Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts

by Lakshman, V.

  The feeling of dread grew at Arek’s unasked demand, but the king used that feeling, the dread that had grown inside him, to lend steel to his voice, "I could just have you killed."

  Arek met his eyes and their gazes locked, each measuring the other.

  "King Galadine, I am trained in the ways of combat. With what has been done to my body by Bara’cor’s hands, I am already dead. Without my foot, and my master, there is nothing for me to live for. You have nothing to compel me with and we both know it."

  Arek’s pale eyes never wavered. Bernal saw that he spoke the truth. He believed all he was or could be required his body to be whole, and his eyes reflected his belief and brooked no argument.

  The king bowed his head and nodded. "What do you want?"

  "I want the life of that man," Arek said, pointing to Sargin, his interrogator. "I want him to be executed now, in front of me."

  Stunned silence followed Arek’s request. It was as if he had spoken in a different language, one that none in the room wanted to understand. The king was the first to recover, "I... you can’t be serious."

  "I am."

  Ash stepped forward, looking at the king, then at Arek. "We’ll not kill someone acting on orders, against an intruder. Why not ask for my head as well? I’m the reason you were captured in the first place."

  Recognition that he had faced this man before in combat sparked into place. Arek drew a breath, shaking his head and said, "You faced me across live blades, sir, and wagered your life against mine. I accept that, because it was done with honor." Arek turned his attention back to Sargin with a look of contempt. "He tortured a bound prisoner and never wagered his own safety."

  The firstmark shoved himself forward and retorted hotly, "He was following orders!"

  Arek faced the giant firstmark and shot back, "And should all orders be followed, sir?"

  When Jebida said nothing, Arek turned his attention back to the king and said, "My master taught me that the measure of a man’s worth is in his actions. They define character. This man deserves to die, and I will have his life else we are done negotiating." Arek gingerly stepped back, carefully balancing on one leg, his armpits on the crutches.

  "Where is the honor in what you request? How is your character being defined now?" asked the king.

  Arek retorted, "Do not parry words with me, King. You had me tortured and never asked for my help, which I would have freely given. You assumed I was the enemy, without ever speaking to me. You cut off my foot!" he screamed.

  "You—"

  "When Bara’cor’s safety hung in the balance against mine, you chose Bara’cor," Arek interrupted. "Why is the choice difficult now, because you can’t hide somewhere and order the deed done? Did he not pledge his life, knowing it could be forfeit for crown and country? The decision is easy, but you are a coward."

  The king shrank in on himself, Arek’s words acting as stones slung at the carefully crafted panes of his moral life. Yet his duty was to Bara’cor, and he could not release his obligations, even if they were spurred on by the rantings of a possible spy.

  He dropped his gaze, unable to meet the pale stare of Arek’s, and put a hand to his head. A moment passed, a silence that stretched as the king took three deep, measured breaths. Then he looked up and said, "Ash, take the blade."

  The firstmark hesitated, thinking the king meant to do as Arek asked. While they did not agree, Sargin had followed his orders and Ash had no issues with that. He was, however, sorely wrong in the judgment of this king’s character.

  "I will not order the execution of one of my men," Bernal said. "He is of Bara’cor too, and falls under my aegis." He sighed, his eyes searching the ground in front of him as if the answer lay at his feet, but when he looked up there was nothing but sadness in his eyes. "I accept there were mistakes made, perhaps I rushed to judgment. But I will not repeat those mistakes. Your master is right, character shows in one’s actions."

  * * * * *

  Ash moved to obey the king’s order. He picked up Tempest and turned. As he did so, he heard a voice echo in his head.

  Beloved.

  Ash looked around, confused. The voice seemed to come from behind him, but there was no one there.

  I have waited an eternity.

  He looked down at the green-gemmed hilt of Tempest and the image of a beautiful woman came to his mind. What?

  I have chosen you.

  Ash shook his head, not understanding what Tempest meant. What? he asked again.

