Mythborn

by Lakshman, V.

  Histories: Scythe

  Rend, ring, ruin, rust…

  I’ve heard giants say this is the arc of metal.

  I wonder then—what path flesh follows…

  - Duncan Illrys, Remembrances

  You must!” Sonya said, her voice pitched low, the urgent need clear in her white-knuckled grip.

  Duncan looked at his wife, then his eyes flicked to the man atop the warhorse, bow in hand, the man they had once called friend. The spark of Lore jumped from Sonya to him, filling him with the promise of a new strength, but too slowly to affect the outcome here. Still, he had to do something to save them.

  Something in his stance, a minute shift in weight must have betrayed his intention, for his wife grabbed him tighter. A deluge of images, feelings, a lifetime’s worth, came crashing into him through their mindspeak, the connection strengthened by their close proximity. It was her gift to him, but there was one last thing.

  Time slowed to a crawl as his wife brought her will to bear. The twang of Valor echoed like a drawn-out groan. The arrow flew from the bow so slowly Duncan saw the shaft bend and flex as it left the king’s hand. He looked down and saw Sonya’s eyes widen in shock, just as a bloody point appeared out of her chest.

  She pushed him away, and he could See the illusion of him still standing there, pierced by the same arrow, even as he was cloaked by her last spell. She looked at him, the arrow protruding from her chest, and slowly fell to her knees then pitched forward to her hands. Duncan could only let out a short sob of grief that clutched in his throat, powerless to change anything, watching the scene play itself out to its bitter end.

  Then the air next to her concussed and rippled, expanding outward, and a rift opened. A random thing neither of them could have anticipated. A blue-black portal that was included by happenstance in the same spell that cloaked him. He knew her intentions, but was still too stunned to act. His loss, a lifetime of memories of he and his wife, threatened to overwhelm him.

  Then Sonya mindspoke, He cannot see us. Hurry, push me through!

  His eyes widened in shock, No!

  You must, she replied calmly. You can still save us. Time flows differently there.

  He knew the rift would not last long. Though they were hidden by her spell, should she be caught in transit, she would be cut in half by the closure. Yet she would surely die here, and her last illusion would not last long. He’d not yet assimilated his powers as the new lore father. Thoughts jumbled through his head, paralyzing him with over-analysis. He didn’t know what to do.

  Now! she screamed through the psychic link. We have no time! He saw the ghost of her on all fours, crawling for the rift, which could disappear at any second. Her hands clawed at the stone as she shuffled forward, the arrow still protruding out of her back and scraping on the stones below her. Each touch contorted her body in a rictus of pain. She could not move more than a few finger-lengths, and the rift began to flicker, a sure sign it would close soon.

  Please, Duncan!

  He stumbled forward and put his arms under her, pulling her upright and forward. Even as the illusion of Duncan and Sonya falling with one arrow through them both played for the king and his men, he pulled his wife forward and threw her through the rift, then prepared to jump himself.

  No! Stay, or we cannot be saved. She toppled into the rift, falling and turning to face him. She smiled as she fell, a hand raised in farewell, then the rift snapped shut with a whump of displaced air.

  Duncan fell to his knees, stunned, the space before him a funeral stone with no marker except that of empty air. He had nothing left, and could again feel the weight of the moment threaten his composure. He took a shuddering breath, then looked behind him.

  The king and his men turned to leave, their bloody work done. They plainly had not seen what had happened. Duncan, still shielded by his wife’s last illusion, fell on his face and lay there; the dirt, blood, and spell, acting as a makeshift bed and blanket of sorts. Then the tears came, wracking him with sobs that he quickly stifled for fear of being found. The illusion of their death would maintain itself for a while, but not forever. He needed to move, or he would die here next to those the Galadine king had slain.

  Grimly, he rose. The strength of the stewardship that had been passed onto him began to take hold. He could feel it remaking him from the inside out. The power of the lore fathers would soon be his to command. His pale eyes looked in the direction of where the king and his men had gone. A fire of vengeance filled his heart, warming him like a small sun. He would see them killed before the night was finished.

