Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (9 page)

He froze her in place, then tapped her forehead lightly, watching the blackness spread like an inky stain. “I am the Scythe. Like the reaper’s tool, I ascend those found worthy, or wanting. I judge you wanting, Kalissa Galadine. You have hunted your own kind, killed others so you might live, and sown sorrow in your wake.”

He looked again in the direction of Dawnlight, took a deep, cleansing breath and said, “Like your father, I do not show mercy.”

T
HE
K
ING

Be not so eager to strike first,

Have instead a solid stance.

Lethality comes from those who understand,

The pillars that support them.

—Tir Combat Academy, Basic Forms & Stances

N
iall’s father, Imperial King Bernal Galadine, paced the walls of Bara’cor, watching the barbarian horde with disgust written upon his torchlit features. One hundred feet below him spread a moonlit ocean of sand, dunes mimicking motionless waves washing toward the shore of his fortress walls. Running his fingers through his short, iron-gray hair, he readjusted his sword belt for what seemed like the hundredth time. Niall was sure that it was the waiting that drove his father mad, the knowledge of the inevitable clash with the nomads encamped at their doorstep.

Niall, too, looked out over the wastes, breathing in the cool night air, his eyes striving to discern individual shapes in the campfires and tents of the barbarian horde, his hand on the hilt of his saber.

“Will they attack again so soon?” he asked, looking to his father, and noting the deep lines of worry etched in his sun-darkened face. The barbarians had been encamped outside the walls for the past fortnight, a black, inky smudge on the white desert floor.

Niall squeezed the hilt of the saber at his side for reassurance yet again, the leather wrapping soft and worn from summers of practice. He was, however, very conscious that the closest he had ever come to crossing live blades with an opponent was at practice with the firstmark. A mix of fear and anticipation had prompted his earlier question. He didn’t want his father thinking he was still a child, and he longed for a chance to prove the opposite.

The firstmark would not have recommended me for duty if he had any doubts, he reminded himself.

“They will wait until tomorrow, attacking under cover of the storm,” the king explained. Then to Niall’s unasked question he added, “It is the tactic I would use if I commanded their troops.”

“But if you know that already, why not do something to stop them?”

“And what, my prince, would you have your father do?”

Niall spun at the deep voice, coming face to chest with Firstmark Jebida Naserith. The ursine man stood almost seven feet tall, his eyes flashing in humor. Jebida hailed from the lower reaches of the Shornhelm Expanse, where it was said giant’s blood still flowed in the veins of men. Looking at the firstmark, one could believe it was true. Moving forward, he bowed to the king before turning on the wide-eyed prince.

“Shall we dispense with all you have learned in military strategy and leave the cover of Bara’cor’s walls? Or should we try the catapults and archers? A few might hit, though the godless heathens are out of range. We might get lucky.”

Niall looked down and with a sigh he intoned, “Luck should not be your only partner.”

Jebida straightened, peering out at the nomads. His experienced eye measured the strength, distance, and disposition of the nomad army out of habit, then flicked over to the king. He met the gray-eyed stare and nodded.

Turning his attention back to Niall, Jebida placed one thick-callused finger on the boy’s chest and said, “Aye, you have the right of it.” Then his eyes softened and he continued, “But sometimes, a jester’s luck is the only thing between a blade and your heart. Do not worry, my prince. When they attack, we will be ready.”

Niall responded with a nod, moving back against the wall and out from between the two veterans. The king gazed down the outer face of the wall pointing to a section hit hard with what could only have been a rock larger than a man’s head. Beckoning to Jebida, he asked, “Will it hold?”

The firstmark peered intently for a moment then said, “I’m no builder, but it was made by dwarven hands and they have a way with rock.” Placing his meaty hand on the king’s shoulder, Jebida steered his friend away from the edge. “We number about eight hundred men. I would estimate the horde fields over ten times that. While we haven’t seen it, something in my bones tells me there’s sorcery involved or they wouldn’t even attempt the walls.”

