A World Without Heroes

by Brandon Mull

  “Dismount!” the horseman repeated harshly.

  Jason swung out of the saddle to the ground as the other horsemen pulled up behind, blocking their escape. Rachel dismounted as well.

  “If you do not resist, we will not harm you,” the soldier vowed. “You are trapped and outnumbered. Surrender your arms.”

  Jason glanced back at the men behind him. He assumed the horsemen were conscriptors. One of the three, the horseman who had come from directly behind, wore no armor and bore a longsword. A patch covered one eye. The other horsemen wore helmets that screened their faces.

  “Choose now,” Stanus said. “Do not force us to lay hands on you.”

  Jason reached into his cloak, his hand closing over the haft of the poniard. There were too many adversaries both in front and behind.

  “We have to surrender,” he told Rachel. He wondered if it was too late to bargain using his invitation to Harthenham. It was worth a try.

  “We’re putting our weapons down,” Rachel called, revealing her crossbow.

  As she spoke, Jason heard a sound like breaking glass. A brilliant flash originated behind a mangler, followed by a deafening explosion. The mangler blew apart, showering shards of blade and armor in all directions. A neighboring mangler also went down with the explosion, and Stanus was unseated from his horse as it reared and toppled over, a long fragment of a blade protruding from its side.

  Jason fell flat after the explosion. His borrowed mount bolted back down the ravine, away from the blast. Had Rachel somehow thrown the orantium? How had it landed behind the mangler? Through the smoke Jason saw one of the manglers charging at him with alarming speed. Rachel thrust the crystal sphere into his hand. “You’re the pitcher,” she said urgently.

  From his knees he flung the globe at the attacker. The crystal sphere shattered against the creature’s spiked chest. For an instant the stone flared an intense white; then it exploded with a fiery roar.

  As the hot blast wave washed over him, Jason pressed his face into the ground and clapped his hands over his ears. When he looked up, what remained of the mangler lay in a twisted ruin twenty feet farther away than before. A curved blade was planted in the earth inches from Jason’s head.

  Jason rose to his knees and turned to face the horsemen behind him, raising his poniard. Rachel aimed her crossbow. A long-haired man was bounding down the slope, a sword in one hand, a heavy doubled-up chain in the other. He headed toward the three riders, who appeared to have forgotten Jason as they faced this new threat.

  Leaping the last twelve feet to the floor of the ravine, the newcomer swung the four-foot length of chain like a flail, taking the helmet off one of the riders and unhorsing him. The long-haired man rolled under the horse and regained his feet. The man with the eye patch was bearing down on him, brandishing his longsword. The long-haired man somersaulted toward the horse, just enough to one side to avoid being trampled, staying low enough to avoid the rider’s reach. From the newcomer’s kneeling position, a well-timed swing of his sword slashed the charging steed’s foreleg, and the horse pitched forward, churning up chunks of soil. The rider took flight, landing violently.

  Jason saw the conscriptor with the lance bring his horse around. He nudged Rachel, who aimed her crossbow carefully at the horseman and pulled the trigger. The quarrel did not fire. The safety was engaged.

  The long-haired man did not require the help. As the rider reached him, he spun, using his sword to chop off the head of the lance, then the chain to slam the rider from his saddle. Pouncing, the newcomer stabbed the rider as he struggled to rise, the sharp blade finding a gap in the rings of his armor.

  The rider who had lost his helmet was on his feet and approaching with an ax. Rachel, who had now released the safety, fired the crossbow. The quarrel missed by inches.

  The long-haired man left his sword in the back of the fallen rider and held both ends of his doubled chain. With the chain he intercepted the downswing of the ax, turning the weapon aside. Lunging past his attacker, the long-haired man swung the chain in a vicious backhand that struck the rider’s unprotected temple. The man collapsed and did not stir.

  The enemy with the eye patch rose unsteadily, his clothes stained with dirt and grass, an ugly gash bleeding on his forehead. He stood ten paces away from the long-haired man, longsword grasped in both hands. “Jasher,” he growled. “You chose the wrong day to interfere.”