  “Will thou smite thine enemies anon?”

  Duncan spun at the voice, his eyes wide with fear. He could not defend himself, not yet, and the king’s men would show no mercy. But the archaic language gave the speaker’s identity away.

  “Stand steady, Archmage. None can hear us.”

  “Sh-show yourself, my lord,” he stammered. His eyes searched the battlefield, peering around the mist and rain-soaked rock for any hint of the dragon-knight who owned that voice.

  A figure, black and massive, stepped from the thin air, appearing before Duncan like a wraith from the mist. “We hath not anticipated thy king’s actions.”

  Duncan fell back on his haunches and said, “Lord Rai’stahn.” He dropped his eyes, for the dragon-knights had pulled back after Valarius’s fall and, he had assumed, left the field. Were they here now, even as his wife and child were butchered? Then anger took over. “Where were you?”

  The dragon-knight turned to the new lore father and said, “Thy king chose his path.”

  “He killed everyone!” Duncan’s voice began to rise, but Rai’stahn’s presence now augmented Sonya’s spell, protecting them from both sight and sound. “What justifies this?”

  One without a dragon’s eyes would see the gray sky and ground mist merging into a surreal pocket of isolation, the immediate area visible, but not much more. Occasional rifts popping open or closed could be heard like air being sucked in by a giant.

  Duncan knew the dragon saw far better than he could. Rai’stahn looked around, his golden gaze easily piercing the mist that had grown to cover the volcano’s slopes. Then his gaze shifted and fell again upon the prostrate archmage. “A thousand suns pass for each day of a dragon’s life. By that measure, what matter is it to us whether thee and thine kill each other off?”

  It was delivered acrimoniously, as if the great dragon were angry for being questioned at all. Duncan levered himself up, then stood, coming face to chest with the leader of the dragon forces. “My lord,” he said, “we must destroy the king and his men. They must pay for the lives of our people!” He pointed at the battlefield, his finger both denunciation and judgment.

  Rai’stahn tilted his massive head. “What difference doth the few paltry lives of these vermin make? Thou art a pestilence upon Edyn.”

  “What?” Duncan exclaimed. “You cannot mean to dismiss those who fought and died here against Lilyth. Do they not deserve a hero’s welcome?”

  The dragon closed his eyes, and to Duncan it felt as if the sun had disappeared. He had not realized how much Rai’stahn’s golden gaze held the bleakness at bay. Then the archmage heard the dragon say, “As I said, we doth not intervene unless the need is dire, as with Valarius. Thy king dost not threaten the Way, nor change Edyn’s path. Until either of these be true, we forebear.”

  This time, the dragon’s tone implied the creature tried to make Duncan understand, but he would have none of it. He clenched his jaws, his gaze becoming dark. Anger bled up through him like steam, a cauldron of hate without release. “You would let him get away with murder, when you can exact justice?”

  “We act when our actions hast the most effect, Archmage,” Rai’stahn chastised, then looked upon Duncan with what might have been pity. “I saw thee push thy mate through. How shall she be saved, if thou fall whilst seeking vengeance?”

  The words hit the new lore father like a physical blow. He put a hand to
his head, his mind racing. Much had been learned about these gates between Lilyth’s realm and theirs. It was possible to travel between, but one had to be living, or possessed. The Aeris demons could not leave Lilyth’s realm without a body.

  “You’ll help me… find a gate so I can go through,” he said, and it came out half plea and half demand. “I will bring them back.”

  Rai’stahn looked through the mist at something the lore father could not see, then said, “With Lilyth defeated, these rifts will lessen. Finding a way wilt prove most difficult, mortal.” The dragon-knight’s gaze shifted and he said, “Thy king and his men return, likely to clear the dead.” He looked back at the lore father, who felt the heat of those eyes fall upon him again. “I will convey thee to safety, but that is the last burden I will bear for this war.” The dragon’s head sank. “Mine hands, too, art stained with innocent blood.”

