Mythborn (20 page)

The man stepped forward again, but this time it seemed to put himself in his own men’s way. He looked around, his eyes traveling around the clearing until they came to rest on Jesyn. If she didn’t know better, he almost looked amused, though it could have been a trick of the light. Then he said, “Put down your arms.”

Jesyn shrugged, “I’m unarmed.”

“Not you,” he corrected. Turning to his men he ordered, “Weapons down.”

To Jesyn’s amazement, the men did as he asked. They did not hesitate, and there was no doubt in her mind that had he instead asked them to shoot, they would have pulled the trigger before the last part of the order had been uttered.
Discipline
. These men radiated it, and though it filled her with apprehension, a part of her couldn’t help but admire their training and focus.

“I’ve demonstrated good faith. Will you do the same?” He looked at her, his gaze never wavering.

Jesyn swallowed once, her eyes flicking to Dragor’s prostrate form. She could escape, but not with Dragor, and she couldn’t abandon her former master so easily, even if it meant putting her own life in jeopardy. Pursing her lips, she looked back up at the massive form of the dwarf and said, “I have little choice.”

“In life that’s often true,” laughed the dwarven leader. He held out an open palm, offering it to her. Only when Jesyn placed her own palm on his did he continue, “I’m Dazra.” A sudden flash erupted from his palm, surrounding the young adept in a blue-white halo of power.

Jesyn began to pull back but the man’s large hand enveloped her own in a warm but iron grip. She looked up in alarm, and he smiled in response, a flash of white teeth and eyes that held no malice. Other than the burst of power that now surrounded them both, he did not move aggressively and something about his demeanor made her wait.

“We cannot always know our friends.” He let go and the aura of power diminished and faded, leaving the clearing darker than before until Jesyn’s vision readjusted. “But we have been watching you and your companion.”

“What did you do to me?” Jesyn asked. Her hand felt strangely cold after Dazra let go. When there was no answer she looked down in time to see a small black stain, like a drop of ink, crawl up her palm and disappear. Her eyes widened as she watched it spread under her skin like dark blood, crawling through the network of arteries and veins in her hand and moving to her forearm and to her heart.

“What did you do?” she whispered, this time almost to herself.

Dazra tilted his head to the side, as if considering how to answer the young adept. When he spoke again, it was as if he was finishing a thought. “Only friends are permitted inside the Citadel, and we have need of friends now.”

He brushed past her and motioned to his men to break their positions and prepare to move. As the men melted back into the underbrush, a few came forward to move Dragor and their prisoner to a makeshift pallet. In a matter of moments the team was ready to head out.

The woman, the one who had examined them, came to stand beside Jesyn. Her mouth became crooked as she broke into a smile and said, “I’m Tarin.” She squeezed the adept’s shoulder softly to reassure her. “Dazra trusts you, but the
centrees
will not, not without your own
entat
.”

Her eyes flicked to the growing network of black ink that spread under her skin, tracing her veins like small branching rivers, then fading from sight.

“It has been years since we have allowed anyone within our home, but times are dire. Let’s hope his trust in you and your companion is well placed, young halfling.”

Jesyn watched the men pick up Dragor with care and make ready to move. How far had they come to solve the mystery of Dawnlight and protect the Isle? How much had they sacrificed, and how many had they lost? Trust? She watched the broad back of Dazra as he made his way to the forefront of the vanguard, then looked at Tarin before replying, “I hope the same can be said of you.”

Death’s Mark

“Let those who are naïve believe in piety.

If you intend to visit unrelenting harm upon your foe,

Prepare to ignore the law.”

-
          
Jebida Naserith, Should I Fall

L
ilyth sat upon her throne, giving careful thought to her next move. Though the queen was most powerful on a board of Kings, careful planning with pawns, bishops, and knights ultimately created a kingsmate. Her game had begun after retreating from Sovereign’s Fall two hundred years ago, a tactical mistake she now knew would never be repeated. Her own success at war created more Aeris but less bodies for them to possess, a path whereby she could not achieve victory.

