Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  The name of the place, the Core, rose unbidden from Tamlin’s memories, the training academy Tamlin had graduated from. A new graduate of the Core would become Six and he would move up to the Five position and rank, either here or on another team. Still, there was something strange about Tamlin’s memories. There were none from before this time of training, as if he suddenly came into being fully formed for his role. It didn’t make sense.

  Also strange, Tamlin’s memories did not include whose place he had taken, but he knew who led their people. Someone named Sovereign. Kisan knew the ancient legends of King Bara leaving to search for someone named Sovereign. Was this the same person, or perhaps the name was a title?

  More information from Tamlin’s memories surfaced, but all of it recent. The team to which he was a member was akin to many elite fighting forces in the world, but focused on one primary service: kill any who used the Way.

  To accomplish this, they trained endlessly in infiltration, information gathering, and sabotage. Tamlin had believed they acted directly on behalf of their leader, divine in both right and judgment, but didn’t know for sure. Did their Sovereign order the strike on the Isle? And to what purpose?

  Kisan could tell Tamlin had been on the verge of religious zeal in his love for this team. The circumstances were too coincidental, however, with the Gate, for this strike to be merely random. The timing was too precise and the targets too specific. Kisan intended to find out what was going on. Of what strategic importance could the Isle have been?

  Unfortunately, the memories she had siphoned from Tamlin’s dying mind only contained a single-minded determination to qualify for the team, and none of the surrounding geopolitical information necessary to put context around their existence, or who specifically would have ordered the attack. Tamlin simply had not “needed to know.”

  The problem was two-fold: First, she had not yet assimilated many of Tamlin’s memories and would probably never be able to, and the boy had died before anything but the most recent memories could be extracted. It was enough for Kisan to get by, but contained no real depth.

  Second, what could cause that strange blank area where no memories seemed to be, just before Tamlin’s training and qualification started? How could someone have no childhood? From what Kisan could now discern, there seemed to be nothing before the Core. She realized that if she were to solve this mystery, it would be from listening to these others and drawing conclusions for herself.

  The team had moved to their assigned tasks and Kisan followed suit. The label of laggard would not help her situation, and she didn’t need any more attention from Prime or Two. She marveled at the simplicity of bringing new team members in as Six’s created, the kind designed to insure any senior members knew the role of all subordinates.

  Since she was Six, there was technically no one below her. The expectation was she learned how to interface with this team from the ground up. According to Tamlin’s limited memories, this was standard for all the tactical teams of the Core, a deadly sort of one-the-job-training.

  Kisan breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t taken the place of anyone above Tamlin’s station. As luck would have it, her combat skills far surpassed them individually, and she had taken the place of one low enough in rank that she could maintain this deception indefinitely. That was as long as nothing else taxed her beleaguered stores of energy, she cautioned herself, not wanting to grow overconfident.

  “Weapons or equipment?” Five asked in a disinterested way.

  Kisan knew Tamlin had preferred weapons, but shrugged, “Don’t care. You?”

  Five motioned to the blades and dart weapons, “I’ll start here.” He moved with a steadiness that did not hint at disappointment or eagerness, just purposefulness. Another measure of the discipline these dwarves forged for themselves.

  Kisan took a moment to inspect the strange tubes that fired the darts and Tamlin’s mindread filled in some of the details, though even they were hard to interpret. The weapon had a handle she could grip easily, with a square hole cut out at the bottom. She could see that a small metal box filled with darts, like some sort of quiver, was inserted there. A lever sat below the tube, conveniently placed for her finger to pull and this action fired the darts through the tube, though even the dead assassin’s memories didn’t provide an understanding of the magic by which it did so. It was, however, compact and lethal. Ingenious.

  She put the dart weapon down and let Tamlin’s memories guide her on her tasks. As she did so, she thought about how to get a clue or hint to their destination.

  “You think I should talk to Prime?” she asked carefully, while coiling a thin climbing rope.

  Five looked at Tamlin with a raised eyebrow. “Only if you’re looking to die. Leave it, mudknife, or we’ll be cleaning up what’s left of you and I’ll be stuck doing twice the work.”

  Mudknife... that word again, and with sudden comprehension Kisan realized this was their term for any new member of the team. Tamlin was the newest in the group and therefore considered the least trained and the least useful.

  She nodded in return and shrugged an apology to what Five thought was an obviously stupid idea. No sense confirming that by talking more. She looked down, concentrating on the task at hand. Soon, Kisan knew, they would make a mistake and she would be there to make them pay for it.

  Journal Entry 9

  Spells are singular, commanding power only insomuch as the strength of a person’s will. In my case, this can be considerable. However, ritual is the key! It is the systematic creation of ritual that gives the formless meaning, and the world structure.

  Ritualized prayer, prayer of the masses, holds real power. It breathes life into these Aeris and Shapes them. It gives them substance and meaning. And what do gods want, once alive? What do they thirst for, but worship? What power do they have, except for what we grant them? I know now what we are capable of. I will command the weakness that surrounds me.