  A small gate popped open, taunting Duncan with its existence and semi-permanence. Duncan couldn’t ignore it and was tempted to jump through.

  “Thy wife was correct. Thou wilt remain hither to parley her release,”

  Duncan was speechless for a moment. Then he gathered his courage, fed by anger, and said, “You’ll leave vengeance to me?” He shook his head, closing his eyes to the sight of the motionless dragon-knight.

  When Duncan uttered his next words, they sounded as much an accusation as a promise, “Then I shall become death, and justice shall be delivered by my hand.” Something changed then, a feeling of purpose, as if something else wrapped around him in its protective arms. A presence surrounded him in a halo of comfort and strength.

  The dragon-knight looked up, his eyes widening at whatever he saw, and then at the small gate dissipating in a shimmer. When he looked back at Duncan, it was with an intensity that caused the lore father to step back. Rai’stahn said, “Be warned, Lore Father. Desire can shape things in ways thou cannot imagine.”

  Duncan spat on the ground and turned away. “You’re ill-timed, selfish, and leave me to my own means. Very well, I’ll rescue my wife from Lilyth’s realm.” He met the dragon’s golden eyes and finished, “Or I’ll bury myself there, next to her.”

  Rai’stahn paused, an indrawn breath the only sign he was still there. When he released it Duncan could smell sulfur, like the volcano belching forth hot gas. “Very well, Lore Father. We wish thee well.”

  Duncan never looked back as the dragon-knight took a step and faded from view. He looked around the blasted landscape, taking a deep breath of the cool mist that had gathered around him. He could hear the king’s men now, the jingle of mail, the clink of spurs on rock. A laugh floated from the mist to an unheard joke. It filled him with a white-hot rage.

  The Way had begun to manifest itself already and his body felt stronger than before, attuning itself to his newfound powers as archmage. He was not at full strength yet. That would take several days, but he had enough to do what he wished to do now. He gathered his strength and cast a simple spell, one that continued to shield him from view and sound. Then he drew a knife from his belt, curved and wickedly sharp. It has been a gift from King Mikal Galadine, a man who would come to understand the word grief.

  Laughter floated in again from out of the mist and Duncan crouched, orienting himself even as his form faded. One did not have to see the rocks move to know his path took him toward the nearest of those sounds.

  At the end of that day, not a single man dispatched to the volcano’s slopes returned alive. The ground was called cursed, the death bed of the last mages of the land, and the men refused to go back. Little did they know that death would soon cut down every man, woman, and child who had a hand in the king’s justice, like a scythe harvesting souls for the murder of a woman and her unborn child.

  The Forging of Mithras

  Adversity can be overcome by most men,

  but to test their character, give them power.

  - Jebida Naserith, Should I Fall

  Baalor appeared in a flash of blue and white within Lilyth’s demesne, his new builder’s body trembling with the anticipation of seeing his queen again. Plans were unfolding nicely, even leaving the king of Bara’cor alive. The balance had to be maintained, at least for a little while longer. Had Bernal died, there would have been one more ally to aid the cursed Highlord Valarius, something they could not afford. He frowned at the thought, knowing that much of their success depended on the exact execution of their campaign.

  Lilyth sat at the open arched window, looking out over her city of Olympious. It was a spot he knew she went when in deep contemplation or doubt, as if the horizon pulled her thoughts into order. He did not gainsay it, for his queen had been planning her return to Edyn with meticulous care. His only concern was to not fail her.

  “Did you provide sufficient resistance?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the lands spread out before her.

  “Aye, my queen. The king of Bara’cor was beaten to within a fingers-length of death’s grasp. Malak intervened, though I know not how he found the Galadine pater. Whether he knew it or not, he could not have been more timely.”

  She turned to him then, and he saw the worry in her ice-blue eyes. “He will aid the elves, then? It is imperative they gain the gate.” Her face softened. “We balance on the knife’s edge.”

