Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (34 page)

Journal Entry 7

It is clear now I never understood Thoth. He spoke of tiny motes, infinitesimal particles, and other fanciful things. It is a fact these particles exist, but they are not Aeris. They are the substance upon which Aeris are made.

What of us? Are we made of these things? I do not know, but our will seems to Shape them into purpose. In that manner, we are the impetus upon which these Aeris Lords gain substance.

However, it is more than that. We bring them into being, incoherent at first, wisplike. They are like wishes or feelings, trapped on the psychic wind between worlds. They surround us at all times, ready to be shaped by our will.

Ritual, myth, ceremony, sacrifice, these seem to give them purpose, life. I walk in a world filled with the promise of the mythology of my people and the legends of all who ever lived.

It is a dangerous place for I walk amongst titans, and as I’ve learned with Finnow it seems, sometimes even ghosts.

A F
INAL
I
LLUSION

When facing multiple opponents,

Engage each briefly and move to the next,

Or it will become you against many,

Instead of you fighting many single foes.

It is vital to understand the difference.

—Tir Combat Academy, The Tactics of Victory

D
ragor moved quickly to his right and felt the strike pass inches from his head. He ducked low, tumbling effortlessly in a circle as kicks and punches flew around him, striking the empty air where he had just been or flashing harmlessly off his flameskin in a burst of amethyst. He blocked a strike to his midsection, his hand stinging as if he struck stone and moved into the attacker, preparing to inflict a shattering strike that would pierce armor and cripple the body beneath.

However, the team he faced had endlessly trained and fought together. They moved in unison, keeping him off balance so none faced the full brunt of his attack alone. For every one of his strikes, he had to deal with multiple counters.

As his latest strike was interrupted by another, he came to the sickening realization they would eventually win. Each had to expend less effort to engage him and eventually he would make a mistake. It was only a matter of time, and they knew it.

Still, they didn’t act in
perfect
unison. One of them moved out of synchronization with the others. His speed and skill were not in doubt, but he moved like a professional just learning his part, a fraction of a moment behind the rest. Dragor worked himself carefully toward that man, the weak link, feinting a kick high then spinning around a counter strike.

Now
! He aimed three strikes in rapid succession to the men to either side of the man out of step, then struck with full force as they were recovering. His opponent reacted as he should, moving into the strike and meeting it early rather than at the end where Dragor’s power would be greatest. Their hands met in strike and block, like thunder and lightning, and Dragor’s flameskin flashed purple in response.

Kisan!
The shock of realization hit him and he fell back, stunned. The assassin he was facing was Kisan, disguised as one of them! His body went into defending himself almost automatically. Without realizing it, he began to move back to the wall, his mind racing to understand what was happening.

Kisan was disguised as one of them, but her strikes and blocks to Dragor were not aimed to cripple or damage. None of the others could see the difference, but Dragor knew Kisan’s skill. Clearly, she was putting on a show to keep her identity secret from these men.

Infiltration!
She must have disposed of one of these men and now sought to infiltrate them. To do that would take almost all of her power. She would need help, without giving away her disguise. Furthermore, mindspeaking her would possibly alert them, if they could hear it, and waste valuable energy, something the adept could not afford.

Dragor spun in a circle and struck one of the six with a glancing blow using the outside of his wrist. Following that motion, he trapped that man’s arm and pushed him into another. This opened a hole through which Kisan would have to come.

Sure enough, the master vaulted through like a black snake, striking with claws to Dragor’s chest.

For Dragor’s part, he let Kisan’s strike through his flameskin, then pushed power through the physical contact created. Energy suffused the depleted master, and Dragor could almost hear her sigh of relief.

It was but a heartbeat between contact and counter-strike to break it, but it was enough. Dragor had given Kisan all the power he had remaining, enough to replenish her until she could regenerate on her own.

But there would be consequences.

Dragor now had nothing to draw upon, his reserves nearly gone. His flameskin guttered then failed, its purple flames dissipating into the night air, no longer able to tap his depleted stores enough to protect him.

