Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  His eyes were drawn to the blade again. It was a keen and double-edged, with polished metal flowing like water down its silvery length. According to Adept Giridian, Tempest was forged during the Demon Wars. He had little doubt it represented a level of magic never to be seen again in his lifetime.

  Arek leaned his back against the wall, making himself comfortable. The worn leather wrap of Tempest’s hilt warm in his tight gloved grasp. The blade, extremely well balanced, felt light and quick, as Arek could tell after executing just a few halfhearted swings from his seat. Though he had faced both students and adepts across blades, never had his life hung in the balance, despite the vigor in which the instruction was delivered. Still, he knew he could wield this sword with deadly effect.

  A part of him, however, was disappointed when nothing happened as he drew the fine blade. He laughed a little to himself then, the thought of some proclamation declaring he was Tempest’s special wielder a bit too childlike a fantasy, even for him. Well, perhaps it would only happen in real combat, or at least that was a secret hope he could hold onto.

  Then a thought crept in, a desire he knew existed from the moment his eyes fell on the blade. What if I touch it with my bare hand? Despite his master’s warning and Adept Giridian’s cautionary admonishments against such an act, he knew there was no way he wasn’t going to try. What if his touch was special? Cautiously, and with furtive glances to see if his master had returned, Arek shook off a glove and brought his hand within inches of the sword’s grip.

  He held his breath, debating if this was worth possibly disenchanting the weapon, but doubting his power could permanently harm an artifact like Tempest. Also, the slight possibility this weapon might be part of a special, greater destiny inexorably pulled at him. Something pulled at him, a desire he could not ignore.

  With a slight exhale, he grasped the hilt. Nothing happened. Then his world exploded in black.

  The desert was gone, as if he floated in a sea of nothing, with no shape, no horizon in sight. Out of this blackness came a scream, a woman’s voice clearly in terror. Release me! it cried.

  “Who are you?” he asked into the void.

  Do not touch me again with bare hands, and I shall repay you!

  Arek looked about the blackness, searching, but could see nothing.

  Again the scream, Release me, I beg you!

  Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, and the blackness receded. A quick sensation of falling, then he felt sand beneath him and the rock wall at his back.

  The sword still shone with its liquid silver intensity and the gem remained an emerald green. His touch had not disrupted it, but how was that possible? His elation turned to disappointment when he recalled the words he had heard in his head: Do not touch me...

  He hastily slipped his glove back on, sullen and disappointed. Whatever the blade was, it clearly was not for him. He looked at the emerald, sighing. Then, he suddenly felt consumed by visions of combat. What kind of warrior could he be, armed with Tempest? What mighty opponents could he defeat, if only for her?

  Arek’s mind, overwhelmed by the sword’s enchantment, dreamed of how it would be to take another’s life, but each time with Tempest. His pale blue eyes narrowed as he imagined her through another man’s heart, the recognition in his opponent’s gaze at his own impending death, then seeing the light go from those eyes.

  Arek shook his head, trying to clear the visions, but they persisted. Dying men pleading for mercy, Arek twisting and cutting through opponents effortlessly, leaving a swathe of blood and death behind.

  Though the thoughts filled him with shame and revulsion, a part he could not acknowledge felt something else, something that drove him to be the best blade in his class. As Arek imagined pulling Tempest from the chest of a dead man, that part of him wanting to be the best felt a sense of victory, and relished in it.

  He raised his eyes and watched as the sun finished its fall from the western sky like a flaming coin, slowly melting onto the horizon. Taking a deep breath, he tightened his gloved grip on Tempest, its heft and balance feeling somehow natural and right, like a long lost extension of his arm. He settled back against the warm wall and allowed himself to doze, his mind running through dozens of blade to blade engagements, each more dangerous than the last.

  Each victory brought a sudden smile of satisfaction to his lips, as foe after foe fell before him. Soon, his master would return and the real adventure would begin. Until then, Arek dreamed of blood and fire, where he was finally the one with power.

