by Ben Hale
Thief in the Myst
By Ben Hale
Text Copyright © 2016 Ben Hale
All Rights Reserved
To my family and friends,
who believed
And to my wife,
who is perfect
The Chronicles of Lumineia
By Ben Hale
—The Master Thief—
Jack of Thieves
Thief in the Myst
The God Thief
—The Second Draeken War—
Elseerian
The Gathering
Seven Days
The List Unseen
—The Warsworn—
The Flesh of War
The Age of War
The Heart of War
—The White Mage Saga—
Assassin’s Blade (Short story prequel)
The Last Oracle
The Sword of Elseerian
Descent Unto Dark
Impact of the Fallen
The Forge of Light
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Map of Lumineia
Prologue: Margauth
Chapter 1: Rock Trolls
Chapter 2: Undaunted
Chapter 3: Answers
Chapter 4: The Ancient Keys
Chapter 5: Skorn’s Quest
Chapter 6: A Dead Foe
Chapter 7: Lorelia’s Secret
Chapter 8: Brother
Chapter 9: Enraged
Chapter 10: Beauty
Chapter 11: Reunion
Chapter 12: The Boneyard
Chapter 13: Competition
Chapter 14: Stormfall
Chapter 15: The Godship
Chapter 16: Cliffwatch
Chapter 17: Retribution
Chapter 18: Torridin
Chapter 19: Urthor’s Request
Chapter 20: Descent to the Deep
Chapter 21: Gorthon
Chapter 22: Riskellion
Chapter 23: Elsurund
Chapter 24: Aranis
Chapter 25: Sinder’s Obsession
Chapter 26: The Pit
Chapter 27: The Allegian Trial
Chapter 28: A Thief’s Trial
Chapter 29: Unlikely Allies
Chapter 30: Reaver
Chapter 31: Doubts
Chapter 32: Hilltop
Chapter 33: Skorn
Chapter 34: Betrayed
Chapter 35: The Eternal Gate
Chapter 36: Broken
Chapter 37: Refuge of the Eternals
Chapter 38: Vault of the Eternals
Chapter 39: Brother
Chapter 40: Astaroth
Chapter 41: A Mother’s Rage
Chapter 42: The Thief in the Myst
Chapter 43: Friend
Chapter 44: Defeated
Chapter 45: Guildmaster
Epilogue: Burned
The Chronicles of Lumineia
Author Bio
Map of Lumineia
Prologue: Margauth
A solitary figure stepped from the forest and ascended into the pass. The birdsong faded as he climbed, giving way to the mournful howl of the mountain wind. Black granite replaced bright trees and gurgling brooks, the stones roughly hewn and tossed into a semblance of a highway. Towering peaks blocked the fading light, casting the road into shadow. The wind gained a shrill tone as if to warn intruders, the chill piercing his skin.
Dressed in a cloak of black trimmed in green, the man kept his face cowled as he climbed into the mountains. His pace was unhurried as he picked his way past fallen boulders. An empty sheath lay on his back, the ancient material inscribed with runes and glyphs. Another scabbard hung from his belt and carried a thin sword.
The canyon curved and a decrepit citadel came into view. Built into a massive cleft between two mountains, Margauth had once been a mighty fortress. After the fall of the Verinai it had been abandoned until the Cult of Skorn had appropriated it for their use.
A great wall curved before the fortress, its battlements broken and layered in grime. The wooden gate had long since rotted away. Through the gap an uneven courtyard was visible, the surface strewn with ancient weapon stands and rusted blades.
A sheer cliff rose beyond the wall, its surface carved into the features of a giant beast. Jaws protruded from the rock, the fangs bared as if the very mountain yearned to roar. Light glimmered from the gaping mouth, and the rumble of drums echoed from within. The great windows above the mouth were shaped like eyes, the contours of the stone twisted in fury. The fortress gazed down upon the road as if daring the man to approach.
He paused to meet the citadel’s gaze, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. Then his eyes dropped to the hovering sword that blocked the entrance. Anchored to a chain, the sword glowed with fire and swung about, searching for a target.
Rumored to be uncontrollable, the blade carried countless curses that had been added over the years. Unless a token of Skorn was shown to the blade it would not be pacified, and even a rock troll would be cut asunder. The cult claimed Skorn himself had forged the blade, unaware of the truth.
The blade leapt forward, straining against the chain. The man reached out to it and grasped the spine of the blade. It spun, attempting to break free and sever his arm. He held it in an iron grip and forced it aside, gliding forward to grasp the hilt with his free hand.
“Remember your Master.”
The blade hesitated as if it understood his words, and relaxed in his grip. The man stepped to the chain and withdrew a small vial from a pouch at his side. Dribbling a few drops of acid onto the mithral binding, he watched as the liquid ate its way through the bond.
Free for the first time in eons, the sword shivered in ecstasy. The man reached to his back, sliding it into the empty sheath. It quivered in sublime relief and lay still. The man stepped away from the still sizzling chain and strode to the fortress.
