Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (3 page)

“How have the last two hundred years passed for you?” the lore father went on. “In safety, raising families to love and cherish?” He spat these words, knowing the sacrifice each of the gathered adepts had made to keep their knowledge alive. “Or have those two centuries been spent in hiding? Here, if lucky, alone and hunted if not? What of the children in the land born with Talent?”

Giridian shook his head then addressed the lore father, “The persecutions are over! The latest Galadine has put an end to them.”

Themun scoffed. “You think we are now welcome in the land?”

Giridian answered, “Master Silbane is right. You ask him to take his apprentice into harm’s grasp? I, too, cannot agree.”

Rubbing his beard, Silbane said, “And you have not yet told me why he’s so important.” Silbane referred to his own apprentice, but the statement could just as easily have applied to the conjured image of the general in armor.

Themun nodded, then said to the assembled adepts, “I have a simple question. You know of the destruction caused by Valarius when he opened the gate to Lilyth’s world. Would any of you allow such a tragedy to replay itself if you could prevent it?”

Giridian shook his head, angry, ignoring the question and pointing instead at the image. “There has not been a fully trained adept of that power in centuries! Even you, Lore Father, have mastered only a fraction of the Old Lore.” Giridian bowed in apology and quickly added, “I do not discount the very strength it took for you to survive, but it would be folly to call ourselves their peers. For all our training, we are still a shadow of what we once were.”

Then there was steel in his voice as Giridian continued, “But perhaps it is the Lore Father who requires a history lesson.” He looked at the assembled adepts. “We can lay devastation to dozens of men, but who can still call lightning from the sky?” His eyes wandered until they met Thera’s. “Who has the oceans at their command?” He shook his head, and in a sad voice said, “Two centuries under the yoke of Galadine persecution have forged us into deadly warriors, but not one of us wields the might of the Old Lords.”

Themun replied in a low and dangerous voice, “We may not have the Old Lords’ knowledge, but we still serve this land. It has need of us now.” He searched the familiar faces, hoping to find allies. He finally came to Silbane, who held his gaze for a moment before breaking contact and looking away.

It was then, Themun realized, that without some answers that even his old friend had reached his limit. He paused, then took a breath, reminding himself a patient hand was needed. What they were about to learn would require each adept’s commitment to its fullest.

“I stand here now only by chance,” he started to say but then stopped, looking at the image he had conjured for the first time. He stood there in silence, then came to a decision. Better they know what they faced, now. In a forthright voice that did not waver he said simply, “The demon, Lilyth, was not destroyed.”

Stunned silence followed. Dragor Dahl, a powerfully built adept whose dark skin bespoke of an ancestry from the southern continent of Koorva, motioned for permission to speak. With a nod from Themun, he said smoothly, “And you bring this up now? Your timing seems... convenient.”

Themun’s eyes hardened at the implied challenge and in a low voice he replied, “Would you tell a people weary of war, who blamed you for the summoning of such a creature, that you were unable to eradicate it?” He waited for a response but there was none. Dragor stood firm, his skepticism plainly written on his face and stance for all to see, waiting for the lore father to continue.

A moment passed, then Themun said, “I thought not. For what it is worth, we will never know what the First Council planned to do. King Galadine saw to that.

“My father taught me much before he passed, but I also learned from the world itself. I grew in power, and over the years became one with the Way. When that happened, the knowledge of the lore fathers who came before me sparkled, like points of light before my eyes. Through this, I learned the fate of Lilyth. I know the demon still lives.”

Themun wished this burden had fallen upon another council, one better prepared to shoulder the responsibility. He sighed but continued, his voice firm, “I share this knowledge with you now, hoping you can see the need for action.”

Silbane looked at the lore father and simply asked, “Bara’cor?”

The lore father nodded. “A Gate rests at Bara’cor, once under King Bara’s watchful eye.”

Giridian asked, “Why worry? None were left after Sovereign’s Fall, so who could know of its existence?”

Themun sighed then answered, “None but Bara. We assume he guarded it, but when he and the dwarves of Bara’cor disappeared, the guarding of this rift ended with them.”