His training took hold and he continued to block and dodge the blows, but the end was coming more quickly. As if sensing it, the group pulled back, pausing as Dragor slumped against the stone wall at his back, his breath heaving.

“You’ve fought well,” the leader said. “What’s the point in throwing your life away?”

“No rest... just getting... warmed up,” said the dark-skinned adept between huge gulps of air he wished were part of the act.

“Indeed?” The leader looked to his left and nodded, but his hands quickly signaled a coded message to everyone.

“Let’s try again,” the adept challenged.

The leader shook his head, giving the signal just as Dragor repeated, “Let’s try again,” and lurched forward in a clumsy, exhausted attack. Four darts sprouted from Dragor’s chest, their impact soundless.

His body convulsed once, turning his attack into a spasm. His eyes rolled up to show whites and he bit through his tongue. As with the others, he fell to the ground, nerve toxin racing through his convulsing body, bringing with it tortured spasms and death.

* * * * *

The team watched this impassively, then one moved forward and punched a cross-shaped dagger into the base of Dragor’s skull, severing the spine. He yanked the dagger out, while another inspected the body. Satisfied he was dead, they moved back.

The leader spun and kicked Tamlin in the chest, knocking him to the ground in a
whuff
of exhaled breath. “Explain,” he said, his voice curt and demanding.

Kisan let the kick hit, barely feeling it, while she fought to assimilate Tamlin’s memories. It was happening, but too slowly. She raised her eyes and came face to face with Dragor’s dead gaze. He had saved her life at the cost of his own, and Kisan would not let that sacrifice be in vain.

She stood up slowly, shaking her head, hoping the leader would not choose now to review their combat protocol. They were still in enemy territory and it would be more prudent to make their exfiltration. This mission, regardless of any mistakes, had been carried out by professionals. He would know this was neither the time nor the place.

Kisan was right. The leader cursed in disgust, but motioned for them to move. They had achieved their objective and Themun Dreys was dead.

“We’ll deal with this on the ship,” he whispered.

Then he and the team took off at a sprint a normal man would have found impossible to follow. For Kisan it was easy and every moment that went by gave her more memories from Tamlin, more information about these men and their mission, and more reasons to kill them all.

* * * * *

Silence fell around Dragor’s dead form. A light breeze blew, yet nothing stirred behind the fleeing forms. Then, as the assassins disappeared into the night, the very air rippled like the surface of a pond and the scene shifted. From the ripple stepped Themun Dreys, his staff glowing blue and white with power. Behind him came Giridian, Dragor, and the students, servants, and teachers of the Isle, a courtyard full of people who had been “killed.”

Themun staggered forward as the illusion finally ended, only to be caught and lowered gently to the ground by the two other adepts. Never before had he pushed himself to such a breaking point and the price he knew would be great. Already he could feel his life-force ebbing as the Way consumed him. He knew he had little time. Unnoticed next to him, his runestaff dimmed and dissolved, flowing into the air and ground like black smoke.

“Lore Father, it is enough,” Giridian said. He looked about, hoping against all hope that it was not too late. The power necessary to cloud everyone’s mind, to make the attackers believe they had been successful, was staggering. He surely had never known such a thing could even be done. Even now, seeing everyone safe and whole, he didn’t seem to believe it. A gentle hand on his arm interrupted his thoughts.

Themun looked at him and said, “What of Kisan?”

“She was with them, in disguise,” Dragor replied. “She means to infiltrate them, but she will need our help.”

Giridian motioned to Tomas and commanded, “Search the area. If your master is with them, she took the place of someone she either killed or incapacitated.
That
person is still here.” Tomas nodded and raced off with two others.

Dragor looked at the lore father, his face screwed into a mask of misery. “Had you not cloaked me into the spell while I stood against the wall, what they saw would have been the truth.”

“It was sloppy work,” countered Themun, his voice growing fainter. “I had you repeating what you said.”