  Journal Entry 6

  Today I achieved the abode seen in the distance. It revealed itself to be a small castle, a defensible place borne from the dreams of someone long dead, or perhaps from my own desire for safety. I hope it is the former, as my mind has many specters still lurking, dark things I would rather not yet face.

  It looks deserted, and it is. Perhaps I saw it change from what it might have been into a desolate place haunted only by the echoes of memories. I will use this as my base camp, from which to research the Aeris and forge their undoing.

  Finnow came to me last night, a shade risen from death. I am not surprised she found her way here. It is likely the one place she has always wished to be, standing in judgment at the right hand of her gods.

  She has always been irksome, but death makes her worse. At first, I was fascinated and listened to her weave her tale, but I know what Finnow is. She is nothing more or less than I expected and I do not need a shade’s words to measure my worth. The world knew my greatness long before she learned the same by dying. I banished her, her incessant yapping more tiresome than informative. Let this place do its best. I have survived worse.

  One thing to note: Finnow formed from a cloud of these same, infinitesimal lights, but they dispersed once my will came to bear. I know not if she is real, or something I conjured with my latest regrets. Her appearance has, however, taught me more about this place and the power my will has over it.

  I shall think on this more.

  SOVEREIGN’S HAND

  An arrow flies with deadly intent,

  Whether in combat or practice.

  Train to be the same way.

  —Tir Combat Academy, Basic Forms & Stances

  Half a dozen shadows raced up the hillside, their forms blurred and indistinct in the dusk. Each was silent, quickly scaling the cliff with professional efficiency. Their fingers dug into rock and stone as if made of soft clay, providing hand and foot holds as necessary. They had to rely on their speed and stealth. As they neared the top, one turned back to the dark waters below and raised a small gem. It pulsed white for a moment and was answered by its twin from the prow of a blackened ship, momentarily revealing itself, anchored just offshore.

  The leader turned and with a quick hand motion gathered his group close. Six figures formed a loose circle. At first, they looked like men, but one could see wider torsos and thicker arms and legs than one would find on the men of Edyn. These figures were stronger, bigger, with the obduracy of the very granite that surrounded them.

  “We move in quickly. Our primary target is their leader. No survivors.” He whispered this, then wrapped his mask in place so only his eyes showed through protective lenses. These began to glow a soft, ethereal blue, another visible sign he and his fellow assassins were no ordinary men.

  As a group, they pulled their weapons and checked the dart loads, then inspected the firing mechanisms carefully. Once satisfied, each signaled “ready,” then like shadows, the team melted into the darkness of the trees. They flitted from trunk to trunk, unerring as an arrow launched at a distant mark.

  In the distance, the sounds of a group of children floated on the ocean breeze, along with the voice of a woman who instructed them in a gentle, but determined voice.

  * * * * *

  Adept Thera guided her little pupils down an embankment and closer to a small stream. The sun was setting on the second day since Silbane’s departure. By now, she mused, they must have just reached the Sho
rnhelm Wastes. She wondered if they fared well, but no communication from the two had been received.

  The time since Silbane had left had moved along slowly. An uncomfortable silence descended upon any gathering of the council, as if each dared not second-guess the lore father’s choices. The lack of information made the waiting even more difficult. It was only in times like this, when she was alone with her class of children that Thera felt at peace.

  Lissah, a promising young White, reached down and picked up a small yellow flower with pale petals, raising it triumphantly. “I found it!”

  Thera moved a bit closer and squatted in front of the little girl. “And what have you found?”

  “Sunbeam.” The girl’s determined face and clear eyes bespoke a confidence that she knew exactly what she had found and would brook no argument to that fact.

  Thera laughed and said, “And sunbeam is good for...?”

  Lissah looked down, searching for the answer, then back up again at the adept. “Fevers... you boil it in water, like tea.”