  “I do not know your name,” Jasher said, brushing some of his long hair out of his face, “though I am far too familiar with your kind.” A good portion of his hair was caught up in a roll at the nape of his neck. To either side it hung more than halfway down his torso. He wore loose brown robes, and his feet were bound in animal hides with leather thongs. A leather baldric held a sheath across his back.

  “I am Turbish.”

  “Are you ready to die, Turbish?” Jasher walked toward him, his chain held casually. He made no move to retrieve his sword.

  “What makes you think you can best me?” Turbish snarled. Jasher laughed lightheartedly.

  The chain suddenly unfurled to its full length, snapping like a whip. Turbish’s head jerked back, and one hand flew to cover his nose and mouth. When Turbish removed his hand, his nose lay broken sideways across his face. A second adroitly aimed lashing left Turbish cradling his remaining eye, his sword falling from his hands.

  Jasher doubled the chain again, and a harsh blow to the jaw sent Turbish’s head bouncing across the ground. The headless body lunged at Jasher, who sprang nimbly aside and tripped it.

  Jasher retrieved Turbish’s longsword, approached the displacer’s head, and finished him. He promptly withdrew the sword and put the horse with the missing foreleg out of its misery. Leaving the longsword planted in the horse, he retrieved his own blade.

  Weapons in hand, Jasher trotted past Jason and Rachel without a glance, over to where the manglers had exploded. He inspected the mangler bodies, thrusting his sword into one. The creature shrieked at a pitch almost too high to apprehend.

  Jasher leaned over Stanus, who had been crushed when his horse fell. The injured horse was breathing, so Jasher dispatched it. “All dead,” Jasher said, turning to Jason and Rachel. He spoke with a different accent than Jason had heard.

  Jason gawked at their rescuer, still marveling at how thoroughly he had annihilated the enemy soldiers. “I’m Jason. This is Rachel.”

  “Jasher, exile of the Amar Kabal.” He touched two fingers to his chest and briefly inclined his head.

  Jason stood.

  “That was an excellent throw with the orantium,” Jasher said. “Galloran informed me you had one of his spheres.” He spoke with the precise enunciation of a man using a second language he has mastered.

  “You know Galloran?” Jason asked.

  “He is a dear friend. He got word to me of your quest and bade me lend a hand. I almost reached the crossroads in time to prevent your meeting with the displacer. Once he was in your company, I chose to follow you, watching from afar. Now seemed the appropriate moment to intervene.”

  “I thought we were doomed,” Rachel said.

  “You were. Where are you going now?”

  “Are you coming with us?” Jason asked hopefully.

  “Of course, Lord Jason of Caberton. I will strive to keep you alive while you complete the Word.”

  “We’re going to the Sunken Lands,” Rachel said. “We need to find the Pythoness.”

  “A hard journey,” Jasher said. “I have a horse, and fortunately two of your enemies’ warhorses survived. We will ride part of the way.”

  Jasher retrieved the two warhorses. Both seemed unaffected by the wild skirmish. He handed Jason the reins to one. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mounting the other, Jasher rode off down the ravine the way Jason and Rachel had come. Shortly he returned, leading the horses Jason and Rachel had ridden. “Transfer the gear you want to keep, and we’ll let these poor beasts go.”

  Jason retrieved the furry water
skin and some other articles. Rachel collected gear from her horse as well. Meanwhile Jasher heaped the bodies together and set them aflame.

  “That should help blur the evidence of my handiwork. Nobody knows that I travel with you. We can use that to our advantage. Do you have what you want?”

  “Yes,” Jason said.

  Jasher crossed to the horse Jason had ridden. He passed his hands over the coat of the beast, inspecting it closely. “Ah!”

  “What?”

  “Come see. You too, Rachel.”

  Jason moved closer to where Jasher stood inspecting the horse’s shoulder. He had pulled back a small flap of fur to reveal a glazed human eye embedded in the horseflesh. Jason stared at the eye, disgusted and fascinated.

