Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (2 page)

H
ISTORIES
: S
OVEREIGN
’
S
F
ALL

“War is not about who is right.

It is about who is left.”

—General Valarius Galadine, High Marshal

T
he final battle lasted for days, leaving the ash slopes littered with dead. Bodies lay strewn about with the casual haphazardness of violence passed. King Mikal Galadine stepped his horse forward carefully, mindful not to trod upon those who had fallen in his name. His gray eyes drank in the scene, the dark earth of the volcano’s slope now stained with the blood of men. In that gaze, the toll the past years had taken was there for all to see. New lines creased his face, and his shoulders slumped with the weariness of a man who had labored far too long at the task of war.

Too many sacrificed, he thought, and now one final duty. He motioned to his armsmark.

“My lord?” the armsmark grunted.

Mikal sighed, then ordered, “Bring your men forward.”

“At once, sire.” The mounted armsmark turned and cantered back to the lines, barking commands at the assembled soldiers.

The ground shuddered. Mikal’s horse whinnied, then stepped to the left, the animal’s senses attuned to the minor rifts occasionally snapping into and out of existence around them. He’d been told to expect small quakes, by-products of the magic that allowed a space between their world and the demon plane to open. The tremors would pass, now that the Gate was closed.

Mikal gave his horse a few pats on the neck then turned his attention back to the slope and the ragtag band of men and women descending it. They stumbled along slowly, supporting each other, with barely the energy to breathe, much less walk. Hundreds had gone up to do battle with the demonlord Lilyth, but barely twenty staggered down from that final struggle, their black uniforms gray with soot.

But they had succeeded, and the demon was dead, buried in the volcano’s smoking pit. Lilyth had destroyed vast stretches of the land in her quest to subjugate and rule, and much work remained to bring back what her all-consuming hate had perverted. An army of lore-masters had bought new hope, but the price of their service had cut deep.

So many signs had been missed, and so many mistakes made. A younger Mikal Galadine might have dwelt on such regrets and allowed them to change his heart, but the elder king’s sense of justice took over, silencing any doubt. Mistakes had indeed been made, but some debts are paid for in blood.

The survivors came down the last rise. At their lead was Mikal’s friend Duncan, who raised his hand in greeting. The king could see the effort it cost him.

“Rai’stahn has pulled the dragon-knights back. The gods be praised, we were successful. Lilyth is no more.” Duncan lowered his pale eyes. “I am sorry… for the loss of your brother.”

The king brushed off the concern that was plain in his friend’s voice, and said, “Whatever was left of him died years ago. We do what we must.”

Duncan turned his attention to the people behind him, missing the look of determination on his friend’s face. “Your leave to move to shelter? Sonya is especially drained.” Pride shone in his eyes and a slight smile escaped, despite his immense weariness. His leaden arms moved automatically to support his wife, who stood a bit unsteadily beside him, though her eyes were clear and alert. “She truly is the Lore Mother to us all.” At his touch, she leaned into the comfort of his embrace.

“A moment,” King Galadine said, holding up a mailed hand. His armsmark cantered forward and handed him a scroll. After he’d backed away, the king undid the black ribbon and unrolled the parchment.

Confusion ran for a moment across Duncan’s face. “My lord, can this not wait?”

For the first time, the king met his eyes. “No, it cannot.” He looked down at the parchment and began to read:

“On this day, the twentieth of Peraat, I, King Mikal Petracles Galadine, proclaim the Way of Making false. It shall no longer be practiced in the lands of Edyn. Those who continue to adhere to and follow its teachings shall be put to death. Those who exhibit the Talent shall be sacrificed for the greater good of the land.”

The king met his friend’s confused gaze, “Never again shall we find ourselves under the yoke of the Way.” A breath passed, then two, and in that instant the two knew each other’s hearts. Then Mikal bellowed, “Archers, forward!”

The armsmark repeated the command and one hundred archers moved forward in lines on either side of the king.

Duncan looked about in alarm, then shook his head in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“I killed my brother for the safety of this land, archmage. Why would I spare you?”

