Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (4 page)

Themun sighed with true sadness, then responded in a soft voice, “I never meant for things to come to this.” He knew the seed had been planted, and with it the steps necessary to ensure the land’s safety. Now all he needed was time for his council to accept his line of reasoning. After that, he could address the need for Silbane’s apprentice, another subject sure to cause controversy.

Kisan stood, emboldened by the seeming support of her idea, and asked, “Can we not
control
Lilyth? I realize we speak of a demon, but with our knowledge—”

“Lilyth would possess you,” Themun replied. “You would be but a vessel for it to dominate and occupy. Once taken, it gains access to all your knowledge and powers, but most importantly, permanence on this plane of existence.”

Themun looked pointedly at Kisan, his gaze brooking no argument, then he went on, “We will not risk ourselves to Lilyth’s influence. If the demonkind re-enter this world, they will seek possession on a scale vaster than any in the past.” He then looked at Silbane and said, “And as it has been so eloquently pointed out, we are not what we once were.”

He stood and raised his staff, bringing it at arm’s length before him. “We shall recess for the afternoon and reconvene at dusk. When we meet again, I will explain about Silbane’s apprentice. Your insight is needed if we are to plan a course of action.”

Bowing once, he excused the other council members, sinking wearily into his chair. He watched as they filed out, Kisan being the first out the door. Themun cleared his throat and caught the attention of his friend, “Silbane, a moment of your time.”

Silbane remained, a questioning look on his face.

“You must be wondering what Arek has to do with all this. As his master, you have the most insight into his abilities.” He avoided Silbane’s gaze, fingering the runes on his staff.

“You flatter me,” Silbane replied, “but despite Arek’s talent in combat, we both know he has significant shortcomings when it comes to the Way.”

Themun shook a dismissive hand and took a different tact. “It is opening. I sense it,” he said, referring now to the Gate.

Silbane furrowed his brow, a disbelieving look on his face. “As Dragor said, you have a knack for timing. It must feel nice to play us, but I don’t have the power you do. Even I can sense nothing at this distance. And claiming my apprentice is somehow pivotal and yet expendable does not help your position. At least,” he added, “not with me.”

“And what of Kisan’s suggestion?”

Silbane pursed his lips, clearly annoyed at the way Themun kept changing the subject. “You seemed overly eager to put her in her place.”

“She insults the man who made it possible for all of us to live. Stubborn and mule-headed, nothing with her has changed.”

“You are still the same, so easily angered when it comes to your father.” Silbane offered a sad smile then said, “One or two of us could get in and out of the camp with little to fear. And while trained, I do not relish the role of assassin yet again.”

“You should have thought of that before accepting the Black. It may come to that, if no other solution is found.”

Silbane looked into his friend’s eyes. “I know, but you keep feeding us bits of information, so get comfortable with the idea of waiting.” The last bit was delivered with a good measure of sarcasm, a clear indication that Silbane was in no mood to bandy words back and forth.

Themun closed his eyes, wishing the dull headache that had recently become a part of his life would recede for just a moment. As he heard Silbane get up, he put out a restraining hand and said, “Whoever is helping the nomads could be formidable. Furthermore, the Gate
is
opening, and we need a way to seal it before it does.” Themun hesitated, then added, “We would need something to mask your approach,
and
disrupt the Gate itself.”

Silbane stared at the lore father for what seemed an eternity, then a cold weariness stole over him. This had been a charade, a game played for his benefit. It was a puerile gift from a friend who owed him more than this, more than his life. “He’s just a boy.” Silbane looked away, his eyes shut as if this physical act could keep the inevitable at bay. “He would never survive.”

Themun’s gaze fell and in a soft voice he said, “Don’t be melodramatic. He’s certainly not helpless.”

Silbane had no answer. Almost as an afterthought, likely to confirm what he already suspected, Silbane asked, “Has this decision already been made?”

Themun sensed his friend’s frustration and held up a forestalling hand. “Circumstances would have to be truly dire for us to allow the Gate to remain unchecked and unheeded. I did not come to this lightly.” He blew out a gust of air and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead as he thought about his choices. “Yes. I will do what is best for the land. If that means sending your apprentice on a dangerous but vital mission, so be it.”

“And if I refuse?”

Dead silence.

Then Themun barked, “Refuse? We act for the good of this land.
All of us!
That includes you
and
your apprentice!” The same anger that told Kisan she had dared too much, now fell upon Silbane. Themun made sure the master knew there was no doubt he would make good on his next promise as he said coldly, “I will assign Kisan to the task, if you decide to ignore your Oath.”

Silbane was speechless, the Lore Father’s sudden anger shocking him. He stepped back, making his way to the double doors that led out of the chamber. There, he stopped, as though not trusting himself to speak, the sickening realization setting in that Arek’s only hope lay on what he did next.

Then, something caught his eye. The master detected a wavering of the air, as when the sun bakes the earth, except this stood in the shadows behind Themun. His gaze narrowed, but then the mirage was gone, dissipating like the release of a breath long held.

“What was that?” Silbane motioned to the space behind the lore father.

Themun paused, leaning on his armrest, but said nothing.

When it was clear the lore father was not going to answer, Silbane shook his head then turned and left, his stride betraying the anger he felt at being manipulated.

Themun watched him go. Events were unfolding, and if Rai’stahn was to be believed, the fate of their world hung in the balance. His mind spun through every permutation to come up with a solution that did not involve sacrificing one of their own, but came back to the same place.

“You have to be more careful,” Themun said aloud to the empty chamber. Silence was the only answer, though he had expected nothing more. Nonetheless, it was not his place yet to question the will of the Conclave.