  But a more deadly test faces me, first. Tonight, I face the guardian of my castle. I have long suspected something lies deep within, something alive. I know my fears feed it. If I can’t destroy a simple product of my own imagination, how will I save our kind from beings far more powerful than that thing below?

  I have tried to control these thoughts, I know where they will lead, but it is an impossible task. How do you not think about something? A part of my mind believes something lives below, an insidious part that will be my undoing. It will tear me apart, but I must face it.

  Tonight, I fear, will be dangerous.

  TORTURE

  When facing certain death,

  One will yearn for even

  The worst moments in life.

  —Altan proverb

  Arek awoke to the icy splash of cold water across his naked body. He struggled, but his hands were tied to a crossbeam. When he looked down, he saw his feet secured on top of stone blocks. He stood, taking weight off his painfully stretched shoulders. “Where am I?” he asked in a voice filling with fear.

  A man stepped forward and said, “I am Sargin. You will refer to me as that, if anything. His Majesty’s forces have captured you as an intruder. We are under siege and therefore by the king’s decree you are the enemy. We have questions.”

  Arek looked around, confused. What was he doing here? He remembered jumping through the portal, the freezing cold of in between. Then he flashed into that chamber. Beyond that he had no memory, but knew he’d been in a fight. His forehead throbbed with that familiar ache of having been hit, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

  He looked down at the man in front of him and asked, “What’s going on? Where am I?”

  Sargin held up a hammer, balled on one side, flat on the other. “I’m sorry, sir, we aren’t interested in answering your questions, but I want you to understand what will happen if I think you are lying.”

  Arek looked wide-eyed at the hammer, suddenly understanding its purpose. “You, no... you don’t need to—”

&nbs
p; The moment froze and there stood Piter. “Oh, this is too perfect,” he said with a smile.

  “Piter! You have to get me out of here. I order you!” Arek screamed.

  “Get you out? And how would I do that, Master?” Piter crossed his arms and seemed genuinely happy. “You keep forgetting that because of you, I’m dead. Forsaken. Committed to wander the realm as a ghost beholden to serve you. Silbane sent you into this mess, so ask him.”

  Arek quickly looked down for the Finder and realized with dismay that he was stripped bare. He had nothing. He fought to free his wrists, bound tightly to the crossbeam. “You told me to come here. You said I’d be safe!”

  “If I were you,” Piter said, “I’d get used to the idea that they are going to hurt you.”

  “What? Why? I don’t know anything. Please,” he begged. “I’ll do anything! I’ll release you... anything! Please don’t let them do this!”

  Piter laughed and said, “You are truly pathetic.” Then the shade leaned in and said conspiratorially, “I love this next part, a lot.” With that, he leaned back with a smile on his face and disappeared, and time continued its normal flow.

  Sargin nodded, continuing to answer Arek’s last plea, “Yes, sir. I do. This way, anything you tell me after this, I will be inclined to believe is true. You will do your best to convince me, because you will do anything to avoid the pain you are about to feel.”

  “Piter! Please, come back! I’ll do whatever you want!” sobbed Arek.

  Sargin looked at the boy with some confusion then said, “In due time, you’ll tell us everything.” He moved forward and put a foot over Arek’s own, exposing just his toes on the hard stone.

  The round end of the hammer came up, “I will start by shattering your little toe.” He looked up at the boy, who started to whimper, “And then we will talk about what you know.”

  Arek tried to concentrate on his training, repeating in his mind, the body is just a tool, the mind is in control, the body is ju—

  “No!” Arek screamed as the hammer came down. Terror turned into a cry of pure pain as the hammer smashed his toe into a pulp. A lightning stroke of pain lanced up his body and exploded in his brain. He saw purple and realized he had bitten his tongue.

  He gagged and his throat closed on the coppery taste of blood mixed with mucus and spittle. It fell, drooling pink and red from his mouth as he hung paralyzed, his face frozen in a silent scream. His lungs didn’t work, he couldn’t draw a breath or stop the pain. Nothing, no martial training or litanies on discipline, stopped him from begging with anguished cries for Sargin to stop. The cries became sobs, then dry heaves.

  Sargin stepped back as Arek soiled himself. Shame now mixed in with fear. He continued in a calm voice, “What is your name?”

  Outside the room, the screams of Arek’s questioning echoed throughout the hallways. Some even said they heard amongst the screams that day, the sound of someone laughing.

  THE TEAM

  Sacrifice anything and hold nothing dear,

  If it gives you the killing stroke.

  A glorious loss is rarely preferable,

  To a quiet victory.

  —Kensei Shun, The Lens of Shields

  The war chamber was an octagonal room cut from the very rock of Bara’cor. It was large, easily able to accommodate fifty men and featured a huge table in its center.

  The table had carved on it a relief map of the known world, one that always stayed current with features of the land. When the rivers of two summers past had flooded from EvenSea and almost reached Last Reach, this map had changed. It was as if Edyn itself spoke to the table, which shifted in response to remain true.

  One could almost imagine a time when military strategists planned tactics upon its surface. Now, despite its strange and peculiar powers, it was nothing but a relic of the past. Large braziers and torches along the wall lit the chamber, giving it a warm and ruddy glow.