  I am all you wished.

  Ash felt the hilt grow warm, an almost living thing in his hand. A tingle started in his palms, then moved through his body. Wherever it went, pleasure followed. His eyes closed, and he could almost see the spirit of the sword floating before him.

  Beloved? I must first set things right.

  Ash’s eyes snapped open. For him, it seemed an eternity had passed, but he could see that only a moment separated the time between when he picked up the blade and now.

  "Wait," he began.

  The sword brightened, then hummed, glowing green. Ash didn’t remember having drawn it from its sheath, but it now shone like a green star in his hand. Silver runes appeared running up and down the mirror-like blade and he could see a quicksilver light flash along its keen, bright edges.

  Then Arek screamed, clutching his leg. The scream wasn’t one of pain, but of astonishment. Next to the king, Sargin also screamed, but different, guttural, like an animal being butchered while still alive.

  Ash turned and saw the interrogator collapse, clutching his chest and reaching out with one hand in the boy’s direction. "No!" the torturer screamed, but his plea had no effect.

  Ash watched as an unseen force pummeled Sargin’s body until his ribs were crushed and caved in. The force then turned its attention to Sargin’s skin, shredding it away in a bloody mist. That mist seemed to flow and weave, a red swathe that made its way directly to the stump of Arek’s lost foot, as if the gore were being sucked in by the appendage.

  The body of Sargin was stomped, spattering pink gobbets of flesh mixed with shards of pulverized white bone, until nothing resembling a person remained. More of the mist followed the first, joining with Arek’s body. In the end, Sargin’s body lay smashed into an unrecognizable bloody pulp, except the hand that had held the hammer, still curiously whole, reaching for Arek.

  Ash turned a stunned gaze to their prisoner, who stood without crutches. He watched as Arek looked down, and noticed a foot poking out from where the stump used to be. The boy put weight on it, testing it. A lance of pain shot through his mien, but a look of unabashed joy flashed across his face. His eyes said he had not expected any of this.

  What have you done? Ash demanded.

  Less than what Arek wanted, and what Sargin deserves. Arek carried me faithfully to you, and I promised him a debt repaid, but I did not heal him.

  You did this? You killed a man? the armsmark asked in horror.

  Killed, beloved?

  What are you?

  I am a sword. Is my purpose not clear? she retorted.

  Ash didn’t answer, but in a moment of clarity knew what this weapon would do. Its nature was to cause harm, to relish in pain. He began to drop it, but Tempest held his fingers fast.

  No, my love, we are meant for each other.

  Then another wave of pleasure rocked him and that last thought, along with his worries, disappeared.

  * * * * *

  The king stepped forward. None of this had gone as he’d planned, and now men clustered behind him looking at the pool of blood, meat, and bone that had once been Sargin. The boy’s foot had somehow re-grown and with that, Ash knew that all of the king's bargaining power had slipped away. What would compel Arek to help them now?

  Strangely enough, the king paid little heed to the piteous end of his man, Sargin, though he had died in front of him, destroyed by some force, some exhibition of magic. It should have stunned him, should have left him without the ability to think, but the ki
ng was made of sterner stuff.

  Ash looked at the boy and said, "You are healed?"

  Arek looked down in a daze. "You did this?"

  "It was not me, but I think the blade itself." Ash stood dumbfounded, not sure what to do next. In the back of his head, he thought he heard a lilting laugh.

  Her voice then whispered to him, I didn’t do anything, beloved. Arek healed himself by taking another. That is his nature, she said in a strange parody of his last thoughts about her.

  * * * * *

  Arek looked at the warrior he had faced before, the one the king had called Ash. Tempest had grown dimmer, but still glowed an unearthly emerald green. The man’s eyes were wide, his gaze locked on the blade.

