by Lakshman, V.
Ash turned and said, “Too big a group will attract attention, especially if one is captured and forced to talk. That will alert the camp and it will be impossible to get to the chieftain. I thought three was a good number.”
“There are four of you, counting yourself,” Bernal corrected.
Ash’s eyes never left his king’s. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. One of us will have to create a diversion, something to allow the other three to get by the nomad sentry line.”
The king didn’t understand the implication at first. When the simple fact of what Ash meant hit him, he shook his head. He would not throw away Bara’cor’s best chance.
“We knew this was the only choice,” Ash said. “We have to get into the camp somehow. We can’t just walk in.”
“You would be wasting all you could bring to the attempt against the nomad chieftain, dying needlessly.”
“It’s not needless if the others manage to slip into the camp unseen,” offered the armsmark. “Besides, should I order one of them to do this? I couldn’t live with myself.”
The king turned his gray eyes on the young armsmark and laid his battle-scarred hand on his shoulder. “It is difficult to order others to their deaths, but good leaders know this. You cannot sacrifice yourself, as you are the one with the best chance of finding and killing the nomad chieftain.”
Ash opened his mouth to argue, but the king squeezed his shoulder like a vise.
“Hear me out,” the king persisted. “Firing Bara’cor’s catapults and performing a mock charge on their lines will force them to hold their line. At the clash, we pull back and retreat. Many will fall, but the nomad line will push forward on our retreat. Dressed as nomads, the four of you, fallen amongst the many slain, will go unnoticed. When their line passes, you will be behind it and able to rise and blend in with the enemy.”
“That will mean the deaths of many of our men, just to cover our infiltration.”
The king nodded and said, “And if you fail, it will mean the deaths of all of us. I am king, and these are my orders.”
Ash did not meet the king’s gaze when he said, “I should be happy with this alternative, but I’m not.”
Bernal looked down, thinking to himself. He understood the weight of what he ordered, and also knew he had to put Bara’cor’s survival ahead of any sacrifice.
When he looked up, his eyes betrayed none of his thoughts, and his gaze was unflinching, “Nevertheless, the soldiers who fall in this charge are heroes, insuring you and your team get past the nomad line. I wish the Lady’s fortune on you, Armsmark. Do not waste our sacrifice.”
Ash’s voice was solemn as he replied, “Yes, my king.”
OBSESSION
An opponent is weakest when he breathes in,
And strongest when he exhales.
A Bladesman knows this,
And strikes with the enemy’s indrawn breath.
He shocks the body, promotes fear,
And inflicts damage.
—Davyd Dreys, Notes to my Sons
Why would a dragon need a camp and supplies?” Scythe asked. When he saw his prisoner’s surprised look he added, “Silbane, I know much more than you think. You can see the dragon, Rai’stahn. I know you trapped him in his knight form.” He gestured at the crucified figure then, adjusted his seat on his small stool and finished, “I did say, ‘let us speak plainly.’ ”
Silbane hesitantly nodded, at which point Scythe continued, “You know of the ability to read someone’s memories. I know this because while I healed you, I mindread some of what you know. I know of your mission, of the Isle, and of your lore father.”
He paused, looking about the tent as if wondering how to continue. He then met Silbane’s surprised gaze and asked, “But who is Arek? You refer to him as your apprentice, as does Lore Father Themun, but of this apprentice there is no record in your memory. I find that most curious.” Scythe leaned back again, finger to lips as if deep in thought. “How can someone you believe exists not be in your memory?” Scythe seemed genuinely confused.
For his part, Silbane sat stunned. If this Scythe had mindread him, nothing he did now was secret. He gathered his wits and decided it would be better to delay things until he could understand the situation he found himself in and who Scythe was.
“If you know all this, why do you need me?” Silbane rasped, his voice almost back to normal.
Scythe took a deep breath then said, “There is a divergence.” He paused, then added, “Don’t mistake me... you believe what you say and it is clear you and the dragon fought over the life of this ‘Arek’... but there is not a single memory within your head of him. Or, to be more clear, no memories I can read. Again, why?”
