Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (39 page)

One could almost imagine a time when military strategists planned tactics upon its surface. Now, despite its strange and peculiar powers, it was nothing but a relic of the past. Large braziers and torches along the wall lit the chamber, giving it a warm and ruddy glow.

Seven statues of female figures sat arranged around the room. They were each different and of indeterminable race. Some were normal, others not. Some were taller, some wider, others bigger. One female figure had horns, another had wings. What each statue did have in common was a large, gray, rounded stone clutched in its arms. In front of each statue was a raised dais with dwarven script.

Ash saluted the king as he entered the chamber. Behind him came three others, each a final candidate for the attempt on the nomad’s camp. The king had been inspecting these statues, their workmanship still a marvel to him. As his armsmark came in, he turned his attention to Ash.

“Report.”

“Something curious happened. Our scouts reported an explosion of fire last night, about a day’s ride to the east. Coincidentally, it happened just before that boy arrived.”

“Do you think it’s related?” asked the king.

“We don’t know, but what burns in the desert?”

The king pursed his lips and said, “Have our teams watch the camps. See if anything strange happens.” He watched as Ash nodded, then turned his attention to the team that had followed his armsmark in.

The first was Sevel, Captain of Second Company. He and Ash had advanced together, training in the same academy and posting under Jebida when they had been commissioned officers. The king knew they were fast friends and could count on one another.

He acknowledged both with, “Good to see you, Armsmark, Captain.” He then motioned to the others and said, “I trust all of you are curious about what we’ve asked you to volunteer for?”

Captain Sevel nodded smartly, his action almost a salute rather than an acknowledgment. Ash had related to the king that Sevel had volunteered the moment he’d mentioned the possibility of a mission. Now, they were going to find out the details and the prospect obviously excited him.

Ash gestured to the second candidate and said, “This is Sergeant Chandra, sire. She served under Captain Durbin. She is one of our finest archers and especially good at getting in and out of places unseen. She’s also quite handy with a dagger.” The sergeant stepped forward and saluted smartly to the king. Her lithe form seemed to hold a barely contained energy, like a coiled spring about to release.

The king nodded and looked at the third candidate, a wiry man with a ready smile. His name was Talis, and the sight of him made Bernal smile. He clasped the old warrior’s hand, and with a laugh said, “Talis, you old dog! I thought you had transferred to Haven, ‘something easy’ as I recall.”

“Aye, I did at that,” Talis replied. “But when word came that the queen was evacuating, I thought it best I come see what trouble you’ve stirred up. Plus, you know the politics of Haven.”

“I do indeed,” the king nodded. Seeing him now brought back memories of long hours of training, hard but fair. The man was a legend to the fortress, and part of Bara’cor’s history. “Not the sort of mission I expected you to volunteer for.”

Talis bowed. “Ah... speakin’ of that. Just what have we volunteered for, besides dyin’ that is?” He smiled again and stepped back. His easy demeanor and familiarity in the face of rank came because of his long service to the king and his family. He had been the unarmed combat instructor for three generations of Galadines, and though near his fiftieth summer, he still held a dangerous glint in his eye. The king knew many had wagered and lost a week’s pay making the mistake of measuring Talis’s worth by his age.

The king looked at each of the candidates, then began, “I’m sorry it has come to this, but we have little choice. I asked the armsmark to select the best qualified and from there take only volunteers. The chance for success is good, but the chance of surviving that success... slim.

“However, if you succeed, the people of Bara’cor will owe you their lives.” The king paused, then looked at the group meaningfully. “I’ll not mince words. We are asking you to infiltrate the nomad camp and kill their leader.”

Discipline reigned. None of the candidates moved, nor spoke. Each absorbed the information and processed it in their own way—another confirmation that Ash had picked them well.

“Questions?” the king asked.

Captain Sevel stepped forward, his eyes straight ahead. “Sir, how will we know our target?”

The king nodded to Ash, who answered, “We all saw him, the day Durbin let his arrow fly from the walls. He is a massive warrior, clearly born and bred for battle. I doubt there are many that look like him in the camp. We may have new information shortly. If not, we’ll need to capture someone once we get in and extract the information.”