Duncan dropped all pretense of mannered speech and exclaimed, “We fought side by side! Now we are to be executed?”

“No. Just as my brother, you are a casualty of war.” The king turned and nodded.

Bows bent and released, their strings thrumming as deadly shafts sped to their targets. Having defeated Lilyth, few mages had any strength left to defend themselves. Arrows pursued the few who tried to flee, ripping through flesh and finding vital organs. Most died where they stood.

Sonya screamed, diving at her husband, who had not moved. She caught hold of his chest, placing herself in the way of coming death. In a moment the sound of bowstrings stopped. She cautiously opened her eyes and found the rest of her friends and compatriots scattered about. All were dead or dying. Only she and Duncan remained.

Duncan looked around in shock. “You... they defend you with their lives.” He looked up numbly. “They were heroes. They had children, families...”

“No,” the king said.

His answer caught the archmage off guard. The king’s dead gaze never shifted as he watched a sickening realization set in across Duncan’s features.

“You killed their families, too?”

Mikal remained silent, his eyes searching the blasted landscape for an answer. Then he looked back at his friend and said, “I cannot allow this to happen again.”

Duncan shook his head, “Women and children?” He paused for a moment, then added, “Why have we been spared?”

The king motioned with his hand and a runner came forward with Valor, the fabled bow of House Galadine. “You have not, for I share the burden of my law.” He grasped the weapon, rune-carved and ancient. Its black wood seemed to soak up the little light left. “Hold each other. I will make it quick.”

Sonya stepped forward, her hands protectively over her belly and said, “You’ll be killing three of us.”

It was simply said, but delivered with such intensity it swept aside any royal formalities, speaking directly to the man she had called friend these many years, instead of a king who now sat in judgment.

Mikal’s gaze fell to her stomach, her meaning instantly clear. Slowly, his chin dropped to his chest and he slumped forward, every part of him physically echoing the grief he felt. He sat there for a moment in silence, then answered her from under his helm, his voice sounding hollow even to himself. “It is the worst thing I have done,” he said, even as he slowly nocked an arrow. “But not the worst I will ever do.”

“How can you live with yourself?” she accused.

The king took a deep breath, then raised himself and met her incredulous stare without flinching. “Make no mistake, my lady, for I am damned as well. I have killed the innocent, those pledged to my service, even children. Unborn shall be put to death for no crime they can control. Is this justice, fairness, or misery I now spread in the name of safety?”

Neither answered, but the battlefield replied with the moans of the dying, and the cawing of crows. Then, Duncan turned to his wife and held her close. Their eyes met, the years behind their gaze speaking more than any words could. Their hands touched tenderly, and in that briefest of moments a small blue spark jumped from her to him, unnoticed by anyone else. Duncan looked at her, first with astonishment, then with anguish.

She grabbed him tighter, then whispered something in his ear, to which he slowly nodded. Their embrace lasted only a moment before Duncan met Mikal’s eyes and said, “Nothing dies.” It was an age-old adage, warning of the ghosts injustice always raised.

The king’s grip tightened, but he said nothing. He sighted down the shaft, his hands steady, and slowly drew back. Valor groaned, as if the runebow knew what was about to happen and ached for release. Then, its
twang-thrum
echoed across the battlefield, the sound scattering a few black-winged thieves, their bellies full of the flesh of men. Two bodies fell, pierced by one arrow.

The king looked down, drew a shuddering breath, then turned back to his handiwork. His eyes, however, did not waver with remorse or regret, for there was none. They remained hard, like the granite rocks surrounding him, and just as dead.

Many years passed while King Mikal Galadine descended further into grief. Some heard a cawing of crows whenever the king was near. Others heard screams echoing from a far off battlefield. The word, ‘scythe’, was cautiously whispered, but no one knew why. Perhaps none wanted to say, ‘curse’ – that the king now reaped what he had sown.

Madness soon overcame grief, ghosts of a friend’s last words haunting Mikal’s every waking moment. No one knew exactly when he decided to take his own life, only that the deed was done after an heir had been born.