Silbane didn’t know what to say. He clearly remembered his apprentice, and if in fact this person was telling the truth, there was no reason for him to provide any more information.
Something in his demeanor must have shown through, for the man let out a sigh that seemed to be both tired and sad at the same time. “I had hoped this would be a conversation and not an interrogation. I hesitate to hurt you, seeing we are both practitioners of the Way, but I will do what I must.”
Silbane laughed. “Clearly you wield some sort of magic... but what do you know of the Way?”
The man stood up and walked over to the corpse of Rai’stahn. He cupped the great dragon’s chin and raised his large head. “Do you think you and those few pathetic adepts you left on your Isle are the last essence of magic in this world?” He let Rai’stahn’s head drop with a dull thud, its face coming to rest upside down on its armored chest, the spine severed.
“Much has transpired since your self-imposed exile.” Scythe’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at Silbane. “I am also curious as to why you have allowed yourselves to be so isolated.”
He paused, again looking at the dragon-knight’s head with obvious remorse. “These blank areas of your memory are very regular, happening at almost precisely the same time everyday... as if they are scheduled. How are you unaware of it?” Scythe stopped, then looked at Silbane and asked, “How could such a thing occur?”
Silbane found himself wondering the same thing... a regular pattern of blankness? Then, with sudden dismay, he knew how, but he was careful not to let this knowledge show on his face.
Arek and his training schedule.
Those blank areas were when Arek came within close proximity of Silbane, at class, or lectures. Arek’s power to mask magic caused the blank spots. Strangely, the recognition left Silbane feeling somehow better about himself, as if he had solved something. It was as if an unspoken nag had been lifted away.
“Have you come to an understanding? If so—” Scythe pulled the rawhide stool closer to Silbane and sat back down—“please share it with me.”
Silbane looked at the man, his eyes turning cold and hard. It was clear this man was a danger to Silbane, and by that extension to Arek. He was not about to say anything.
Seeing no response from his captive, Scythe continued, “Do you know what else is strange? I could not see your aura until you were discovered here. That thing—” he motioned to something around Silbane’s neck with obvious distaste—“accomplishes the same purpose. But what blocked you from my Sight before?”
Silbane tried to crane his head down but couldn’t move. He caught a glimpse of something coppery, but was unable to focus on it. Whatever it was, the man in red seemed to be implying it was the reason for his inability to connect with the Way.
Scythe waited for Silbane to answer, a contemplative look on his face. When again no word was forthcoming, he continued, “You wear a torc fashioned by the Magehunters, a device with only one purpose—” his gaze grew thoughtful, as though reliving old memories—“to kill us all.”
“It blocks my aura?” Silbane ventured this, hoping to keep the man talking. As long as he did so, the conversation stayed away from Arek and their mission.
Scythe blinked twice, his attention coming back to
the captured master. “Yes, but what blocked your entire Isle? You disappear for over two score years then suddenly appear like a distant fire in the night. It explains the attack, for your brethren now sparkle like a shining star in the middle of the Shattered Sea. But why now?”
A cool breeze drifted in through the tent flaps, jingling hanging bells and swirling loose pieces of debris. The scent of jasmine wafted through, filling Silbane with a sense of peace and relaxation.
“Even more curious; how do you hide a dragon’s aura, which should outshine yours like a bonfire next to a candle flame?”
Something was wrong. Silbane could barely touch it, his dazed mind trying, then it hit him with a start.
Scythe had said “attack.” Did he mean someone had attacked the Isle? A part of Silbane’s mind reacted to the knowledge with alarm, but before he could do anything, a gentle coaxing set in, a reminder that all was safe and he should not worry.
Silbane found himself preoccupied with the passing time measured by his heartbeat. It seemed so natural, so soothing. A question formed in his mind and his voice uttered it almost automatically, “How long have I been here?”
