Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  Silbane did not say a word, not trusting himself to speak. This man seemed to know too much already.

  “You see, my knowledge is incomplete. For the past century, the people of Edyn, people of power, have been preparing for the Gate of Lilyth to appear. Why do you come only now, and who are your companions?”

  “Companions?” Silbane asked innocently, spitting out more blood.

  The man leaned forward and smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. “Really? The camp you made was for two people. I could assume it was for you and your unfortunate friend.” The man gestured to the left and when Silbane turned his head, he was shocked to silence. “Except that while I healed you, in your delirium you emphatically mentioned someone named Arek. You were quite insistent he needed protection. You seemed almost... ashamed.”

  Silbane’s eyes were locked on the space behind the red-robed man. There was Rai’stahn, upright and crucified to a circle of iron. He hung limp, the arrow still sticking out from the back of his head. Silbane drew a shuddering breath and quickly looked away.

  From the way his head lay canted at an unnatural angle, he could tell Rai’stahn’s neck was broken. Despair washed through him at the great dragon’s death, if for no other reason than the loss it implied. Rai’stahn and his kind were ancient, representing a knowledge of the world most races had yet to learn.

  It was true they had faced each other in combat and he knew death would have been the outcome for one of them. Still, he believed Rai’stahn had withheld for the same reasons he had, because death may not have been the only answer.

  Now the great dragon had been felled by a nomad arrow, an injury impossible except for the form Silbane had trapped him in, and the weakening he claimed resulted from contact with his apprentice. Another testament to the idea that Arek’s magical nullification was more powerful than he had suspected.

  Could Rai’stahn have been right? Could the world really lie in the balance over Arek? He was stuck here now, and his apprentice was gone, lost to whatever destination the Far’anthi had sent him, likely Bara’cor.

  Further complicating things was this person, who seemed connected to the Way. Likely this was the person the lore father had sensed, the helper of the nomads. Silbane had found him, but now sat helpless and captured. The master felt his mission slipping to failure, before it even started.

  “It’s quite simple,” Scythe said, interrupting Silbane’s thoughts. He leaned in, his dark red robes closing about him like wings, and asked in a soft voice, “Who is Arek?”

  CAPTURED

  Fear is the eager substitute for inexperience,

  And safety the forgiving mother it runs to.

  —Altan proverb

  He’s been trained, of that there’s no doubt,” remarked the armsmark. “Whoever did it knew what they were doing.”

  Jebida looked at his second-in-command. He didn’t need to ask again to know Ash was sure. “How did he get in?”

  Ash shook his head and replied, “No idea. Alyx sent one of the guards to come for help. We also heard their cries from outside the chambers in the west hallway, but how this boy entered is a mystery.”

  “What did he have on him?”

  Ash motioned to a desk where all of the intruder’s belongings lay. “Aside from the sword, some supplies and food... the kinds of things I’d take on a scouting mission.” Ash looked at the cell where the prisoner now lay, chained and unconscious. “I’m still trying to figure out why.”

  “Why he’s here?” asked the firstmark.

  “Why any of them are still alive.”

  “You’re serious?” the firstmark asked. “Clearly you arrived in time.”

  “No,” Ash stated, “I didn’t. He could have killed all of them and still faced me.”

  The firstmark moved closer to the bars and looked in on their occupant. “How old do you think he his? Can’t be over sixteen or seventeen summers.”

  Ash joined his firstmark and said, “Yes, and that is even more peculiar. For someone to have his level of skill, he would have had to begin training as soon as he could hold a blade.” The armsmark looked sidelong at his commander. “Who trains like that anymore?”

  The firstmark gave a short laugh. “You ask that with a straight face? As I recall, you started your training in much the same way.”

  “Yes, but there are very few in the world who grew up as I did.” He looked back at the unconscious form, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Very few.”

  Behind them, the guards came smartly to attention as the king entered. He acknowledged them and moved over to his two senior commanders. “This is the assassin?”

  “We’re not sure who he is, sire,” replied Ash, carefully. There was more here than met the eye, in his opinion. In that moment he felt something familiar, like a smell that elicited a memory, but it did not linger long enough to recall. The colors silver and green seemed important, somehow.

  “He almost took my son, if it were not for you...” the king began, startling the armsmark out of his reverie.

  Ash held up a forestalling hand. “I didn’t save Niall. This kid just didn’t kill him. Frankly, when he realized his blade rested on the prince, he looked shocked. What assassin doesn’t know his own target?”

  The king moved closer to the bars and looked in on the unconscious form for the first time. The king drew a sharp breath, “Jebida, look at him.”

  The two commanders moved up and peered in with the king. “What do you want us to look at?” asked Ash.

  The king whispered, “At him.”

  The armsmark shook his head and looked at the firstmark. Jebida looked at the face, youthful, his visage line free, with blond hair—“By the Lady!” he said.

  “You see it too?” the king asked.

  Jebida nodded, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face. He had not taken a close look at the prisoner until the king mentioned it. “He’s almost exact...” His voice trailed off as his mind went back years.

  Ash turned now in confusion to the king. “Exact what? What are you two talking about?”