  He nodded, commiserating. “The king could not believe anything but his death would have come at my hands if the elves had not intervened. He will lead them to the gate. Do not doubt yourself now.”

  She looked down, then gave a hesitant nod that seemed meant to both answer her second-in-command and reassure herself. Looking back up, she took a deep breath and asked, “The walls between our worlds grow thin. We have Bara’cor, and must soon turn our attention to Dawnlight.”

  Baalor considered his response before speaking, then said, “This body gives me access to the mountain.”

  “I know,” she said, laying a gentle hand on his forearm, “but the price is so dear to me. Securing Dawnlight must be done, but I can never think of you as expendable.”

  “I offered the king Ascension.” He said this matter-of-factly, a truth he did not fear to tell.

  Her only response was to shake her head and say, “And he refused. He knows not enough to value it, nor you. Had he accepted, he may have saved his people from what we must do, and we would’ve gained a valuable ally against Sovereign.” She looked at him and smiled. “Yet I would still have lost you.”

  He put his hand over hers, pulling her from the window’s arch and back into the royal chamber. “You’re certain letting Valarius gain entry to Bara’cor is wise?”

  She arched an eyebrow, letting herself be led by her commander. “You said I should not doubt myself.” She paused, then added, “Nothing we do can be called ‘wise.’ She looked up through the glass ceiling that opened above, seeing the red-orange light spread across the sky like a wash of dried blood.

  “Aye. I only ask, why is it so important he gains the Gate?”

  Lilyth sighed, pulling away from the demon commander and stepping up the dais. She turned and sat on the throne, her quiet dignity making her every action seem even more regal. She smiled thinly, as if trying to muster her courage, then said, “I cannot share every detail, for we know not who can sift memories and thoughts. Trust that I hold our victory most dear.” She paused, “But I will tell you this – men such as Valarius only value what they win by their own hand. He will not value Bara’cor lest it is won at great personal cost, and because of what he will believe was his own sheer ingenuity. Hubris is the key to his heart. It is often true of men.”

  Baalor took a breath, thinking about what she said. Then he assured her, “We will make him pay for every inch he claws from our grasp.”

  “I know,” she said, “but now that your sacrifice comes to the fore—” her expression grew wistful and sad—“I find myself unable to give the order.”

  Baalor smiled and said, “No order is needed, my lady. I offer myself gladly, and would do so again willing
ly.”

  “I know.” Her tone grew serious when she said, “Dawnlight must be taken out of the equation or the dwarves will align with Edyn. We cannot win against them and Sovereign, so I give what I love most.”

  “You give so that your people can survive. Do not mourn me.” He smiled again. “I will do what must be done.”

  She looked at him and nodded, brushing away a tear. “Dazra’s men will hunt you, and even if you evade him, you will perish within Arcadia.”

  The Aeris Lord looked at her for a moment then said, “You will bring meaning to Sovereign’s mistake and show him pride is a lofty place from which to fall.”

  Baalor was silent, looking at his queen. Then a thought crossed his mien and with it doubt, but he hesitated. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he knew he’d have to give voice to his other concern. “I do not presume to question, but the archmage Duncan Illrys… you decided he would not infiltrate the mountain. Why the change?”

  Lilyth’s smile this time was genuine, causing her eyes to sparkle and dance after the tears that still wet her eyes. “I have found a better use for our cursed companion.”

  It was Baalor’s turn to smile. “His command of the Old Lore is undiminished, even after all these years. Facing him again in Bara’cor brought back fond memories.”

  “I’ve given Duncan a task suited for his delicate frame of mind,” she said, inspecting the tips of her nails. She looked up at him from the corner of her eyes and continued, “Kill Valarius.”

  Baalor’s eyes widened at that, then he broke out into a smile. Duncan was a powerful archmage and his bonded companion was death itself. Still, that he could prevail against the elven Highlord was doubtful. Yet any distraction to the elven highlord would be welcome under their current circumstance. Why the archmage would even continue to help did not make sense until he recalled the man’s fixation on rescuing his wife and son.