Scythe rose and let out a deep breath he had been holding. “The better part of a day, not counting time at your camp. You were in sorry shape. My scouts were a bit too... enthusiastic.” He gestured to the other side of the tent absentmindedly and Silbane saw two men hung on hooks. Actually, they weren’t men, but the skins of men, he realized through his fogged mind.
“I had them staked out in the sun and then skinned alive. Discipline must be maintained, no?” Scythe said seriously. “I had to do quite a bit of healing to fix you.”
Silbane worked his jaw, which painfully clicked in protest. “Could have done better.”
Scythe laughed. “You are quite a man, and dangerously accomplished for one who knows so little of the Way. You brush off my Talent as an afterthought, then jump directly back into it like a fish for water. It is as if you harness the Way differently than most. Perhaps a side effect of your training?
“Still...” The red-robed man came closer and sat down. His tone became serious, almost menacing. “I have planned too long for the Gate’s appearance. Now you show up with a dragon and a mission to close this very same Gate. I cannot let that happen.”
The man gestured and Silbane found he could use his right arm. He realized the man had held his arms immobile with magic, an overt use of power that surprised him. The Way he knew was mostly internal and rarely manifested itself as direct control over another. Even illusion happened by fooling a person’s senses, rarely forcing any real change to something.
Scythe leaned forward and handed the water skin to the captured master, then leaned back and began to speak. “For all our advances in magic, few have achieved what you monks have with regards to our bodies. In fact, I am not surprised by the sheer ingenuity of Dreys’s family. Unfortunately, my chance to tell Themun just how much I respect him will have to wait.”
To Silbane’s puzzled look Scythe replied, “Lore Father Themun Dreys has passed on to the next world. I felt it happen. The moment your people became visible, forces took direct and unfortunately, lethal action.” He looked down, genuine regret in his voice. “Now, it is too late.”
The red-robed mage leaned back on his small stool and sighed, then met Silbane’s eyes and said, “Did you know I saw him once, when he was much younger? He did not know this, though even then he was strong in the Way, and cunning. He saved a girl who had been captured by the king’s men. Her name was Thera.”
Silbane knew how the lore father and Thera had met, but nothing came out. He was stunned by what the man had just said. The Isle had been attacked?
“She, too, has passed, as if their journey in this world was meant to both start and end together.” Scythe sat there for a moment, reliving another distant memory. His head shook then, an involuntary gesture, as if he struggled with himself on an unspoken level to remain in the here and now. When he spoke next, he did not meet Silbane’s gaze and whispered, “Have you ever lost someone? Someone important to you?”
Silbane watched him, the fog momentarily clearing. His first thought was Arek, but instead he simply said, “No.”
Scythe did not move, but his eyes closed. “You cannot understand then, what it’s like.” His voice grew stronger and he stood and faced the captured master. “You are a very small part of the story of this world, and your chapter is ending.”
Silbane sat, looking up at Scythe in silence. The lore father and Thera, dead? That was impossible. He would have felt it, wouldn’t he? Could Arek somehow have blocked his senses? What of Scythe, could he be responsible?
Silbane mentally berated himself, nothing could kill them that easily, and they had the Vault. Tempest was only one of many items of power that could save them should anyone be seriously injured. Scythe sought to throw him off balance and Silbane refused to let himself be baited.
Scythe cocked his head, as if listening, then said, “Your memories of the Vault are most interesting. Many of the artifacts I thought lost are there. They are wasted with you and will be put to better use. But I digress.”
Scythe motioned to the water skin, which Silbane held in shocked silence. He reads my thoughts, even now? Then a gentle caress eased his shock and worry, and he struggled to remember what had upset him so much a few moments ago as the fog once again wrapped him in its warm embrace. They were talking about someone and the history of the world, were they not?
Scythe grabbed the water skin from Silbane’s nerveless fingers and took a swig, clearing his throat. “Have you noticed something?”