“What is it you would have us do, challenge the king’s forces?” challenged Master Kisan Talaris. “I have dealt with their ilk more than you, Lore Father. They do not parley, even when I whisper death in their ears.”

Kisan Talaris looked no more than thirty, though she was in fact close to her fiftieth year. Her appearance was a study in composed lethality. Her features were lithe, her eyes bright and alert, and though she was opposite to Thera in most ways, Themun still considered her quite beautiful. But she was as stubborn as the day they first met, an irksome trait undiminished by age or experience.

Yet Kisan was the only other besides Silbane to have earned the rank of Master, having progressed quickly. Next to Silbane or the lore father, she was perhaps the most powerful adept in the room. And Kisan killed Magehunters on sight, a dangerous reality he would have to balance when even hinting of coming to the aid of Bara’cor.

Themun thought for a moment and then directed a more careful answer to the listening adepts. “King Bara was as old as the rock around him and as wise. This rift was nothing new or special. Its existence had been known since the fortress’s forging by the first
builders,
but its purpose remained a mystery. I believe Bara waited for the Old Lords to return from battle, to determine what to do next. Bara’cor is dwarven-made, naturally resistant to magic, so I doubt it overly concerned him. That is, until no one returned.”

Themun looked down for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He began haltingly, almost speaking to himself, “A moment ago I wished this problem had fallen to others, a childish thought.” He raised his head and looked at the assembled adepts, his gaze hardening, his voice finally finding the strength to become firm once again, “This task falls to us, and we carry the burden.”

When none responded, he shook his head and said simply, “Indulge me.”

He gestured with his runestaff and the middle of the chamber’s floor glowed in response, a pulsing blue spreading outward from the center. Slowly, a featureless expanse of sand and desolation became visible, as if seen from high above.

“You know the Altan Wastes... roughly circular, and at each cardinal point—” Themun pointed at a miniature castle, no bigger than his thumb, which rose on his map—“lies one of the great strongholds. The middle area is barren, deadly to those not desert bred.”

Kisan said, “The nomads are the only people known to be able to survive there. They have little regard for outsiders.”

“It is not just Bara’cor that lies besieged,” Themun went on, “but some force has attacked and destroyed the other fortresses of the desert.” He turned on the shocked faces surrounding him. “Shornhelm, Dawnlight, now EvenSea,
gone.
Something has overcome inconceivable odds, a fact I find both frightening, and hard to comprehend. By chance or design, Bara’cor stands alone.”

The council chamber fell silent, each adept weighing this new information. They knew Themun had the ability to see things happening elsewhere in the world. It was this power that had saved so many, bringing them to Meridian Isle. Now he used the same Sight to warn them of a danger they could not have seen themselves. To have Bara’cor under siege was believable. To hear something had destroyed the other ancient guardians of the desert was unimaginable.

Giridian leaned back, a question in his eyes. “You believe whatever force this is, it seeks the Gate hidden within Bara’cor? But what does Silbane’s apprentice have to do with this?”

“If this were an isolated incident, with one fortress under attack, I would likely ignore it. The Galadine line seems to enjoy waging war whenever the outcome favors the royal black and gold. The siege of Dawnlight not even twenty years is testament to that.”

Giridian countered Themun with, “Bara’cor is a natural target, as it defends the one pass to the lower, fertile plains, and the capital city.” He waited, but the lore father did not say anything in reply.

In the silence, Kisan asked, “You’re suggesting we aid Bara’cor, home of the Magehunters and their filth? And assuming we are successful, how do we close this Gate?” She took a moment to make sure she had everyone’s attention, then said, “Instead of risking an apprentice, why not infiltrate the nomad encampment and kill their leaders? Two of us could do this and escape, unseen and unscathed.” Her indifferent proclamation of death hung in the air, a task that could be accomplished as easily as saying the words.

Themun remained silent, leaving the rest of the council to wonder if the lore father weighed Kisan’s suggestion seriously or not.

Dragor was the first to break the silence. “You would murder people who had done nothing—”

“According to the lore father, they are responsible for the destruction of three other fortresses,” retorted Kisan. “They’ve killed thousands already. In my mind, that is enough. We hunt them down and do what we must.”