  Arek then looked at his foot, which was now partially regrown. It had bones covered by muscle and tendon, as though his foot had been skinned, but it was full-sized. He flexed his toes and reveled in the shock of pain. It wasn’t entirely healed, but it was a foot! He felt giddy with happiness.

  Justice has been served, has it not, my brother? My debt to you is repaid. Tempest's voice echoed in his head, and he suddenly recalled her pleading with him back at the dunes. Had she done this to fulfill her promise?

  He looked around the room, his eyes settling on the broken form of what had once been his torturer. He couldn’t help grinning as he remembered Sargin writhing in pain. A feeling came over him, a satisfaction he hadn’t felt since being on the Isle. Seeing this man suffer meant Tempest was right, there was still justice in the world.

  The king’s eyes narrowed and he addressed the boy. "Are you happy, then? Your wish is granted, my man lies dead." He paused for a moment, then said, "Honor? You have none, sir, but what I must do is worse, for I must still treaty with you."

  He shifted, his eyes flicking again to the pulverized form of Sargin and a deep regret began to worm its way into his face. He looked back at Arek and reminded him, "You said we but needed to ask and you would lend your aid. Well, I ask now, will you aid us with your Finder charm?"

  Arek looked around the room. He still felt anger and shame at having been tortured, but the pain he felt when flexing his new foot left him feeling a strange glee. He couldn’t walk yet, but he no longer had a stump. He wondered what had happened and if the healing would continue.

  The torturer lay to one side, mangled into something unrecognizable, but where the king radiated remorse, Arek felt pride. That man had paid for hurting him and he did not regret it in the least. He also reminded himself that the ruler of Bara’cor had chosen to torture him first and ask for help only when no other choice presented itself. Maybe he, too, should pay for that decision. Still, to rejoin his master...

  Before Arek could answer, a wave of lethargy washed through his body. The world grew dim and tilted to one side. He heard rather than saw the clatter of his crutches. With a small sigh, his body crumpled to the floor and into oblivion.

  A NEW LORE FATHER

  True skill needs no loud voice,

  It is evident in every movement, every thrust.

  Though the scabbard is dull, the blade gleams.

  —The Bladesman Codex

  Giridian rested his head on weary hands. The deaths of Themun, Thera, and the children with her had affected every family deeply. The Isle itself felt covered in a palpable sense of mourning. The attack was a strike to the very heart of their lives and cost them those that were held most dear, the children. Many did not have the strength to continue and just stroked the ground where their child had fallen, as if to caress them to sleep one last time.

  Giridian felt the loss even more keenly. It was because of the lore father’s sacrifice that the majority had survived at all. Had he not used every ounce of his life-force, it was doubtful they would have escaped without more carnage and death.

  Now he was lore father. The simple thought belied the immense power that came with the title, the magic of his Ascension still changing him from the inside out. He could feel it and marveled at the sheer energy coursing through his veins. With it, he felt he could swim to Bara’cor and topple her walls himself. However, even if this were true, it was not the path he would choose.

  Kisan. That was the problem he set his mind to now. How could they help Kisan, who had managed to infiltrate the assassins by taking the place of one of their own? Further investigation of the dwarf’s body shed little light on his identity. He carried with him no papers, only an assorted set of strange items and things that could have been weapons. His death had made it impossible to mindread him, and contacting Kisan was out of the question.

  Giridian knew he could do it, for he now had the strength to mindspeak with the other adepts with as much effort as it took to utter a sentence, no matter their location. However, he did not know if that would alert anyone else to Kisan’s presence. Given these assassins seemed to command magic of some sort, he did not want to take the chance of ruining her cover.

  Therefore, he did the next best thing. He opened a path to the Way and left it open for Kisan. Perhaps the young master would try to contact him when she could. Once she found she could not reach Lore Father Themun, it was inevitable she would move down the line, until she reached Giridian.

  Next was Silbane, from whom he’d had no contact and no word. Giridian had stretched forth his mind and found nothing, not even an aura that would tell him that Silbane was alive. Nothing could get rid of that aura, short of death, or close proximity to Arek.