What, he wondered, would you have counseled, Father, and am I now living by your lessons? Privately, he doubted his father would have been proud of anything he had done today.

Journal Entry 1

Banished.

It is with a heavy heart that I share my thoughts, but history has a way of remembering us as she wants, and she is a fickle mistress. Having been branded tyrant, usurper, and worse, this may be my only voice.

Dragons are traitors, and first amongst these is Rai’stahn. I name him so you can greet him with death, for he deserves no better absolution than cold steel. He never understood his place, and now survives on the victory I seized with my bare hands.

It is a wish, and I admit a selfish one that you know of the sacrifices I made for all of us. Though they think me dead, I gain an immortality of sorts, for my legend will never die.

It is a small solace, perhaps noble to you, hollow sounding to me. I am not content with the way the dice have rolled. I do not accept my fate. It does not sit well with me. Let those who pray for my death continue to do so. Nothing they do will change who I am, but their prayers give me strength, life.

And just whose tribute do you read? Will knowing impugn your sense of fairness? Will you wish for the axe on my neck, or place the garland at my feet? We will walk the road a bit longer in anonymity, so you may yet be more charitable to my memory, in light of my many sacrifices.

It will not be the first time a hero stood maligned, nor a commoner such as yourself learns the truth.

Come, there will be much to tell you in the pages ahead...

T
HE
N
OMADS

Those who show no fear, tend to inspire it.

—Altan proverb

T
he desert dunes glowed red in the setting sun, shimmering from the day’s heat. Occasionally a small
windspin
would swirl the sand into a cloud of grit and dust, working under any amount of protection a weary traveler might have. The Altan Wastes were inhospitable at best, deadly at worst.

A lone figure stood atop a dune, his robes streaming behind him in the hot wind. Raising a massive arm, he unhooked a pack from his heavily muscled back and dropped it to the sandy floor, grunting as he released its weight.

Hemendra, leader of the clans, tribes, families, and kinsmen who called themselves the Altan, unwound the light cotton
shahwal
from his face. His eyes squinted at the wavering image of the fortress, rising just out of catapult range. He wore the loose fitting robes favored by the desert nomads to protect himself from the harsh wind and sun. As it beat down on the sands, he reached to his belt, detaching his water skin. Taking a small sip, he then corked and replaced it with the efficiency of a man who had survived fifty years under the desert’s baleful yellow eye.

He was soon joined by two other men dressed much as he was. Though both would be considered large, they were almost tiny compared to the sheer size of the clanchief. He acknowledged the leader Paksen’s bow with a grunt before turning to look back at the fortress.

“Mighty U’Zar,” said the lead man, addressing Hemendra, “I come to ask if you wish to pull our troops back. The Redrobe has begun the summoning of the storm and wishes our men to be ready.”

Hemendra inwardly grimaced at the mention of the strange man amongst them, but was careful in his response, especially in front of clanfists as ambitious as these were. The twenty or so clans they alone controlled, the largest number under one man besides himself, had come to worship the man in red robes with an almost religious zeal, thinking him chosen by the Great Sun itself. Hemendra worried this Redrobe commanded too much consideration, but had to be careful how he dealt with it. As long as Bara’cor’s walls remained intact, this man was necessary. As long as
that
remained true, his lifewater would remain unspilled.

Turning from the sight of the fortress, he addressed the lead clanfist, “We shall camp, Indry. Have the brothers dig themselves in for the storm and shield the fires.” Hemendra paused for a moment, looking out over the Altan Wastes. So beautiful, he reflected, yet as deadly as a
sarinak
’s sting. Turning back to the two waiting chieftains he finished, “Tell the sun sages to begin the bloodletting for their spells. Tomorrow, under cover of the storm, we advance on Bara’cor again.”

“And the Redrobe’s orders?” Indry asked, looking at Bara’cor with hunger in his eyes.

Hemendra eyed this nomad chieftain, his hand casually straying to rest on the bone hilt of his fighting knife, a knife that never left his side. He saw Paksen’s eyes widen as the second clanfist realized his companion’s error and prayed the chieftain would react so he could kill him, too. Wisely, Paksen did not move.

“Tell me of the
asabiyya.”

The other chieftain spun to face the u’zar, the simple question laced with deadly undertones, and realized his error. He fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the sand. “Mighty U’Zar—”

“Tell me, Indry.”

The man stammered, then said, “Me against my brothers; my brothers and me against our cousins; my brothers, cousins, and me against the world.”

“And what family is the Redrobe to you?”

Indry shook his head slowly, almost as if he knew his fate. “He is nothing, Mighty U’Zar.”

Slowly, Paksen also fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the sand. “Of course, Mighty U’Zar, your orders are not to be questioned.”

Hemendra waited for a moment, looking towards the camp. He could hear the priests chanting their spells, ones that banished fatigue or called up springlets of fresh water from the dry, windblown wastes. Looking down, he growled, “Look at me, Indry.” At first he thought the man would refuse, as what could only be a stifled sob ran quickly through him. Then, as Indry’s head slowly came up, Hemendra kicked him under the chin.

Blood spurted as the ill-fated clanfist bit through his tongue and went tumbling backward down the dune, landing in a heap at the bottom. Hemendra strode down and grabbed him by his neck, picking him up like a rag doll. Dark blood ran freely in rivulets out of the nomad’s mouth, dripping off his chin and staining the front of his robes. He was on the verge of screaming when Hemendra’s grip tightened like a vise, choking off any sound. “Your lifewater is accepted.”