  The king stepped back from the bars, his mind in deep contemplation. He held up a hand to forestall more questions and paced away from the cell. Motioning to the other two to join him, he looked at the armsmark and said, “Ash, you are too young to remember, but that boy looks like someone we know. Someone we know very well.”

  “Who?” asked the armsmark, more curious now than ever.

  Bernal turned is gaze to Jebida and a moment passed as the firstmark silently confirmed the king’s observation. Then he turned back to Ash and said in a low voice, “He looks like me at that age.”

  Ash looked at both men, then smiled at what he thought was a joke. “You are jesting. I’m not—”

  “That boy looks like Bernal,” Jebida interrupted, “as if they were brothers.”

  Ash spread his arms. “To what purpose? Are you saying he’s actually related to you?”

  The king’s eyes remained hard as slate. “Perhaps Niall wasn’t the target.” He looked at both his men and the next words that came from his mouth sounded forced. “I need to know who he is and why he’s here. And if there’s a way for the nomads to get in, we need to know that too.” Though he didn’t say it, the words seemed to carry another message, one the firstmark immediately understood.

  “Are you sure? It will likely kill him,” Jebida said.

  “I can’t wager the safety of everyone in the fortress for this one boy. Do what’s necessary.”

  Ash realized what the king meant and stepped forward, hoping to intervene. “Sire, perhaps if I spoke with him?”

  “And said what? ‘Please tell us the truth?’ You and I know there is only one way, and he chose this possibility for himself when he chose to sneak in here. We must know everything he knows.” Bernal looked away from the two, clearly not liking his decision, but in this his will was firm.

  Jebida said, “I will see to it and report back to you, sire.”

  The ki
ng nodded woodenly then excused himself. As he left, the firstmark looked to his second and said, “I don’t know whom to feel worse for, the king or this boy.”

  Ash motioned to the pale blond head of their prisoner and said, “Feel worse for him... definitely for him.”

  DEBRIEFING

  The style you face should be of no concern.

  Masters rely on the same techniques,

  Forged and tested in the crucible of combat.

  But men vary greatly in skill.

  —Tir Combat Academy, The Tactics of Victory

  A fist smacked into the oak table, the broad knuckles leaving dents in the hard wood. “Five darts should have gone into that last adept! I counted four. You know the drill, no mistakes, and no excuses.” The leader did not look happy, nor did the others on the team. “Any answer?”

  Kisan looked at the leader, her disguise as Tamlin complete, the language of these men assimilated from the memories of the man she had killed. She bent her tongue around the strange speech, but found it easier to do if she didn’t think about it. “Something... that last fighter did...” She let her voice trail off lamely, hoping they would complete the thought.

  The leader backhanded her, the shock of the strike more surprising than painful. Kisan reeled back convincingly, falling over her chair and onto the pitching deck of the small ready room.

  They had assembled here after a retreat that took them through woods to a cliff overlooking water. There Kisan watched as the leader signaled with a small white gem, answered by a similar flash from the prow of a long, black shape, just offshore.

  Having fixed their destination, all dived off the cliff and into the inky waters below. They had made it to the waiting boat quickly and shed their masks. Kisan realized with a start that the glowing “eyes” were actually cleverly placed lenses within each mask. She assumed they worked much the same as using the Way to enhance her own vision. She adjusted her illusion to compensate, happy to discover these men were less magical than she had feared, but remained vigilant. They had already proven capable and deadly.

  She followed the team into the ship, trying desperately to understand more of Tamlin and these men. She knew enough now to know they referred to each other by number, not name, in case of capture. In fact, she doubted if Tamlin had known their real names. The only exception was the leader, whom they called, Prime instead of One.

  “Slug-brained and pitiful,” Prime accused with a jab of a finger. “Get your act together, mudknife.” He turned away in disgust and left the small cabin, slamming the door shut behind him, though Kisan wasn’t sure if it was due to the man’s anger or the natural back and forth motion of the boat.

  “Good job,” laughed one of the men sarcastically. “Lucky we drew you for this rotation.”

  Kisan picked her way to her feet carefully and righted the chair. She didn’t quite understand what he meant so instead said, “You saw those adepts. That last one did something.”

  Another, Two, Tamlin’s memory furnished, stepped up and said, “That why your voice sounds funny?” The man’s eyes narrowed, “Or maybe that’s why you can’t follow signals a cadet would know?”

  Kisan realized she had never heard Tamlin’s natural voice. Quickly she fished through the memories, which were coming more easily to her and listened to the man whose life she had taken and now imitated. A small exertion of the Way fixed that last detail and Kisan now spoke with the lower pitched voice she had heard in Tamlin’s mind. “More like the backhand I just took to the throat.”

  Two’s eyes bored into Kisan’s, then he let loose a harrumph of disgust. They had accomplished their mission and their target was dead. He shook his head though at the ineptitude, then addressed Three with a jerk of his thumb in Kisan’s direction, “Get him squared away.” Not waiting for a reply, Two made his way out, following his leader.

  There was a silent pause, then the entire room seemed to take a collective sigh of relief. Kisan realized the rest had not shared their leader’s ire, and frankly had only been worried the anger at her would spill over to them, resulting in extra duties or worse.