Although the cult had thousands of followers, no guards were placed outside, their leaders assuming the blade was sufficient deterrent for intruders. The man strode through the cracked and weathered courtyard to the main door and reached for the handle. It creaked as it swung open, the hinges protesting the movement.
The great hall contained a scattering of light orbs. The green glow cast the space in a sinister light, making the shadows dance in disturbing patterns. Broken chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their metal brackets cankered with rust. Dust coated the walls and the floor, marred by thousands of footprints. He made his way through the rotting furniture and cracked pillars to the stairs at the back.
Shouts and screams touched his ears, growing louder as he ascended. At the top he reached the doors facing the front of the fortress. Light glowed from the cracks in the paneled door, flickering and brightening before flashing green. The screams came to an abrupt end but the shouts increased, gaining a rhythm of intonation and reverence, unifying into an avowal of worship.
He grasped the handle and swung it open to reveal a large amphitheatre contained in the mouth of the fortress. Huge stone teeth formed the battlements at the rear, and a mirroring set of fangs protruded from the ceiling high above. The floor had been carved into benches that overlooked a wide platform.
At the center of the stage a pair of statues depicted two men locked in mortal battle. The statues resembled those placed in temples of the Church of Light, yet here Skorn stood above Ero rather than beneath, his sword raised for the killing blow. Ero’s mythical staff lay broken on the ground, and the god was helpless to stop his impending death.
Men and women lined the space dressed in ceremonial cloaks of black and green. Most were homemade, their
stitching haphazard and the cloth drawn from a cheaper cotton. The Cult of Skorn was condemned by the populace and governments alike, but since the cult’s members were known only to each other, the governments of Lumineia could not punish them for their vile practices.
The man made his way between the ranks of fanatics, working his way toward the stage. Caught up in the chanting of the ceremony they paid him no mind. Then he spotted what they were worshiping.
A trio of figures stood on the platform over a sobbing fourth. On his knees, the man lifted his arm to the woman raising the sword above him. Bound in silver ropes, the captive trembled with fear. His features were hidden behind the mask of Ero, but his voice was audible from behind the mask.
“Please!” he cried. “I have a family—a farm! Please, let me go home!”
“A willing sacrifice!” the woman standing over him shouted, eliciting a rise in the chanting.
The man shook his head, emphatically denying her avowal but the mask on his face distorted his voice, making his words echo with the tinge of worship. Dressed in an ornate cloak of green, black, and gold, the high priestess held aloft the blade, its edge glowing red with heat. She cried out again, stoking the ire of the crowd. Then she looked down upon the broken man.
“What will you give to Skorn?”
The man struggled to flee but the silver ropes held him fast. The woman flicked the blade, her expression filled with glee as he recoiled in fear. Then the newcomer stepped onto the platform and strode toward the group. His appearance went unnoticed until one in the front row began to shout. The outburst spread like wildfire, causing the leaders to turn and face him. Then the man peeled back his cowl.
Although inured to violence, the cultists were still shocked by his appearance. Four ragged scars rent his flesh, tearing and pulling from temple to chin. The claws of the great cat had marked his flawless features, but his dark eyes glittered from between the scars.
“You dare to interrupt a sacrifice?” the leader demanded, recovering first.
“Carvia,” the man addressed her, “your leadership here is no longer necessary.”
Shock flitted across her features at the use of her real name, and then rage took its place. “I know not how you passed Skorn’s blade, but your life ends here. Willing or no, you will be sacrificed to him.” Her eyes flicked to the man at her side. “Bind him.”
Her two companions leapt forward, but the man drew the previously bound blade and plunged it into the first. Releasing the handle, he willed it to withdraw and strike the second. Both bodies struck the stage and the sword glided above them, fire bursting up the blade.
The shouts reverberated into silence as Skorn’s blade glided among them, free and leashed to the newcomer’s will. He smiled and advanced upon Carvia. The sword spun around her, the tip gliding past her throat. She ignored it, her eyes fixed upon him.
“Who are you?”
“You have worshiped me for eons yet know not my face?” He laughed mockingly and gestured to the statues behind her.
Disbelief contorted her features but her eyes flicked to the statues. “You claim to be the god Skorn?”
He rotated to face the crowd. “I have slumbered for eons, but come to take my place at your head. Now I call upon you to recognize your master . . . and kneel.”
Grappling with the suddenness of his claim, several cultists shifted their feet. One took a step forward and raised his hand to protest. Skorn’s blade darted to him, plunging deep before retreating. The protest died on his lips and he slumped to the floor.
The man in the Ero mask struggled to his feet, and in the silence his relieved sobbing was clearly audible, even through the magic of the mask. He stumbled toward Skorn, raising his hands in relief. Skorn rotated to face him and smiled. The sacrifice recoiled from the expression, and then shrieked as the hovering blade plunged into his back. He slumped to the floor and the bloody blade withdrew before stalking the spectators once more.
One of the most fervent cultists dropped to his knees, crying out in worship. As if a dam had broken the others followed suit, and the thousands of fanatics dropped to their knees. Skorn basked in their chants before turning to Carvia.
“Your will or your life,” Skorn said. “Either way, I will have my sacrifice.”
