Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (15 page)

“Then what hurdles must we endure?”

Themun did not smile when he said, “Faith. In us, in all of this,” he said while taking in the room with a gesture.

Giridian bowed to the lore father, excusing himself with, “I’ll go see how she’s doing.”

“Thank you,” Themun said, his eyes far away in thought. Faith is a tricky thing, he reminded himself sadly.

Giridian bowed, then gathered his things and made his way to the door.

Themun watched him leave the chamber, knowing the upcoming days would be the hardest his council would ever face.

R
ESPITE

The tremble of the blade marks weakness.

Once seen, act decisively or the moment is lost.

Remain alert, strike swiftly.

—The Bladesman Codex

B
ara’cor’s council chamber lay deep in the heart of the fortress, dominated by an octagonal table large enough for two men to lay head to foot across it without touching either end. It rose from the solid granite floor without seam, a natural extension of the rock forming the fortress. Under skilled artisans’ hands, the stone became a work of beauty, flowing from scene to scene, as it depicted what could only be a history of the ancient dwarven people.

Etched on the floor at each of the eight corners of the table lay another octagon, smaller, but no less intricate. Their surfaces were a complex mixture of pictures and dwarven writings, showing strange vistas that could only be distant lands. The true meaning of the inlays was lost, however, to antiquity. Anyone who could have deciphered them had perished long ago.

Bernal had been at the table for much of the night, his eyes absently tracing the rune-carved surface of the Galadine great bow, Valor. It had been in his family for centuries, passed from father to son. His father had trained him for many summers, arduous practice sessions, until he had the strength to string and draw it.

When he could put six arrows into a space no bigger than his hand at four hundred paces, his father had declared him worthy of its name. Soon it would go to Niall, who had been training tirelessly to wield this awesome weapon. Rarely did the king disturb Valor from its holder at one side of the table, but on some occasions, its presence filled him with a sense of purpose.

Now, with the horde encamped at his doorstep, he found himself in this room more frequently, his eyes vacant as he pictured the battles depicted on the floor and wall. His thoughts scattered when Jebida entered the council chamber and sat his large frame down across from him. The king nodded in greeting, his eyes reluctantly leaving the runebow. Jebida answered with a grunt, the day’s strain showing.

High above the granite walls the sun rose, coloring the sky pink as it slowly peeked above the horizon, but the air told him a different story. Storm clouds would be brewing, and his bones said there was magic in the air, but he did not mention that to Jebida. He could taste the metallic tang and knew today would bring a tempest of wind and sand, not rain.

“The men are sore pressed, my lord,” began Jebida quietly. “It is well the enemy does not have siege engines—”

“Aye, we are fortunate in many respects.”

Bernal’s bitter interruption elicited a raised eyebrow from the firstmark, who knew the king’s moods well. “Nevertheless, we
are
quite lucky. Land’s Edge prevents them from surrounding us, and provides us with a means of escape... should it come to that.”

The king nodded, realizing he was venting his frustration on the one person who would take it, “I am sorry. Just wish we knew why they are here. Why Bara’cor?” Bernal pounded his fist into his palm. “It makes no sense.”

“Not much does,” he answered, then a thought occurred and he asked, “What of the queen’s mission? Will Haven reinforce us?”

“Doubtful,” replied the king. He knew the political atmosphere in the capital city and ventured, “Haven will see to its own safety, as it always has. In the end, it will come to a vote of the Senate.”

Jebida sighed. “Shornhelm and Dawnlight, for all their willingness to bend their knee, have never truly supported you.”

The king nodded, knowing his military actions against both had brought peace, but also difficult relations. They would never openly work against the King of Bara’cor, but during a senatorial vote would certainly not be supportive of his queen. “Yevaine has the right of one vote for Bara’cor. The legates from the other fortresses make up three more and the chancellor for Haven is one. She will need to turn two of them in order for the city to release the militia.”

“Can the queen not pull two more besides herself?”

“Never mind the fact that I am repelling a siege on Haven’s doorstep,” the king replied, “it will not stay the deft hands of Shornhelm and Dawnlight. They will use this to sway the chancellor, if that is even necessary. Only Tir will stand with us.”