  Seven statues of female figures sat arranged around the room. They were each different and of indeterminable race. Some were normal, others not. Some were taller, some wider, others bigger. One female figure had horns, another had wings. What each statue did have in common was a large, gray, rounded stone clutched in its arms. In front of each statue was a raised dais with dwarven script.

  Ash saluted the king as he entered the chamber. Behind him came three others, each a final candidate for the attempt on the nomad’s camp. The king had been inspecting these statues, their workmanship still a marvel to him. As his armsmark came in, he turned his attention to Ash.

  “Report.”

  “Something curious happened. Our scouts reported an explosion of fire last night, about a day’s ride to the east. Coincidentally, it happened just before that boy arrived.”

  “Do you think it’s related?” asked the king.

  “We don’t know, but what burns in the desert?”

  The king pursed his lips and said, “Have our teams watch the camps. See if anything strange happens.” He watched as Ash nodded, then turned his attention to the team that had followed his armsmark in.

  The first was Sevel, Captain of Second Company. He and Ash had advanced together, training in the same academy and posting under Jebida when they had been commissioned officers. The king knew they were fast friends and could count on one another.

  He acknowledged both with, “Good to see you, Armsmark, Captain.” He then motioned to the others and said, “I trust all of you are curious about what we’ve asked you to volunteer for?”

  Captain Sevel nodded smartly, his action almost a salute rather than an acknowledgment. Ash had related to the king that Sevel had volunteered the moment he’d mentioned the possibility of a mission. Now, they were going to find out the details and the prospect obviously excited him.

  Ash gestured to the second candidate and said, “This is Sergeant Chandra, sire. She served under Captain Durbin. She is one of our finest archers and especially good at getting in and out of places unseen. She’s also quite handy with a dagger.” The sergeant stepped forward and saluted smartly to the king. Her lithe form seemed to hold a barely contained energy, like a coiled spring about to release.

  The king nodded and looked at the third candidate, a wiry man with a ready smile. His name was Talis, and the sight of him made Bernal smile. He clasped the old warrior’s hand, and with a laugh said, “Talis, you old dog! I thought you had transferred to Haven, ‘something easy’ as I recall.”

  “Aye, I did at that,” Talis replied. “But when word came that the queen was evacuating, I thought it best I come see what trouble you’ve stirred up. Plus, you know the politics of Haven.”

  “I do indeed,” the king nodded. Seeing him now brought back memories of long hours of training, hard but fair. The man was a legend to the fortress, and part of Bara’cor’s history. “Not the sort of mission I expected you to volunteer for.”

  Talis bowed. “Ah... speakin’ of that. Just what have we volunteered for, besides dyin’ that is?” He smiled again and stepped back. His easy demeanor and familiarity in the face of rank came because of his long service to the king and his family. He had been the unarmed combat instructor for three generations of Galadines, and though near his fiftieth summer, he still held a dangerous glint in his eye. The king knew many had wagered and lost a week’s pay making the mistake of measuring Talis’s worth by his age.

  The king looked at each of the candidates, then began, “I’m sorry it has come to this, but we have little choice. I asked the armsmark to select the best qualified and from there take only volunteers. The chance for success is good, but the chance of surviving that success... slim.

  “However, if you succeed, the people of Bara’cor will owe you their lives.” The king paused, then looked at the group meaningfully. “I’ll not mince words. We are asking you to infiltrate the nomad camp and kill their leader.”

  Discipline reigned. None of the candidates moved, nor spoke. Each absorbed the information and processed it in their own way—ano
ther confirmation that Ash had picked them well.

  “Questions?” the king asked.

  Captain Sevel stepped forward, his eyes straight ahead. “Sir, how will we know our target?”

  The king nodded to Ash, who answered, “We all saw him, the day Durbin let his arrow fly from the walls. He is a massive warrior, clearly born and bred for battle. I doubt there are many that look like him in the camp. We may have new information shortly. If not, we’ll need to capture someone once we get in and extract the information.”

  “Justice for Captain Durbin’s last stand,” Sergeant Chandra said. She had followed her captain through the thickest of fighting and respected his strength and honor. Losing him had been a blow to the entire Company and the king could feel that Chandra saw a chance to even things out.

  The sergeant stepped back and Talis stepped forward. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but new information? What does that mean?”

  “Last night we captured a spy within our walls,” the king said. “He’s being interrogated now. If he knows anything, I’ll share it with you immediately. Until then, prepare yourselves. You’ll leave tonight at dusk.”

  Chandra stepped forward and asked, “Sir, does anyone have a plan yet on how we’re to get into the camp?”

  “I have an idea,” Ash replied, “but I need to first discuss it with the king. You three are to prepare for single entry... we’ll split up and rejoin each other behind enemy lines. Select your gear as if you were the only person going in and select clothes from some of the slain nomads. I’ll drop by and discuss the mission details shortly.” Ash looked to the king for permission, then said, “Dismissed.”

  The group snapped to attention, then with a signal from the armsmark filed out of the room.

  The king asked, “Small group. Will they be enough?”