  Thera nodded, still smiling and said, “And it tastes good if you dry the petals and crush them into soup.” She turned her gaze to the left side of the embankment, where the land opened to the beach. She could not see the waves in the distance, but could hear the dim sound as they broke on the shore. If she had the time, she would have made the trek with this group in tow, but the sun had already finished setting, and it would mean picking their way through the dark.

  Dusting off her hands, she picked herself up and tousled Lissah’s hair. It wasn’t often she fell into these melancholy moods, but her recent confrontations with the lore father and her moral sense of wrongness in his sending Arek weighed heavily on her heart. At least, she thought, they should have further investigated his encounter with the apparition of Piter. She no longer thought of it as a fevered dream, and its portent worried her greatly.

  She felt a small tug on her sleeve and saw Lissah pointing to the brush.

  “Someone’s in the bushes.”

  Before Thera could respond, she heard a number of soft whuths and felt a sharp prick on her arm and neck. Sprouting out of her arm as if by magic was a sharp, silver needle, its tail end a small clear glass vial filled with a dark liquid and surrounded by strange fletching.

  It took her a moment to come to the realization that it was a dart of some kind, and somehow on this secluded isle, they were under attack. It was a moment she did not have.

  The shadows kept moving, dangerous and fast. Then the night was illuminated by Thera’s flameskin, her form blazing yellow and powerful. “Who dares...?”

  Before she even finished that sentence, she saw the little ones around her crumpling to the ground. Then she felt grass next to her face, her shield dissipating into the night like mist. A small choked sob clawed its way out of her as the poison went to work and her muscles tightened then locked.

  She watched as one of the black shapes detached itself and moved across her field of view to check the child who lay in front of her. She could not tell if it was Lissah or not... the child was not moving. The figure leaned in and then made a quick stabbing motion, pulling something long and thin from the crumpled form. Then it moved over to her.

  “No survivors,” it whispered, and she felt a punch in her chest and an ice-cold shaft of steel slide between her ribs and into her heart. It twisted once, expertly, then pulled out. At first, she felt fine, then a warm gush of wetness soaked the ground below her. Her sight went dim, then slowly black.

  * * * * *

  The leader moved over and checked the woman personally, as he had been instructed. It had been made clear to him that if even one lived, they would be taken off the combat line and reslumbered. He had slept long enough, as had his men.

  She was dead. The poison had neutralized her as promised. He looked about at the dozen or so crumpled forms. A small part of him felt pity for these children, who had not survived their encounter with his team. Pity was not, however, a luxury he could afford. He signaled to his men and they moved quickly and silently toward the structures illuminated a short distance away. As they neared, he held up a hand and signaled their stop.

  Motioning to two of them he pointed to the stairs leading up into the first tower, then two more to back them up. He and his second waited at the entrance to be sure no one went in or out. The four disappeared into the multilevel structure, lethal harbingers of death.

  * * * * *

  Kisan and Tomas were at the observatory taking readings of the night sky. The injuries Tomas had sustained from Piter’s counter-spell had almost faded, leaving behind only a general weakness and malaise. Kisan’s attention remained on her direhawk, roosting nearby.

  The giant bird’s raven black feathers changed to a bright crimson on each trailing edge of its wings and tail. A similar marking ran from deep black at the beak to a crest of crimson, as if the direhawk trailed fire behind it. The hawk watched a bag Kisan held in her hand, intent on what squirmed inside.

  Kisan didn’t say anything. She expertly flipped the bag over and slammed it into the stones. Whatever was inside ceased moving and she reached in and withdrew a limp rabbit, either unconscious or dead.

  The direhawk had not taken its gaze off its meal and when Kisan tossed the rabbit into the air, the raptor caught it deftly in its razor-sharp beak. Within moments the direhawk made short work of it, swallowing, then cocking its head and looking to its master for more.