  As if to confirm this, the one she knew as Three came forward and clapped her on the shoulder saying, “First couple of times out is always tough, but you know the signal if you’re not steady and ready.”

  And suddenly she did, a quick slash through her wrist. Her body mimicked the motion automatically as another of Tamlin’s memories fell into place. Tamlin would have made that sign the moment the leader signaled for everyone’s status, standard practice for this team.

  As memories began to assimilate, Kisan constructed a more complete perspective on the discipline of these men, which rivaled that of her own training on the Isle. At first, she assumed they had gained their abilities through the Way. She could have accepted that.

  It was more difficult to admit that while they were magically imbued, much of their profound lethality grew from simple hard training and their enormous strength, which seemed a natural part of their bodies. Clearly, if someone desired to hire highly trained assassins, they could do no better than this group.

  Her mind wandered back to the fight with Dragor. Had Kisan answered Prime correctly during that engagement, she’d have been ordered to a support role. Prime had reacted to the simple fact that “Tamlin” had endangered the team. Not only did he not signal his inability to help, but by continuing to fight, had hindered everyone else.

  In truth, Kisan did not care. She had intentionally tried to thwart their efforts to kill Dragor without giving herself away. However, as Tamlin’s memories became more available, she saw the leader would not allow this again. Prime would kill Tamlin, a fact that neither she nor the team doubted.

  Still, she grieved the loss of Dragor. She had not felt his death the way she had Thera’s, but this was not surprising. Dragor was comparatively young in the Way, certainly not as powerful. Still, her friend had given his life so Kisan could be here, now. She meant to make herself worthy of that sacrifice.

  Frankly, despite their discipline and training, she knew she had little to fear from these men physically. Her only real fear was she would expose herself and lose the opportunity to trace them back to the person who gave the order to attack the Isle. Whoever that was, would pay with their life for Dragor, Thera, and any others who had died on the Isle.

  Three nodded, interrupting her thoughts and echoing Kisan’s certainty about Prime, “Get it right though, or there won’t be a next time.”

  As he spoke, Four and Five went to their lockers and began taking off their equipment, expertly storing them with practiced ease. As they stripped off weapons and small pieces of ingeniously placed armor, Kisan could see muscles and sinew ripple. She also noticed something else, something significant. These men were not normal.

  They were too big and disproportioned to be of her race. They stood taller, their torsos wider, with forearms and legs as thick as logs, and hands that looked suitable to crush stone. She was too pragmatic to be embarrassed by their nakedness. Instead, she drank in the details, unconsciously fixing her own illusion to match their physical features. Kisan didn’t recognize them, but searched Tamlin’s memories.

  The answer stunned her... builders. Her people called them “dwarven,” but that was impossible. Her first thought was rather absurd. Wouldn’t they be smaller than us? Further delving into Tamlin’s memories supplied the reason. The builders were the smallest of the Elder Races, referred to affectionately by those as “dwarves.” Her race, though physically smaller, were not an Elder Race, so the name for the dwarves stuck. Indeed, dwarves referred to Kisan’s people derogatorily as “halfmen,” or “halflings.”

  The dwarves disappeared some centuries ago, shortly after the battle against Lilyth. No one Kisan knew had ever seen one and nothing but stories of their existence remained. The possible exception would have been the lore father or Silbane, but neither had mentioned it to her.

  Still, their strength matched those told in the lege
nds. Moreover, they fought with a cunning tenacity they became known for during the Demon Wars. It lent credibility to the fact that these may indeed be dwarven men. Now the question was, what were they doing attacking the Isle?

  They were highly trained and well-conditioned. Another memory flashed by, of endless combat drills with one man, then two, all the way up to six-man fighting teams. They were experts in hand-to-hand combat and trained to fight as a synchronous group. Their strength and exactness stemmed from their repetitious training and their ability to coordinate and cooperate without speaking, using hand signals. Kisan would have to be extra careful to mesh perfectly with them if she were to maintain her cover.

  Four stood and motioned to Kisan. “Get cleaned up, then stow the gear. Two will be by for inspection shortly, you know the drill.” He tossed a grimy towel into a bin without looking. He tapped Three on the shoulder and motioned to the table near the back that glowed with magic.

  A large map was displayed upon it. It looked much like Themun’s conjuration, except flat and less detailed. Without another word, they both went to the table and began discussing points on the map in low tones.

  Kisan watched them for a moment, knowing even as they walked away that everyone was following a strict protocol. Tamlin’s memories supplied that Three and Four’s duty was to evaluate their performance on this last mission and to provide tactical training on bettering them for the next. Prime and Two would be contacting their leaders and reporting on the mission outcome. Five and Six were to stow and set up all gear, then prep the area for the mission debriefing.

  This had gone on for as long as this group had been in existence, no matter who fulfilled the roles. When Two felt Prime’s leadership endangered the team, and Prime concurred, he would retire back to train new cadets and Two would take his place as the new Prime. If they did not, command would pass through trial by combat. She assumed the current Five, whom she had been paired with, had been the old Six, but really had no idea.