Her gaze flicked to the dead, and then she too dropped to her knees. “Master,” she whispered.
Skorn smiled and faced his cult. For now, they would be his army, the most loyal kind he could ever desire. He constantly found it amusing that they viewed him as a god. He was Skorn, but even the cult that worshiped him had no idea of his true identity. Only the Eternals knew the truth, but he’d been careful to keep his presence secret.
After he’d escaped from Ero, the Thieves Guild had been the perfect place to hide—until Jack Myst had arrived. Skorn’s smile turned into a scowl as he thought of him. Skorn yearned to kill him for what he’d done, but Jack was the only one capable of retrieving what he sought.
Skorn’s gaze swept across the army of fanatics, a smile twisting his scarred features. His blade swung about, hovering over those with defiance in their features. At the sight of the sword they lowered their eyes and joined the building chant. Skorn allowed it to build to a fever pitch before silencing it. Then he spoke in the deathly quiet.
“Your sacrifice has been accepted,” he said.
“Our will is Skorn’s!” they cried, repeating the phrase with increasing fervor until the teeth of Margauth seemed to shake.
Skorn’s dark eyes glittered. His return to power had begun.
Chapter 1: Rock Trolls
Jack Myst ascended to the cottage roof and wrapped himself in his cloak. The material of the shaden cloak bent the shadows, causing him to fade into the darkness. Then he settled in to wait. The roof belonged to one of the king’s groundskeepers, so the building remained vacant at night. Guards would occasionally pass by and peer into the windows, but Jack had no fear of discovery, at least not from the men. The rock trolls were another matter entirely.
Theirs was a recent contract and one that heightened the castle’s defenses a hundredfold. Only twenty rock trolls patrolled the castle and the grounds, yet they were more dangerous than thousands of the standard guard. In the month since Jack had been watching he’d never seen a troll out of place.
A female rock troll approached the cottage shortly before midnight, and Jack eased himself deeper into the shadow of the chimney. As she neared, Jack recognized her as High Captain Arana, the leader of the rock troll contingent in the city.
At nine feet tall and layered in muscle, she had skin as tough as boiled leather. Spiked tattoos covered her upper body, every inch marking a kill. The rock troll’s Sundering displayed her history of battle—a visual challenge for every foe.
Jack controlled his breathing as she came to a halt in front of the cottage and slowly circled it, her eyes scanning every shadow large enough to obscure a squirrel. Her eyes slid across his form and then flicked to him. He resisted the urge to bolt but tensed his body, readying himself to flee. Then she moved on and he released a slow breath.
At least it wasn’t Tryton.
When he’d first come to scout the castle, the rock troll king had just finished negotiating the contract. He’d almost caught Jack—twice. Jack had chosen to halt his stalking until Tryton had departed north. Then Jack had resumed his survey of the fortress.
Not prone to patience, he reminded himself of his purpose and continued to watch the guards. Like every night, he fell to pondering what he knew. It felt like a lifetime since he’d infiltrated the Thieves Guild and learned the true identity of the Guildmaster.
Skorn was an ancient, a member of a race presumed dead for eons. He’d sent Jack’s mother to steal a map left by his people, but she had taken it and disappeared. Years later Skorn had found her. He’d sent thieves to bring her back but she’d refused, and been killed in the ensuing battle.
Jack would have died that night without the supreme sacrifice of hi
s panther. In giving his life, Shadero had transferred much of his physical attributes to Jack. Jack’s druid magic had been extinguished, but his body had been permanently enhanced as a result.
Jack had spent six years preparing himself to infiltrate the guild that had killed her. He’d hunted three men within their ranks, but his quest had not ended with their deaths. Shelt had died from his injuries years ago. Nemeth had been taken by the dark elves into the Deep. As the leader of those who’d killed his mother, Kuraltus had suffered as much as Jack had. Orn had taken his memories and forced him to be what he was not, a killer.
Do not be what I became.
He scowled, irritated that his mother’s words continued to hold him to his oath. He’d sworn not to become a thief and so he’d left the guild. Then he’d found his mother’s memory orb from which he’d learned the truth, that the man he’d defeated was an ancient. The information sent him on a trail of answers that eventually led to the castle at Terros.
You’re still a thief, Jack, he imagined her saying.
I left the guild, didn’t I?
Are you here to steal? she seemed to challenge.
Curiosity, he corrected.
She seemed to grunt in disapproval, but that only made him smile. He’d heard the distinct sound hundreds of times in his youth. Every time he would disobey, or think he’d tricked her, she would tighten her lips and make that sound.
—A motion drew his gaze and he shoved the memories aside. A pair of human guards had deviated from their assigned path and approached a troll to engage him in conversation. The door he guarded lay on the east side of the castle. Because of its distance from anything vital it had always been unguarded, until King Tryton had noticed the weakness and placed a rock troll at the portal.
The troll ignored the humans but they persisted, growing irritated with his silence. The troll had been trained from birth for the purpose of war, his discipline prevented him from losing focus. Still, he grew annoyed and lowered his gaze to order them back to their track.