“They why—?” began Jebida, but a slight smile emerged as the king’s motivation became clear. “You’re occupying her with something impossible, and keeping her away from here in case Bara’cor should fall.” The firstmark shook his head, simultaneously admiring the king’s bravery and foolhardiness. “I wouldn’t want to be in your boots. You’ll have the Lady’s price to pay when she finds out.”

The king gave a rueful grin and said, “It won’t be the first time.”

Jebida sighed, “Politics,” but it came out like a curse. Then he continued, “I can’t say I’m flattered by your faith in me.”

With a smile the king replied, “You know I believe we’ll prevail, or Niall would have gone with her.”

The firstmark scoffed at that. “And somehow Kalindor pulls light duty.”

“Strange,” the king said with a laugh. “I thought you assigned him.”

The giant warrior didn’t bother to deny it, knowing the king had somehow heard everything, as usual. The silence stretched on, then he said quietly, “He could have been firstmark had he so desired. You know the man is not happy without a spear in hand and enemies at the gate. His fault, not mine.” He paused, then added with a smile, “But he deserves the rest.”

“For all your bluster, the men should know you have a kind heart,” the king offered, tilting his head in half joke, half praise.

“Tell anyone, and the story of you and that golden-haired dancer from that inn in Moonhold will surface. Innocently, of course.”

The king shook his head, laughing. “Younger days, before all this.” Then his expression grew more somber.

“When Yevaine and Kalindor return,” Jebida said, “at least we’ll have Fourth Company back to reinforce us.”

Bernal paused, knowing the truth, and said, “Haven will not allow the queen or Kalindor’s Company to leave. If she fails to turn the vote, they will likely be ordered to support the militia in Haven’s defense.” He paused, then added softly, “In either case, Yevaine is safe, and I have sacrificed any chance of salvation from that quarter.”

Jebida was quiet, but his next words seemed to be designed to lighten the king’s dark mood. “I don’t envy Captain Kalindor when your wife sees through your ruse. He’ll be paying for your trickery.”

“His fault for accepting light duty, and better him than me,” stated the king flatly, which elicited a small laugh from Jebida in return.

The firstmark waited for a moment, then asked, “No news from EvenSea? Has Ben sent no word?”

“Nothing,” replied the king. He didn’t add the obvious, that no news generally meant bad news, and he feared for the lives of King Ben’thor Tir, the rest of Yetteje’s family, but most of all for Yetteje’s mother and his sister, Clarysa.

Jebida rose, the stress of the night watch showing in his eyes. “Your leave then, my lord? They will attack soon and I need to review our defenses. Already the wind has picked up and the sands begin to swirl. The storm will hit and we will be effectively blind.”

“Ash holds the wall?”

“Aye, my lord. He is prepared for the assault.”

Bernal could not miss the pride shining in Jebida’s eyes when he spoke of the young armsmark. He suspected that over the summers, Ash had taken the place of Jebida’s family and had become the son the gruff firstmark never had. “Well then, you may as well turn in and get some rest.”

“Sir?” the firstmark asked in confusion.

Bernal stood, facing the firstmark. “Was I not clear enough? Go to your quarters and get some sleep. Ash and I will handle the wall today,” and as Jebida hesitated, the king continued, “or do you not trust us?”

“It is not that, my lord! Just, I had hoped to assist—”

“You’re beginning to sound like a certain son of mine,” the king interrupted again. “And by that I mean stubborn.” He said this while moving around the table and laying a hand on Jebida’s massive shoulder, steering the firstmark toward the exit. “You and I both know there is little you can do after a long night watch. Get some rest. If anything happens, I’ll send for you.”

“What about you?” Jebida paused at the door, looking at his old friend. “There is little you can achieve by staying on the wall when you are in more need of rest than I.”

“Perhaps. Still, my presence bolsters the men. Now, begone. I will not have my commanders falling asleep in their boots. You’re ordered to get some rest.”

“I’m starting to understand how Kalindor felt,” offered Jebida.