* * * * *

Twenty summers ago, Jebida had left to fight alongside Bernal in the Dawnlight campaigns, a successful effort to solidify the northern borderlands. The king had liberated the fortress of Dawnlight, and in the process, won himself a new bride and queen, Yevaine.

The firstmark, elated at their victory and the king’s good fortune, had returned to his village only to find it in smoking ruins, the houses smashed and burned into charcoal caricatures of the beautiful homes they once were. He recalled with perfect clarity the sight of his own home, reduced to a bed of gray ash like freshly fallen snow, barely covering the blackened bodies of his wife and daughter.

The village blacksmith had been the only survivor. She wailed of winged creatures pouring through an opening in the air, what they now knew to be a small rift. Each creature was insubstantial, but fearsome in form. They dove
into
people, who then lost themselves. Their eyes glowed white and they walked mindlessly away, back through the rift and were never heard from again. Those few that fought or resisted were killed.

Part of him had died then, with his family and people. The village had been decimated and as a result, nothing of the Naserith name had survived, except for him.

Swallowing the knot of anger that had begun to form in his throat, the firstmark concentrated on finishing his report. “I have evacuated all the elderly and children down the pass to the lowlands, escorted by Captain Kalindor with Fourth Company. Any who passed their third blade are here, reporting for duty. The younger ones were given the chance to volunteer to stay if they wished.”

Both Jebida and the king knew Tyrus Kalindor well, a straightforward man who had served the Galadines for over a quarter of a century. He was a seasoned veteran with a steady hand, a soldier who would bear even the underhanded maneuverings and political intrigues of Haven to watch over the queen and the evacuees.

The king asked, “How many volunteers?”

Jebida smiled crookedly, “All of them. What did you expect?” He paused, a glint of pride shining in his eyes, then finished, “Tyrus and the queen’s party should arrive in Haven soon.”

The smile was short-lived, though, as the firstmark’s eyes drifted back to the nomad line, and his mood darkened at the thoughts of magic being used against them. But Jebida’s loss to the demons and hatred of magic was no secret to the king. They both focused on the desert.

The king replied, “The nomads will attack on the morrow with this storm.”

“Aye, it is the wisest course,” Jebida agreed, “and hard on our archers. I do not underestimate their commander. Barbarian or not, he has attacked us with cold efficiency and camped well out of catapult range. Only the fact that our backs are to a cliff and we have water has allowed us to hold this long. Makes me wonder how they manage to stay camped at our door this long without the same.”

* * * * *

With the conversation between his father and the firstmark receding into the back of his awareness, Niall imagined what his first real battle would be like. So far, all the assaults against the wall had been warfare at range, the archers of First and Third Companies dueling with their counterparts from the barbarian lines.

However, if his father was right, they would see hand-to-hand combat tomorrow. Niall ran his hand over the waist-high lip of the outer wall. The rough, gritty surface felt good against the hard calluses on his palm. Niall hoped to serve with Armsmark Rillaran. His heart beat hard at the thought of working the front wall, where undoubtedly the harshest fighting would be. Most on duty there were seasoned veterans, well versed in the art of repelling a siege.

“Niall.”

Niall gave a start at hearing his name. Shaking off the visions of battle, he found both his father and Jebida staring at him. He moved over to the pair, watching as Jebida nodded his massive head in answer to some command his father whispered.

“Niall, I shall be down in the council room. Jebida has your orders for tomorrow.” The king clasped his son’s hand in an iron grip, apparently satisfied he would do as he was told, and confident in the firstmark’s ability to keep him safe. With a thin smile he walked across the battlements to the inner stairwell, heading into the deep coolness of the interior.

The firstmark cleared his throat, motioning for Niall to come closer. “Well, my prince. You’ll be working with Captain Fenrith.”

“Fenrith! Wha—?”

“Silence,” snapped Jebida, fire in his eyes. “The first lesson a soldier must learn is to follow orders. Tomorrow you will be working under Captain Fenrith, supporting Fifth Company.”

The boy dropped his gaze, disappointment etched in his young features.