When the mage did not answer, Scythe continued, “The rifts between our plane and Lilyth’s are getting more numerous and unpredictable. Things aren’t getting better.”
Silbane still did not respond, his mind in a fugue of memories and thoughts, as if someone were rifling through them at high speed.
“We’ve managed to stop the larger ones,” Scythe continued, “but dozens appear each year, and who are the casualties?”
“Children,” croaked Silbane. “Always, the children.”
Scythe nodded. “Always, and usually those strongest in the Way. They disappear as if they never existed. Have you asked yourself, where do they go?”
“They’re killed by the demons that emerge from the rifts. Families speak of it, of their loss.” This came out as a mumble, but there was still strong emotion behind it. Much of the council’s efforts had been to recover children born of Talent before they fell to the king’s Magehunters, and now these demons.
Scythe cocked his head, a puzzled look on his face. “Killed? Nothing really dies. You know that.”
It was Silbane’s turn to look confused as his fog again lifted and he found he could answer with perfect clarity. “What are you talking about? Things die all the time. Your men over there, the dragon, the people of EvenSea!” He spat these out, laying each death at Scythe’s feet.
The red-robed mage smiled and caught Silbane’s gaze and held it, a feverish glint showing in his eyes. “Nothing really dies. I will answer to them still, for my part in their passing. Then that glint receded and Scythe’s demeanor became normal, almost conversational again.
“Are you comfortable? I mean, I cannot let you go, but I can allow you to adjust your position.”
Silbane thought about it and was happy the conversation stayed away from Arek. His apprentice’s ability to mask magic was clearly important to this man, and it made sense for him to keep Scythe talking. The longer he did so, the farther from the truth they went. When the chance presented itself, he would use his Finder and escape this location to wherever his apprentice was. Then they would make their way back to the Isle and warn the others of Scythe and everything else he had learned.
Silbane said, “Yes, some water, and please, continue...”
“There’s not much more to say. These rifts are passageways to Lilyth’s plane, a fact you already know or you wouldn�
��t be here. You wouldn’t be trying to destroy my life’s work.”
Silbane shook his head. “You can’t let that Gate reopen. It would mean—”
“Silence!” roared Scythe. He kicked Silbane in the chest. The suddenness and violence of the move caught the master by surprise as the air whooshed from his lungs.
Silbane looked up through pain-dazed eyes and came face to face with a lunatic, nose inches from his own. His captor’s eyes were wide, the whites showing. His mouth stretched over teeth into a grin that looked like a feral animal’s.
In that moment of clarity, Silbane realized that Scythe was unpredictable and violent. His life hung on the edge of a blade balanced on the tip of this lunatic’s finger. He froze, knowing the slightest movement could overturn this man’s carefully crafted semblance of sanity.
At first, he didn’t think he would survive. His captor seemed to be watching a different scene, his eyes jerking back and forth, looking through and past Silbane. Then the lids drooped slightly, a breath escaped, nostrils flared as another breath was taken, and Scythe leaned back. His eyes closed and his head tilted back as he sat on his haunches.
He raised his hands together in front of his face, palm to palm, and spoke through them, “Nothing really dies, Silbane. You need to understand this. Tell me about Arek. If he has the power to interfere, I must know.”
Silbane closed his eyes and shook his head. He would not give up one more piece of information that would lead Scythe anywhere near his apprentice.
“Look at me.”
At first Silbane considered ignoring him, but after witnessing Scythe’s mercurial violence firsthand, he realized the inherent danger of such an infantile gesture. Staying alive was their best hope so he opened his eyes and found himself across from a man who was calm and composed. The transformation was unnerving and hinted at a deep psychosis, with triggers to extreme violence at any given word. Silbane kept his mouth shut, watching with the same care and utter stillness he would exhibit had Scythe pressed a real blade to his throat.
“You see this as a nomad’s tent, with all the expected trappings and furnishings. However...” The red-robed mage snapped his fingers and the entire room darkened, changed, cleared, then solidified.