“Justice for Captain Durbin’s last stand,” Sergeant Chandra said. She had followed her captain through the thickest of fighting and respected his strength and honor. Losing him had been a blow to the entire Company and the king could feel that Chandra saw a chance to even things out.

The sergeant stepped back and Talis stepped forward. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but new information? What does that mean?”

“Last night we captured a spy within our walls,” the king said. “He’s being interrogated now. If he knows anything, I’ll share it with you immediately. Until then, prepare yourselves. You’ll leave tonight at dusk.”

Chandra stepped forward and asked, “Sir, does anyone have a plan yet on how we’re to get into the camp?”

“I have an idea,” Ash replied, “but I need to first discuss it with the king. You three are to prepare for single entry... we’ll split up and rejoin each other behind enemy lines. Select your gear as if you were the only person going in and select clothes from some of the slain nomads. I’ll drop by and discuss the mission details shortly.” Ash looked to the king for permission, then said, “Dismissed.”

The group snapped to attention, then with a signal from the armsmark filed out of the room.

The king asked, “Small group. Will they be enough?”

Ash turned and said, “Too big a group will attract attention, especially if one is captured and forced to talk. That will alert the camp and it will be impossible to get to the chieftain. I thought three was a good number.”

“There are four of you, counting yourself,” Bernal corrected.

Ash’s eyes never left his king’s. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. One of us will have to create a diversion, something to allow the other three to get by the nomad sentry line.”

The king didn’t understand the implication at first. When the simple fact of what Ash meant hit him, he shook his head. He would not throw away Bara’cor’s best chance.

“We knew this was the only choice,” Ash said. “We have to get into the camp somehow. We can’t just walk in.”

“You would be wasting all you could bring to the attempt against the nomad chieftain, dying needlessly.”

“It’s not needless if the others manage to slip into the camp unseen,” offered the armsmark. “Besides, should I order one of them to do this? I couldn’t live with myself.”

The king turned his gray eyes on the young armsmark and laid his battle-scarred hand on his shoulder. “It is difficult to order others to their deaths, but good leaders know this. You cannot sacrifice yourself, as you are the one with the best chance of finding and killing the nomad chieftain.”

Ash opened his mouth to argue, but the king squeezed his shoulder like a vise.

“Hear me out,” the king persisted. “Firing Bara’cor’s catapults and performing a mock charge on their lines will force them to hold their line. At the clash, we pull back and retreat. Many will fall, but the nomad line will push forward on our retreat. Dressed as nomads, the four of you, fallen amongst the many slain, will go unnoticed. When their line passes, you will be behind it and able to rise and blend in with the enemy.”

“That will mean the deaths of many of our men, just to cover our infiltration.”

The king nodded and said, “And if you fail, it will mean the deaths of all of us. I am king, and these are my orders.”

Ash did not meet the king’s gaze when he said, “I should be happy with this alternative, but I’m not.”

Bernal looked down, thinking to himself. He understood the weight of what he ordered, and also knew he had to put Bara’cor’s survival ahead of any sacrifice.

When he looked up, his eyes betrayed none of his thoughts, and his gaze was unflinching, “Nevertheless, the soldiers who fall in this charge are heroes, insuring you and your team get past the nomad line. I wish the Lady’s fortune on you, Armsmark. Do not waste
our
sacrifice.”

Ash’s voice was solemn as he replied, “Yes, my king.”

O
BSESSION

An opponent is weakest when he breathes in,

And strongest when he exhales.

A Bladesman knows this,

And strikes with the enemy’s indrawn breath.

He shocks the body, promotes fear,

And inflicts damage.

