear. Because of the king’s royal heritage, it was sometimes easy to forget he was also a seasoned warrior, a “soldier of the line,” so to speak. Ash had a healthy respect for his prowess in battle, knowing that what Bernal had lost with age he made up for in experience. In a low voice he said, “Thank you.”

  Before the king could comment Ash continued, raising his voice and saluting fist to chest, “Captain Durbin and his men will be honored to have another marksman of your caliber amongst them, my lord.”

  Bernal gave a small deprecatory laugh at that, hefting the bow and drawing an imaginary arrow as he sighted down his arm, careful not to touch the string without an arrow in place. As he raised his head, a familiar figure ran across the inner courtyard, carrying an armful of arrows. Smiling at the sight, the king addressed the armsmark behind him, “How does Niall like his new duties?”

  Ash followed the king’s gaze to the courtyard. The prince shuttled between the lower courtyard and the upper archers’ loops, unloading neat bundles into quivers at each station. “He is taking the news better than most would. There is much to be said for his maturity.”

  When the king turned and raised an eyebrow in disbelief, Ash quickly added, “At least, he’s working hard and not being petulant.”

  The king shook his head ruefully. “He is still young and stubborn, just like his mother. And be assured, he will try to get on the wall, whether he has my approval or not.”

  Whatever Ash’s reply was, a warning shout from one of the lookouts cut it short. Racing to the front wall both Bernal and Ash heard the fast chanting coming from the nomads’ front line. It droned across the desert like a buzzing of insects.

  The sky was already a boiling mass of gray and purple clouds. Diffused flashes of lightning from deep within the thunderheads illuminated the fortress for a moment, before plunging them into the strange twilight created by this unnatural storm.

  A howling rose and for an instant Bernal thought the nomads had commenced their attack. Then he realized it was merely the voice of the wind as it sped through the parapets and across the stone. Behind him the flag of Bara’cor, a golden lion rampant on a black field framed by lightning bolts, rippled and cracked in the stiff breeze.

  “My king, we need to get to our stations, the attack will come soon.” Ash laid a hand on Bernal’s arm, trying to urge him toward one of the two archer towers. He felt himself easily shrugged off as the king pointed at the nomads’ front line.

  Ash looked and gasped at what he saw. The front line parted as thousands of nomads went to their knees, heads bowed to the sand. It was not this sight that elicited Ash’s response, but rather the man who walked out to face the fortress.

  Even at this distance, Ash could tell he easily dwarfed even the firstmark in size. He estimated the man to be almost eight feet tall, with legs as thick as his own body. The figure raised its robe-covered arms, displaying open palms. Then slowly, he began to pace forward toward the fortress walls. Behind him the nomads stayed bowed, their heads glued to the sand.

  “I think we are finally to meet the leader of the nomads, Armsmark. Tell the archers to hold their fire.”

  As Ash complied, Bernal waited for the leader of the nomads to come within hailing distance. He then climbed upon the wide battlements, so the figure could have a clear view of him. Around him the fortress grew silent, the only noise coming from the whistling of the wind through the ramparts.

  “That will be far enough,” Bernal warned. He had a sergeant’s voice, the kind that carried through the din of battle. Ash knew the chieftain could hear him.

  The figure stopped, then began to undo his mask. As the cloth fell away, he placed his fists on his hips and addressed the king of Bara’cor. His voice was deep and guttural, as if he found it difficult to bend his tongue around trade speech, but judging from his words, he was nonetheless educated. “You are the leader of these men?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you condemn your men to death. If you have any love for them, surrender.”

  Bernal smiled. “Surrender is no way to show love to my men.”

  The massive figure shrugged. “It is only a matter of time. You will fall and condemn your men to death.”

  The wind picked up for a moment, making it impossible to answer the man. Bernal waited, his cloak flapping behind him while a distant thunderclap sounded. As the wind died down he yelled, “Your name?”

  The figure paused as if considering Bernal’s question, then answered, “I am Hemendra, U’Zar of the Children of the Sun, and Clanchief of Sovereign’s Fall.”

  “Then, Hemendra, hear this. I am King Bernal Galadine, and by might and right I hold these walls. Get used to the heat, dog. Lap the water your master gives you.” The king undid his water skin and opened it, but did not
drink. Instead, he upended it so the water fell down the front wall, soaking into the stone and sand below. “We have plenty.” Behind him echoed the cheers of his men, emboldened by his resolute courage and divine right as king.

  * * * * *

  The silence deepened as Bernal’s voice echoed from Bara’cor’s walls. Hemendra held himself still, one part of him surprised by the lord of Bara’cor’s bravery, the other barely able to restrain his anger at the insult. However, years of living had taught Hemendra that anger led only to ruin.

  He gestured to his line with one of his muscular arms. Three groups of nomads detached themselves from the main body, each group holding upright a long spear. As they neared the fortress, the men’s cheers turned to cries of horror, for each spear held an impaled figure.

  At another gesture from Hemendra, the nomads drove the spear ends into receptacles designed especially for this purpose, planting the poles with their gruesome burdens so they faced the fortress’s walls.

  The u’zar knew Bernal recognized Ben’thor Tir and the other kings of the fortresses ringing the Altan Wastes.

  Hemendra raised his voice again. “You say I speak empty words. These others thought the same. Food for the vulkraith—”

  “Jackal!” cried one of Bernal’s captains as he leapt onto the battlements, bow in hand. Before anyone could stop him, he had nocked and released an arrow in the smooth motion of a master archer. It sped true to its mark, toward the clanchief’s heart.

  The nomads around Hemendra scattered, but the u’zar held his ground, not moving an inch. He heard the hiss of feathered death as the arrow neared. Then, with a quickness that belied his bulk, he caught the arrow in mid-flight, a hand span from his chest.