Baalor’s retreat from Bara’cor had been executed perfectly, part of a larger effort, building so that domination would be inevitable and aided by the very people she would rule. Still, some things needed prodding and her mind turned to the perfect tool.

“Deft.”

Her command echoed out and shortly thereafter the shade of Alion Deft, once Kingsmark and magehunter, appeared in midstride out of thin air. The commander of the magehunters had changed in the decades since her death at Duncan’s hands, the red-robed mage having afflicted her with a slow and torturous rotting of the flesh.

The same rot had consumed her, leaving behind thin ribbons of skin over charcoal gray bones. Her face looked as if it had been flayed away, leaving only one eye and part of her cheek, tatters of blackened dead skin stretched over her skull. At the center of her forehead, the point where he’d touched, a blackened circle sat like a third eye. Her mouth, absent of any flesh, sat in her skull with teeth bared in a permanent rictus. Duncan’s spell had left Alion Deft “alive” in the most minimal sense, a walking corpse subsisting on despair and hate. In death she had not found peace.

From worse to worst, she had become a slave of Lilyth, who found no end of pleasure in taunting this once proud hunter of mages and those who served the Way. Every mage killed meant there had been an Aeris bonded to that mage who’d died too, and the demon-queen did not allow herself to forget. Alion Deft would pay for every life she’d taken in the most painful way Lilyth could imagine.

The demon-queen had garbed the undead magehunter in the ancient plate used by her brethren and completed her transformation with two huge rotted bat-like wings. These folded along her back, marking the now
queens
mark Alion Deft as truly one of the Aeris, the irony bringing the sparkle of laughter to Lilyth’s eyes more than any court jester could.

She turned and faced the demonlord and bowed. “Command me.”

Lilyth smiled, knowing her compulsion to be obeyed was irresistible and reveling in it. For this one, the Butcher of Deeplook as those few survivors had called her, her punishment was wholly satisfying. “I have a task particularly suited to your… proclivities.”

The queensmark’s bone grin was fixed, so she could not show much emotion. Her guttural voice simply repeated, “Command me.”

Lilyth blinked, then taunted, “Are you angry with me? Have I not saved you from oblivion? You are cursed by your own hand, Deft, not mine. The memory of the pain and brutality you brought earned you this everlasting life. Are you not thankful for what you have wrought?”

She said this with a small laugh, the sight of this craven magehunter’s misfortune bringing her pleasure even after all these years. The litany had never changed and Deft had perhaps become used to it, giving up on any reprieve. Lilyth’s eyes hardened, for the undead corpse would get none from her.

Alion didn’t move and Lilyth could only surmise the magehunter knew what would be done if she gave offense. Instead, the queensmark remained still and except for the slight clenching and unclenching of her gauntleted free hand, one could mistake her as a grotesque statue of rotting flesh and bone. Lilyth wondered if Deft dreamed of crushing her throat under that mailed grip. It would not be hard to believe and that thought triggered another small laugh.

When her mockery did not solicit any further reply, Lilyth continued, “Prepare your men. Duncan Illrys has been sent on a mission.”

“I need more information to carry out my orders. What mission?” the undead commander asked, her more exact stance betraying Lilyth had her full attention.

Lilyth raised an eyebrow, realizing the magehunter had never learned who her killer was. Believable, given that she’d not let Deft have any information since her death. The unending monotony of days was just another way to punish this slayer of Aeris.

Then she remembered Tempest, irascible and demanding. What matters? she thought. Family had to mean
something
in the grand measure of things, or why have it? Unlike Tempest, Deft was nothing to her… and this next part was going to be very satisfying.

“The archmage carries with him a lens and seeks entry to Avalyon. Should he find it, I want you and your men ready.” Lilyth leaned back, her eyes narrowing to slits, “I will gate your forces to the location marked by the lens when the time is right.”