  “Can you guess who this belongs to?” Jasher asked.

  Jason shrugged. “It looks dead.”

  “Your displacer friend didn’t teach you much. This eye belongs to the displacer I just killed—Turnip, or whoever he was.”

  “Ew,” Rachel said. “How?”

  “Displacers can graft parts of their bodies onto other living creatures,” Jasher explained. “This talent more than any other makes them such potent spies. With his eye on the horse, he knew every move you made. Be wary of gifts from your adversaries.”

  Jasher swatted the horse gently and it trotted off.

  “Unbelievable,” Jason muttered. Now he understood why Tad had been so generous.

  Jasher swung up onto one of the warhorses. “This ravine ends at an unscalable wall. We need to loop around to get my horse. Rachel can ride with me. Come.”

  Jasher helped Rachel mount behind him. Jason climbed onto the other horse, which proved a little tricky, since it was taller than the previous horses he had ridden. The powerful steed stamped restively.

  “Ride with confidence,” Jasher advised. “Your new mount is trained for battle. She can sense your uncertainty.”

  Jason followed Jasher out of the ravine. Jasher’s hair trailed behind him like a banner as he cantered along. Once out of the ravine they curved around to the north and east. A small trail led up a slope to a third horse, which Jasher claimed. As he led them deeper into the forest, twilight deepened to darkness.

  Eventually Jasher ordered a dismount and secured the horses. “Go to sleep quickly,” he warned. “I will awaken you early.”

  Jason felt so fatigued from the day’s activities that he needed no admonition.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE SUNKEN LANDS

  The next evening Jason rested against a fallen log, his body sore from a long day riding. Jasher had led them on a winding route deep into the hills, often walking the horses up shallow streams or forging paths through heavy foliage.

  Having been up since before dawn, Jason felt ready to sleep. The meal of gutplug and jerky settling in his stomach did not help his wakefulness. But Jasher had kept watch the previous night, and he had to be exhausted. “I’ll take first watch,” Jason offered.

  “No need,” Jasher said. “My kind never truly sleep. We recuperate from the day with a type of lucid dreaming. It’s a trancelike state not far from full consciousness. No adversaries will surprise us while I rest.”

  These were more words than Jasher had spoken all day. Jason wanted to keep the conversation alive.

  “Why do you keep your hair rolled up at the back of your neck?” he asked. He noticed Rachel paying attention.

  “It is the way of my people, the Amar Kabal. It protects the amar.”

  “The amar?” Rachel repeated.

  Jasher paused, regarding them with icy blue eyes. “‘Amar’ means ‘seed.’ The Amar Kabal are the People of the Seed.” He turned his head and lifted the roll of hair. At the base of his skull was a raised portion of flesh the size of a walnut.

  Jason winced. It looked like a huge cyst. “What’s it for?”

  “The amar is the vehicle of our immortality. It dislodges at our death, granting new life when planted in the earth.”

  “You mean you grow?” Rachel asked in amazement. “Like a plant?”

  “Buried in fertile soil, the man grows from the seed within a few months. Less fertile soil requires more time. If my seed dislodged in extremely arid terrain, I might never be reborn.”

  Jason leaned forward. “So you’ve died before?”

  Jasher gave a small, grim smile. “Many times.”

  “And then you come back to life,” Rachel murmured.

  “Yes. The miracle of the amar preserves my memories until a new body germinates.”

  “You remember all of your lives,” Jason said.

  “Every moment until every seed has dislodged and become separated from my senses. Nine times I have perished in combat. Five times I have allowed my life to be taken, because my body was nearing the end of its usefulness and I wished to start anew. Once I drowned at sea. Once I fell to my death scaling a cliff. And my First Death.”

  “That must feel strange, becoming an infant with all of your former memories,” Rachel realized.

  Jasher laughed as if the idea were absurd. “No, we are reborn into the prime of adulthood, the age at which we first die. Our First Death is a ceremony held around age twenty.”

  “How long can your seed survive unplanted?” Jason wondered.

  Jasher shrugged. “The amar can lie dormant for years. But eventually the seed would perish.”