  Kisan ignored it, her thoughts still on the loss of her own apprentice. She took some solace in Tomas’s recounting of what had happened, thankful the boy had not been more severely injured. Still, there was a hole in her, a black space Piter used to fill. It felt like a betrayal to her first apprentice’s memory to be teaching Tomas, and Kisan didn’t know if she could deal with it. She reached up and ruffled the direhawk’s proud crimson crest, unafraid of the lethal beak and talons that stood unsheathed so close by.

  Oh, she knew the lore father had been correct in assigning her a new apprentice. In a clinical sense, this was the best way to cope with her loss, by occupying her time with someone who needed it. But Kisan didn’t want her time occupied and didn’t want to be “handled” by the lore father. She’d had quite enough of that lately.

  She looked at her new charge, Tomas, who clearly found it hard to stand near so dangerous a predator despite her reassurance it was quite safe. She had raised and cared for over a dozen lethal warbirds like this direhawk, yet the boy still edged away. No doubt the sight of those glittering black eyes unnerved him, and made him feel more or less like some sort of small prey.

  “Does your hawk have a name?” Tomas inquired.

  “I do not name my weapons,” she replied in a monotone, looking back at the dark-winged predator. “Three ways to kill from behind?” she asked flatly.

  Tomas’s mouth quirked up, his master’s preoccupation with the darker side of their arts no secret, but did not hesitate to clarify. “Armed or unarmed?”

  “Fastest.”

  “Wind strike, base of skull; short blade, point thrust down between the neck and shoulder; blade thrust, forty-five degrees up into skull from base of neck.” He was quiet for a moment then added, “The blade would have to be thin enough to cut the artery below the collarbone for the point thrust.”

  Kisan was quiet, still looking at her direhawk. It tilted a head to one side, those eyes unblinking. “Adequate.” The word came out but without any life. She wasn’t even sure she could recall the boy’s answer.

  Apparently in an effort to lighten the mood Tomas changed subjects and said, “Funny, but there was a time people thought the stars marked one’s adherence to the gods.”

  Kisan was startled out of her reverie and looked at Tomas in askance, as if seeing him for the first time. “What?”

  Tomas gestured at the sky with his chin, “The stars, Master… gods who guide our destiny. I find that amusing.” His eyes sparkled with mirth and in another time or place it would have been infectiou
s. Here and now, though, it only served to irritate her.

  Tomas continued, oblivious to Kisan’s mood, “Take me, for instance. I was born in the summer under the stars of the Benevolent Ruler, Pious... or at least that’s when my birthday is celebrated.” Tomas smiled. “So, I guess I’ll be in charge of all this one day,” he said, waving his large arms about.

  Kisan snorted, “Yes. People are a stupid, superstitious lot,” missing Tomas’s joke entirely. She petted her hawk again, then leaned her head against its breast and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of its feathers envelope her.

  “What about you, Master? What god rules your destiny?”

  Something about the easy banter Tomas assumed, so unlike Piter, who had been consumed with memorizing everything Kisan said or did, finally began putting the young master at ease. Piter’s death was still too recent, but she felt herself responding to the gregarious nature of her new ward and answered, “Dyana the Huntress, believe it or not,” she scoffed, then said in voice tinged with chagrin, “I was short with you, and perhaps not as forthcoming.”

  Tomas smiled and offered, “I did not mean to presume.”

  The master held up a hand and said, “I did not lie, in that I do not name my weapons. However—” she paused, looking at her direhawk—“he names himself, Temairex.”

  Tomas smiled, his eyes wide. “Really? It sounds quite noble.”

  Kisan nodded, feeling for the first time a small easing of the recent loss and guilt, “It is, and perhaps—” then her eyes widened and she stopped in midsentence.

  Even Temairex sensed something, flapping his wings and sending a whirlwind of air across their small open space. The bird would have already taken flight if not for the harness holding his leg to his tree trunk sized roost. Kisan calmed him with a touch, thinking.