“We do not know it was the nomads,” said Thera. “And, Kisan, is this not crossing the line? We have never meted out punishment in such a manner. Even the First Council never took it upon themselves to be both judge
and
executioner.”

“They might have lived longer if they had,” Kisan replied. “Is that your answer to everything? Kill?” Thera shot back.

Looking at Kisan was to look death in the eye, and still feel a strange elation when that gaze was returned. To Themun it was like comparing the beauty one found in a flower with a finely crafted blade. Both were beautiful, but the blade represented a deadly simplicity, an instrument forged for only one purpose. Kisan dealt death, and in doing so insured change.

But Thera nurtured life, and in doing so cherished harmony between all living things. They each represented complementary ideals that while necessary, were philosophically antithetical. Because of this, no deep friendship had formed between the two, for neither could truly understand the other. Yet life and death had their places, and when channeling the Way in its purest form, each were stunning to behold.

“What of Themun’s father, who was certainly responsible for saving
you?”
Kisan replied, realizing that Themun wouldn’t yet intervene. She fell back into her chair and planted the barb, arms crossed. “Quite a killer, Themun’s father, from what I understand.”

“You’re right,” Themun finally said, icily. “My father
was
a killer. But before you attack Thera or his memory, you’d be wise to remember his sons are, too.”

He locked eyes with the younger master, who tried to meet his gaze but could not, breaking contact to inspect the tips of her fingers. “No offense was meant,” she said coolly.

Silbane held up a hand, then said in a measured voice, “There are other things to consider. Getting into and out of the nomad camp will not be so easy. If the other fortresses have been defeated, someone or something is clearly helping them.”

Themun waited a moment longer, until he was satisfied that Kisan knew her place, then nodded, “I agree.”

“Now
he’s
all knowing?” Kisan scoffed, meaning Silbane.

“These nomads are horsemen and traders,” Silbane retorted, “not experts in siege warfare. Perhaps the lore father is correct and they are being helped, by someone with knowledge, experience, and power.”

Dragor stepped forward and asked, “Are we not the last?”

Silbane turned to the questioning adept and said, “Think. We have created hundreds of disciples, both wayward students and those with true Talent, who failed to achieve the Black. Our last combat instructor, Keren, makes her home near Moonhold. She seems at peace with her life, but others bear watching.” He paused, thinking, then said, “We are here, so we must conclude there are others.”

The lore father shrugged and said, “Perhaps, but we don’t know this as fact, and none of our errant students have the power to destroy a stronghold. It comes to this: Three of the four fortresses have fallen, I know the Gate is hidden somewhere within Bara’cor, and the nomads now besiege that same fortress.”

Themun looked at each council member. “Perhaps Kisan is correct,” he offered, attempting to soothe his earlier treatment of the younger master. “Mayhap we need a falcon for this mission.” He gave her a small smile, which she gratefully returned.

Silbane shook his head. “I can’t believe the answer lies in, ‘kill first and ask questions later.’ If we follow that line of thinking, we should engineer the destruction of Bara’cor herself, just to be sure.”

“Perhaps we should,” said the lore father after a moment’s thought.

“Themun, this is insane!” Silbane exclaimed.

As if sensing the council would need a solution rather than another problem, Giridian said, “While destroying Bara’cor may be out of the reach of our knowledge, there are artifacts in the vaults below that could accomplish it.”

“You speak so easily of power and strength, but what of right and wrong?” Thera asked, sadness plain in her voice. “Should we not ask ourselves what is the right thing to do?”

Silbane paced a slow circle. “Bara’cor is the path for trade between the lower plains and the upper desert region. It would disrupt the trade routes and throw the entire land into turmoil. All this, on the
suspicion
of a Gate opening? We need to be more careful in our response.”

“Perhaps we should consider Kisan’s suggestion then, as distasteful as it may seem,” Giridian said. “Kill the leaders of the nomads before they enter Bara’cor. It will buy us the time necessary to determine what we should do next.” The adept then looked at Themun and continued, “As she says, they are responsible for the deaths of many. This would be fit punishment and limit any collateral damage.”