A conciliatory hand came up, clapping the young warrior on the shoulder as the firstmark continued, “I understand your disappointment, lad, but you are not yet experienced enough to stand at the point of the spear. It is not yours, but the lives of those next to you that are in jeopardy, as each would extend himself to protect the Imperial heir. You understand this?” A small smile escaped his lips, “You have my word I will do what is within my power to allow you a chance on the wall. Just be patient.”

Niall nodded once, dejected. He knew Jebida would keep his word, but put little faith in the firstmark’s chances against his father’s will. He was too disappointed to think others might endanger themselves for him. “If you will excuse me, sir.” He saluted, right fist to chest, then spun on his heel, heading for the stairwell where his father had disappeared.

Had he looked back, he would have seen a rueful smile on the firstmark's face, as if the veteran recalled a similar 'discussion' with his own armsmaster so many years ago. As it was, Niall could only focus on what tomorrow would
not
bring, a chance to prove himself a warrior in his father’s eyes.

T
HE
A
PPRENTICE

In studying the Way,

Accept that learning it is hard.

Once learned, accept that wielding it is hard.

Accept that mastery of the Way is hard,

And your journey will be easier.

—Lore Father Argus Rillaran, The Way

A
rek Winterthorn sat at an oaken desk situated deep in the back of the large library in the main tower, his blond head bent in concentration over the book in front of him. Looking up, he rubbed his pale blue eyes and squinted as the full strength of the afternoon sun shone through a slotted portal high above, pooling its yellow brilliance on the top of his desk.

He rose and stretched, his brown practice uniform feeling both warm and used, as he moved to another table, and a platter of cold meats. Sandwiching a piece of meat between some hard bread, he sat down and began his repast. The spells he had been given to research by his master, Silbane, swam like clickfish through his head. Finding himself unable to concentrate, he hoped food would bring clarity to his thinking, a state particularly elusive today. How math and numbers had anything to do with spells made no sense to him, but he continued learning every equation and transformation by rote.

He was interrupted by Piter Winterthorn, a fellow apprentice who was under Master Kisan’s tutelage. Piter made his way over to Arek’s books and looked down, the familiar smirk already forming on his mouth. “Is my brother-in-name still muddling through matrices? With the Test of Ascension so close at hand, I would think you would be with the other apprentices on the hill, practicing.”

Piter moved slowly around the desk and lowered his wiry frame onto Arek’s notes. “Will your master let you accept help? They’re pretty simple.”

Arek looked sidelong at Piter, his taunting nothing new, and removed his gloves. Then he said simply, “Get off my notes.”

“Of course,” Piter backed away quickly with both hands up. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

Arek had a unique Talent, one that none of the masters on the Isle yet understood. For some reason, anything he touched that was magical found itself disrupted for hours. This made it necessary for Arek to wear thin gloves whenever he was around anyone who had magical abilities, or items of a magical nature, which included almost everything on the Isle. Arek’s interactions with his fellow students had quickly become strained. Piter in particular seemed to enjoy making Arek feel different, somehow damaged.

Forbidden from participating in unsupervised combat practice, Arek could not establish an equanimous balance with his peers. Had he been allowed to fight, he might have asserted himself in the natural pecking order. Competition in all things was naturally intense amongst the students as they vied for recognition or attention from their instructors. His strange Talent had resulted instead in more one-on-one tutelage and attention from the adepts, something he hadn’t “earned.”

He hated having to back down again, but Master Silbane had been extremely clear. Real fighting amongst students was strictly forbidden, punishable by extra chores and homework, possibly even expulsion from the Isle, something every apprentice feared.

Arek straightened out his notes and turned to face the other boy, “Nothing you say ever comes out the way you mean.” He knew Master Kisan would not look kindly upon this incident if Piter reported it. He nodded, affecting an air of nonchalance, and finished, “And I don’t need your help.”

Piter backed up a bit. When Arek didn’t continue, he turned to go, but then stopped. Looking back he asked, “Have you ever considered you may not be a jinx, like everyone says?” A heartbeat, then two passed. When Arek made it clear he was not going to reply, Piter shrugged and said, “Well… good luck with your studying.”