Darker times, though, were still to come...

Part 1

T
HE
L
ORE
F
ATHER

In combat, make every intention

To kill your opponent.

Every cut, every strike, every breath,

Must feed victory.

—Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades

Y
ou ask me to put my apprentice in harm’s way,” Silbane Petracles addressed the council, his voice firm. Second only to the lore father, none doubted his wisdom or power. That power now ran through his voice, echoing with an undercurrent of anger.

His hair stood cropped close to his head, and a goatee framed a lean face. His body followed suit, with dark clothing, functional and well-used. Silbane’s flesh, where it showed, had the weatherbeaten look of a man who spent much time in the sun, with corded muscles bunched tightly around a thin, tall frame. His eyes sparkled with intelligence. Normally they would be laughing, as if an unspoken joke lay forever at the tip of his tongue. But the mood of the council now reflected in Silbane’s eyes: hard, cold slate.

“We have not interfered in the land’s business since Sovereign’s Fall,” Silbane continued, turning to address the lore father directly, “and now you want us to help the Galadine royal family? You and Thera suffered the most under their rule. Are not two hundred years of persecution and loss enough? What madness is this?” His arms opened, demanding an answer.

The other adepts stared at the lore father. Though they mostly agreed with Silbane, a hesitation hung in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment that if Lore Father Themun Dreys himself petitioned the council for action, the need must be dire indeed. Themun picked his weathered frame up and took hold of his runestaff of office. He made his way around the table until he stood side by side with Silbane who, with a respectful bow, released the floor and retreated.

Themun did not look as ancient as his years would indicate. Power still coursed through his veins. The same power that earned him his place as lore father also gave him the appearance of a man in his late fifties, though he was centuries old. Still, compared to the other adepts, Themun Dreys looked old and tired.

He let his gaze sweep the arc of the chamber, fixing each of the council members with an icy stare. As the others waited, he started to speak, his surprisingly deep voice cutting through the room. “Silbane speaks truly. I have walked two-hundred years or more on this blessed land, and have never taken action without reason.” He encompassed the watching adepts with a gesture, his eyes softening. “We are all that’s left.”

Themun paused, then in a fluid motion brought his runestaff up and slammed the black metal heel onto the floor. Sparks flew and in a blinding flash of light, a knight appeared. Tall and outfitted in plated armor, distinctive for both its archaic form and the single, circle-shaped sigil emblazoned on his chest, he stood motionless yet commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Even without the trappings of knighthood, though, they all knew instantly who he was. Beneath a visored helm stared pale blue eyes glowing with malice.

A few adepts instinctively raised their flameskins at the first hint of violence, colored fire igniting around their bodies in protective halos. The lighter the fire, the more powerful the Adept. It was a gesture not lost on the lore father, who nodded and said, “You’ll protect yourselves, at least. Maybe
that
will be worth something.” He turned to an adept, this one built like a bear. “Name him.”

The adept, Giridian Alacar, stood in response, long brown hair falling below his muscular shoulders. His face was square cut, with bright eyes beneath dark, bushy brows. His ursine form moved with grace, and as he strode out to the center floor one could see he was a man accustomed to his own size.

Giridian knew the question was rhetorical, the lore father’s way of setting them in their place. He quenched his emerald flameskin without a thought. “I don’t need the history lesson,” he growled in answer, these theatrics obviously both frustrating and angering him.

A strikingly beautiful woman chose then to speak. Long black hair spilled down to her waist while blue eyes called to mind ocean waves. Thera Dawnlight radiated an air of steadfastness in a storm. “I think it safe to say none of us do. Lore Father, this behavior ill becomes you.”

Themun smiled, ignoring Thera, his eyes never wavering from Giridian’s own. “Then I shall name him.” He walked around the image of the knight, his runestaff glowing faintly. “He is General Valarius Galadine, brother to the king who decreed we be killed on sight.” Themun’s staff hit the granite floor at the end of his statement, punctuating the point.