  Giridian desperately hoped it was the latter, but prepared himself that there may yet be a third adept who had perished. Had Themun not passed on his knowledge to Giridian, losing the lore father and Master Silbane would have been a blow the council could not have survived.

  Dwarves? he thought. Where did they come from? They had left the land, never to be heard from again. Only their great feats of architecture, the massive works and fortresses that dotted the known world, gave evidence that they had ever existed.

  "Builders," they had been called in ages past, creating the marvel of stone and steel that many took for granted. Now a team of these legendary dwarves had attacked them, killing Thera and the lore father, and worse, the children? Who would care enough to specifically target the Isle and to what purpose?

  A knock on his chamber door surprised him, but the aura brought a smile to his lips. "Enter, Dragor."

  Dragor made his way into the chambers of the new lore father and bowed, then took a seat in a nearby chair. "How are you doing?"

  Giridian’s smile wavered as he replied, "Been better."

  "I’ve seen to posting guards. They’re instructed not to engage these men, should they return. Everyone else is preparing for the Rites, tonight. You will administer them?"

  Giridian looked down and nodded, the Rites of Last Passage, a well-known and necessary part of saying goodbye to those loved ones who had fallen. "I will, though I wish we did not need them."

  He put a hand over his face and rubbed his skin until he felt it turn red, his mind a cauldron of confusion. Why had these dwarves attacked, he asked himself again. They were after something, and it could not have been to kill children. Something just didn’t feel right and this brought about another realization, the aura of the demon Lilyth was not all he sensed at Bara’cor. His heightened senses could now feel what Themun had, but what he felt was somehow different.

  In truth, he could feel something powerful in the process of awakening, but when he searched the currents of the Way, the scent of Lilyth was subtly combined with something else.

  It recalled Lilyth, but in the way that an acrid rind recalls the fruit inside. The two were parts of the same whole, but different. Themun may have confused the two, but Giridian now knew that what was somehow connected to the Gate was not necessarily connected to Lilyth.

  Giridian meant to unravel this mystery before more of his people died. He looked at Dragor and said, "We need to search the Vaults."

  "For what?" replied the adept in shocked surprise.

  "Follow," Giridi
an replied. "I will explain."

  They made their way out of the tower as Giridian shared his feelings of unease with Dragor. He spoke of the fact that he could potentially sift through memories of the previous lore fathers and see which did not fit cleanly with the history he and Dragor knew.

  Dragor held up a hand and interrupted, "You say you have the other lore fathers’ memories?"

  "I think so, for the most part."

  "And this stretches back to the first?" Dragor continued. "You can sift through centuries of learning?"

  Giridian looked at his friend and hesitated before saying, "Maybe, the same way you could in our library, and just as inefficiently. It is not as if the correct answer pops into my head. I have to find it by watching their lives, their interactions. Unless I know specifically where to look, I would spend more time than I had in this life searching."

  They made their way around another turn when Dragor’s hand clamped onto his shoulder. The dark-skinned adept looked down, then back up again at the lore father and whispered, "If it is the Gate we must gain knowledge of, then why not look at his memories?"

  Giridian shook his head, not understanding.

  Dragor licked his lips, his eyes darting between the lore father’s and the ground, then he said, "Valarius," with obvious distaste. The knowledge of how close this archmage had brought their world to destruction was still difficult to put aside.

  Giridian took a deep breath and stepped back, his mind racing. General Valarius Galadine, Edyn’s worst enemy and harbinger of the last devastation. He had been everything the council had stood against, but at one time, he had also been a lore father. Looking into his memories could help shed light on the riddle of the Gate.

  He put a hand on Dragor’s shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you. Let us get to the Vaults, then we will see."

  By the time they reached the underground doors, Dragor seemed to have grown to regret his suggestion. "Forgive me, I did not mean for you to try something foolish."