The king didn’t answer, instead pushing the reluctant firstmark through the door and toward his quarters. He watched Jebida’s broad back disappear around a bend in the flickering torchlight before casting his gaze upward, imagining he could see the first dark thunderheads as they raced across the sky to block out the bright rays of the rising sun.

I
N
H
ARM
’
S
W
AY

In the contest of blades,

Each parry and riposte is

Opportunity dancing with chance,

And the prize for victory, is life.

—Kensei Shun, The Lens of Shields

A
rek awoke early the next morning, sluggishly throwing off the covers and making his way to his washbasin. On his desk lay the book Master Silbane had given him, open to the page he had been studying well into the night. Squinting in the bright sun shining through his window, he began his morning ritual, splashing cold water on his face and neck. I have studied that stupid fortress so much I can’t think of anything else, he thought with irritation.

He dried his face and sat down at his desk, his eyes automatically finding the place he had stopped before. Though his eyes stared at the page, his mind wandered, picturing the fortress as it must have been at the time of the dwarves. King Bara had held it then, his ancestors being builders. It was said that between the great fortress and the small trade city within, Bara’cor could hold close to two thousand people. Strangely, it was said everything in Bara’cor was big, as if made for a race of men larger than normal.

Arek leaned back, closing his eyes. What he did not understand was why King Bara had turned the fortress over in the first place. After the final battle, it was rumored the dwarven king had said, “The dwarven people seek their
Sovereign.”

He had then handed Bara’cor over to a young lieutenant by the name of Thorin Hayden and left the great fortress. They marched into history and oblivion, never to be heard from again.

Arek focused his attention back on the pages before him when a discreet knock on his door caused him to turn his head in consternation. Rising, he beckoned to whomever it was to enter. He was surprised to see a small boy in a white uniform cautiously push his door open.

Arek immediately recognized Benjahmen, a Whiterobe some seven years old. In Ben’s hands was a scroll tied with a black cord, signifying the message was from the council. Arek allowed a small smile to crease his face as the boy moved forward and bowed, holding the scroll out with both hands. Kneeling, he tousled the boy’s brown hair and said, “Well, Benjahmen, it seems you have grown a bit since I saw you last.”

Ben’s face lit up in a smile as he answered in a high voice, “But I saw you yesterday!”

“Yes, you did, but is it possible you have grown just a
little
bit between then and now?” Ben’s answer was an exaggerated shrug that seemed to take the boy’s small shoulders above his ears. Arek took the scroll and pointed to the door with mock severity. “Away with you, then.” He laughed as Ben scampered out, nearly tripping on his own feet, clearly happy to get back to his friends.

Arek waited a moment, listening as the little boy’s footsteps receded down the stairwell, before untying the cord and unrolling the parchment. He began reading the scroll as he made his way back to his desk. With each sentence, however, his steps began to falter and he finally came to a standstill in the center of the room, despair punching into the base of his stomach.

The Test of Ascension, cancelled? While Arek’s confidence in himself may falter, the council cancelling the test must have meant that they lacked confidence in him. And
that
could only mean... he clutched the scroll and grabbed his robe, barely pausing to pull it over his head before racing out his door.

He arrived at the central tower’s front gate, the scroll still crumpled in one hand. Hastily stuffing it in his pocket he made his way into the tower and sprinted up the spiral staircase, finally exiting on the proper level.

All was quiet and for a moment, and this caused Arek to hesitate. The hour was early yet, and he loathed the idea of rousing his master’s displeasure. Nevertheless, the memory of the scroll’s contents set his heart fluttering and with resolve born of desperation, he strode down the wide corridor to his master’s chambers and knocked.

For what seemed an eternity there was no answer, the silence of the corridor building upon itself until even the slight act of wiping his sweating palms on his robe seemed deafening to his ears. Then, finally, just as he made to knock again, the doors to Silbane’s chambers swung silently open. Arek stepped in, grabbing the crumpled scroll from his pocket, and stopped, the audacity of his actions suddenly hitting him like a blacksmith’s hammer.