“Duncan Illrys?” the undead warrior asked simply. She carried a helmet under her shieldarm, the opening shaped like
aT
. One mailed hand caressed the worn side in an obvious calming ritual, like a babe rocking itself.

Lilyth decided the magehunter would wear the helmet whenever in her presence. Why subject herself to the rotted features of a corpse who certainly had no love for her? Then again, how would she find amusement if not through Alion’s grimace and plight? She did not order it yet, wanting to see her ugly face through every moment of the telling.

“Queensmark, do you ever smile?” Her eyes twinkled at the none-to-subtle barb, the undead knight’s bone-toothed grin the target of her verbal blade laced with mockery.

Deft looked down, then said, “I serve what I hate most.” Her answer was delivered with the brutal honesty of a warrior, a bitter undertone and resignation that
this
was her fate and nothing for her to find happiness in.

The demonlord relished in the moment, knowing how delicious it would be when Deft learned who she would be facing again. Then she rose and walked down the dais and to the other side of the magehunter, “I would think you’d be happy to hunt the man who did this to you.”

Alion’s one good eye snapped over to Lilyth’s own, widening with the memory, “The red-robe?” she gasped. “You’ve found him?”

“Indeed,” Lilyth confirmed, her eyes twinkling with mirth, “I have sent him on a quest to find Avalyon. I believe he will succeed.”

“Duncan is the one who calls himself Scythe?” Alion stepped back, her face contorting in such a way that even Lilyth could not follow the emotions. It was glorious to watch, but the magehunter turned away and looked down.

When her voice emerged, it asked a question that was wholly tactical, as if the undead warrior knew how the demonlord thought and sought to avoid giving Lilyth any more pleasure than she had to. “The Aeris cannot use the blood gates.”

“Ahh,” said the demonlord, resting her head on the knight’s armored shoulder, “but Duncan is no Aeris.”

The strength of the demonlord’s grasp held her in place, so Deft asked, “And he helps us because?”

Lilyth pulled away and said, “Do not worry yourself with that detail. Rest assured I have him properly motivated. Our objective is to take Avalyon and eradicate Valarius and his forces. When Duncan finds a way in, you will be ready.” She paused, then turned and looked at the magehunter with a smile, “Perhaps this has always been your true destiny.”

Alion Deft’s head had dropped, her breathing heavy. Lilyth could see she was reliving her final moments spent in agony, Duncan’s last spell eating her alive. Lilyth heard the word
vengeance
reverberating in the queensmark’s mind as this particular pawn moved into place.

She smiled at her commander, then made her way back up to her seat. Once settled, she addressed Alion Deft again saying, “Patience is a virtue. Duncan will find Avalyon. Only then do you strike. Kill Duncan and there will be another boon I will grant.”

Lilyth waited, the final enticement on the tip of her tongue. She waited until she knew the undead commander was listening to her every word and said, “Succeed, and I will release you from my service.”

Deft looked up in shock. The magehunter clearly had not expected such an outcome and the emotions that ran across her ruined face brought a small flush of pleasure to the demonlord. Yet Lilyth was careful to keep her face set in a benevolent smile, the kind a benefactor with this kind of generosity would demonstrate. When the commander’s skull tilted up, she could see by the look in her good eye that the undead warrior had made up her mind.

Queensmark Alion Deft saluted, fist to chest. “It will be done.”

She turned to go but was stopped by a small finger raised by Lilyth. “To avoid any confusion, Commander, we do not take prisoners.”

At that, Deft finally did smile, a rictus that only looked more frightening as what little of her face pulled back over a bone-white grin, “I understand.” She then wheeled and walked away, disappearing before she reached the throne room’s doors.

There was renewed vigor following Deft’s departure. The undead warrior had taken some portion of life from the room with her presence. No matter, Lilyth thought, there were other forces seeking her attention, and this next would have to be handled most delicately.

Lilyth took a breath, mentally preparing herself, then said into the empty air, “You may enter.”

There was a flash, a spear of blinding light, and in the after burst there stood a man leaning upon his staff.

“Keeper, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Lilyth said casually.