  “So if Maldor wants to truly eliminate you,” Jason said, “he would have to kill you and then destroy your seed.”

  Jasher’s eyes flashed. “The destruction of an amar is the unpardonable sin. He who commits such an act incurs a death penalty, to be executed by the Amar Kabal, who from that moment onward will stand united as his enemy.”

  “I take it people don’t usually destroy a seed,” Rachel surmised.

  “Not often.” Jasher winced softly, as if the thought caused him pain. “On the brighter side, the hand that preserves and plants an amar may request virtually any service in return.”

  “You called yourself an exile,” Jason remembered. “Are there others of your people wandering like you?”

  Jasher shook his head. “Very few. I was cast out of the Seven Vales because I chose to oppose Maldor. My people enjoy independence from his tyranny. He respects their might and leaves them in peace, untouched by his corrosive influence, so long as they do not interfere with his efforts to dominate the other kingdoms. My rebelliousness endangered their peace, so they disavowed me.”

  “Then can Maldor kill your seed?” Rachel said.

  “Not without incurring the full consequences of the unpardonable sin. There are no exceptions to our vengeance on that matter. If it could be proven that he was behind such an act, the Amar Kabal would rise against him, even though I am an exile.”

  “Why do you fight Maldor?” Jason asked.

  Jasher looked into his eyes. “He committed the unpardonable sin.”

  Jason scrunched his eyebrows. “Then why don’t your people oppose him with you?”

  “To avoid a war Maldor pretended that the perpetrator of the crime, a displacer named Fronis, acted alone and against his orders. The Amar Kabal are not great in number, but there are mighty warriors among us, and our dead normally rise to fight again. Maldor has reason to fear us. He delivered Fronis to my people. The displacer, having been betrayed by his master, professed he was carrying out orders, but my people closed their ears and their minds and exacted their revenge on him alone. I confirmed through a trusted source that Maldor himself gave the order to extinguish the amar of my brother, Radolso. I testified to what I had learned, but since I myself did not witness the order, and since a war against Maldor could bring about the end of the Amar Kabal, my testimony was ignored. Therefore I seek my vengeance alone.”

  “So you’re trying to kill Maldor?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes. I bide my time, harassing him, slaying his servants, while I seek an opportunity to take his life. I must not fail, or else his sin will go unpunished.”

  “A
re you seeking the Word?” Jason asked.

  “I am not. Eldrin designed his races to have little aptitude for Edomic. There is a prophecy among us, spoken by Darian the Seer, that when the Amar Kabal seek to speak Edomic, it will mark the beginning of our downfall.”

  “But you want to help us,” Jason confirmed.

  “If you can obtain the Word and use it to destroy Maldor, my vengeance will be complete. I do not need his blood on my sword.”

  “You also helped Galloran?” Rachel asked.

  “I was not present when he was taken. He had sent me on an errand. I would like to believe that had I been present, he would not have fallen. You have four of the six syllables?”

  “Yes,” Jason said. “How did you know?”

  “An educated guess. I know where the fragments are located, all save the second. Long ago Galloran described to me the location of the Pythoness in the Sunken Lands. We will find her.”

  “The second syllable is in a place called the Temple of Mianamon,” Rachel said.

  Jasher grinned. “Then we know our destination after the Sunken Lands. I know of the Prophetess of Mianamon, but have never visited her temple. It lies deep in the southern jungles, beyond the limits of civilization. Let us hope the Pythoness can enlighten you. They say she has the true gift of prescience.”

  Jason scratched with his fingernail at a piece of meat in his teeth left over from dinner. It had wedged in there tightly.

  “How did you two come to oppose Maldor?” Jasher inquired. “Galloran led me to understand you are Beyonders.”

  Jason and Rachel took turns explaining how they came to Lyrian, and how they crossed paths at Galloran’s ruined castle.

  “In the end,” Jason summarized, “Galloran encouraged us to pursue the Word. He basically challenged us to be heroes. With Maldor already after me I’m not sure I had any other choice.”