Giridian knelt and laid a gentle hand on Themun’s brow. “None were the wiser. Dragor speaks true. You felt the attack on Thera and acted to save us all. Can we not now do the same for you?”

Themun shook his head and replied, “Not Thera. Not the children with her. Their deaths saved us and she knew it not. What do you think she would think of my final solution?” His eyes closed and a tear crept its way down his face. “I wish I could have said goodbye to her.”

Giridian shook his head, unable to speak.

Themun looked at the bear-like adept with a sad smile and said, “The damage done to me is too deep. When used like this, the Way exacts its toll. You must continue my work. It falls to you to lead these people now.”

Giridian stared in shock. Then he shook his head. “You cannot be serious! It should be Silbane.”

Themun only nodded, then leaned more heavily into Dragor’s arms. “It should.” The lore father smiled, then said, “But we don’t always get to choose.” He reached out his hand and took Giridian’s own.

A small flash of blue passed between them and Giridian staggered back, as if struck a physical blow. His eyes widened in surprise and he whispered, “I never dreamed...” He sank to his haunches as the lore of the council and its knowledge passed from Themun to him. Though he could not use it yet, the lore would not die with Themun. It was the only thing the lore father cared about.

More of the Isle’s inhabitants clustered around, some reaching out to touch him, as if they sensed the inevitable was coming. Dragor suppressed a sob and then implored, “You... can’t leave.”

Themun’s eyes cracked open and the barest of smiles showed through. “I will live, as long as I am remembered.” The words came out as a whisper. The lore father reached up slowly and grasped Giridian’s hand, pulling him close. He put his mouth directly next to the new lore father’s ear and whispered, then his head fell back, exhausted by this last effort. His gaze locked onto Giridian’s own, as if trying to convey the importance of what he had just said.

Then a single breath washed out of his broken body and turned into a soft breeze in the still night air. It caressed everyone standing there, lifting tired spirits, cleansing souls, drying tear-filled eyes, and bringing with it the smell of honeysuckle and pine. It swirled about them gently, then slowly faded away. Themun Dreys, Lore Father of the Council of Adepts, passed on.

* * * * *

Giridian sat back, unable to believe it. He looked at Dragor, who knelt beside him, speechless.

Tomas returned with some others he’d recruited to retrieve the assassin’s body, and stood some distance away, waiting. Then he came forward hesitantly and tapped Dragor on the shoulder, clearly not knowing what to do. Everyone was shaken by the death of the lore father, yet something still compelled him to act.

Dragor looked up and Tomas pointed to the body left by Kisan. “You need to look at this.”

Dragor stood slowly, carefully shifting the lore father’s body to Giridian. He then turned and made his way over to the still form of the dead assassin. It had taken six students to drag the body over to them.

Behind him, Giridian looked down at the lore father and asked, “What do I do?” The weight of the Council now fell upon him, and he did not know where to turn.

He was interrupted a moment later when Dragor came to stand near him. His eyes, red-rimmed, met the new lore father’s gaze. “I cannot believe it.”

“I know,” Giridian replied. “How can he be gone?”

Dragor laid a gentle hand on Giridian’s shoulder and said, “No, the man... the assassin...” He took a deep breath and said, “He’s dwarven.”

D
UEL IN THE
W
ASTES

Strike your opponent’s face,

He remembers you when he looks in the mirror.

Break his ribs,

He remembers you every time he breathes.

—Davyd Dreys, Notes to my Sons

S
ilbane saw his opening, and in the space between heartbeats he shot forward, his hand straight and rigid, aimed at a small point on the dragon’s neck. It was a chink in the armor, no more than a finger’s width across.

Given the form Rai’stahn was trapped in, Silbane hoped a strike to this spot would incapacitate the dragon. He knew he only had a few chances before his opponent’s natural strength and speed overcame him, yet he did not strike to kill. Something stayed his hand, a feeling that there was still hope for some sort of compromise.