—Davyd Dreys, Notes to my Sons

W
hy would a dragon need a camp and supplies?” Scythe asked. When he saw his prisoner’s surprised look he added, “Silbane, I know much more than you think. You can see the dragon, Rai’stahn. I know you trapped him in his knight form.” He gestured at the crucified figure then, adjusted his seat on his small stool and finished, “I did say, ‘let us speak plainly.’ ”

Silbane hesitantly nodded, at which point Scythe continued, “You know of the ability to read someone’s memories. I know this because while I healed you, I mindread some of what you know. I know of your mission, of the Isle, and of your lore father.”

He paused, looking about the tent as if wondering how to continue. He then met Silbane’s surprised gaze and asked, “But who is Arek? You refer to him as your apprentice, as does Lore Father Themun, but of this apprentice there is no record in
your
memory. I find that most curious.” Scythe leaned back again, finger to lips as if deep in thought. “How can someone you believe exists not be in your memory?” Scythe seemed genuinely confused.

For his part, Silbane sat stunned. If this Scythe had mindread him, nothing he did now was secret. He gathered his wits and decided it would be better to delay things until he could understand the situation he found himself in and who Scythe was.

“If you know all this, why do you need me?” Silbane rasped, his voice almost back to normal.

Scythe took a deep breath then said, “There is a divergence.” He paused, then added, “Don’t mistake me... you believe what you say and it is clear you and the dragon fought over the life of this ‘Arek’... but there is not a single memory within your head of him. Or, to be more clear, no memories I can read. Again, why?”

Silbane didn’t know what to say. He clearly remembered his apprentice, and if in fact this person was telling the truth, there was no reason for him to provide any more information.

Something in his demeanor must have shown through, for the man let out a sigh that seemed to be both tired and sad at the same time. “I had hoped this would be a conversation and not an interrogation. I hesitate to hurt you, seeing we are both practitioners of the Way, but I will do what I must.”

Silbane laughed. “Clearly you wield some sort of magic... but what do you know of the Way?”

The man stood up and walked over to the corpse of Rai’stahn. He cupped the great dragon’s chin and raised his large head. “Do you think you and those few pathetic adepts you left on your Isle are the last essence of magic in this world?” He let Rai’stahn’s head drop with a dull thud, its face coming to rest upside down on its armored chest, the spine severed.

“Much has transpired since your self-imposed exile.” Scythe’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at Silbane. “I am also curious as to why you have allowed yourselves to be so isolated.”

He paused, again looking at the dragon-knight’s head with obvious remorse. “These blank areas of your memory are very regular, happening at almost precisely the same time everyday... as if they are scheduled. How are you unaware of it?” Scythe stopped, then looked at Silbane and asked, “How could such a thing occur?”

Silbane found himself wondering the same thing... a regular pattern of blankness? Then, with sudden dismay, he knew how, but he was careful not to let this knowledge show on his face.

Arek and his training schedule.

Those blank areas were when Arek came within close proximity of Silbane, at class, or lectures. Arek’s power to mask magic caused the blank spots. Strangely, the recognition left Silbane feeling somehow better about himself, as if he had solved something. It was as if an unspoken nag had been lifted away.

“Have you come to an understanding? If so—” Scythe pulled the rawhide stool closer to Silbane and sat back down—“please share it with me.”

Silbane looked at the man, his eyes turning cold and hard. It was clear this man was a danger to Silbane, and by that extension to Arek. He was not about to say anything.

Seeing no response from his captive, Scythe continued, “Do you know what else is strange? I could not see your aura until you were discovered here. That
thing—”
he motioned to something around Silbane’s neck with obvious distaste—“accomplishes the same purpose. But what blocked you from my Sight before?”

Silbane tried to crane his head down but couldn’t move. He caught a glimpse of something coppery, but was unable to focus on it. Whatever it was, the man in red seemed to be implying it was the reason for his inability to connect with the Way.

Scythe waited for Silbane to answer, a contemplative look on his face. When again no word was forthcoming, he continued, “You wear a torc fashioned by the Magehunters, a device with only one purpose—” his gaze grew thoughtful, as though reliving old memories—“to kill us all.”

“It blocks my aura?” Silbane ventured this, hoping to keep the man talking. As long as he did so, the conversation stayed away from Arek and their mission.