Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (5 page)

The man fought, his desire for life overcoming any fear he had for the clanchief. He tried punching, kicking, and pushing the gargantuan man, trying to find any kind of purchase or weakness, but Hemendra’s grasp was like iron, unyielding. Indry’s punches soon became lethargic, then feeble. Finally, they stopped all together.

Hemendra waited, watching until life drained from the man’s eyes, then he released his hold. He flung the dead nomad to the desert floor, feeling his fingers stick together where blood had congealed. Stalking back up the dune he stooped to grab a handful of sand and began to rub off the drying blood. Paksen, who he noticed had not moved, slowly came to his feet and paid the proper homage, palms to forehead. I will have to watch this one, he thought, angry at himself for letting the Redrobe’s presence affect him so.

He could have let Indry’s lapse go unpunished—killing nomads for slight transgressions was not sustainable, not for a true leader of the Altan—and Indry had brothers and cousins who would now feel obligated to retaliate. They would die too, in a ripple of violence, but to what purpose? He had been foolhardy, he knew.

Yet another part of him forgave his harsh action. Indry
had
given him what he needed most, a show of strength in front of a clanfist as powerful as Paksen. Fear was a strong motivator, and killing one to maintain order and discipline was valuable in its own way. It also stripped Paksen of an ally, should he think to challenge the u’zar. And it was clear to Hemendra that Paksen’s ambition would soon exceed his caution. He nodded permission as Paksen bowed and went to see to his orders.

His eyes followed the retreating form of the clanfist, flat and empty of emotion. That day, he knew with cold certainty, would be the day Paksen died. For now, though, he would carry the word of the killing back to the men, and sprinkle the waters of doubt into their cups of ambition.

Behind him, over eight thousand nomads made ready to assault the walls of Bara’cor again. As the Great Sun dipped below the western horizon, he could see the fortress’s minarets, the flags atop unfurled and rippling in the wind: a golden lion on a black field. Hemendra rewrapped the
shahwal,
careful to cover his mouth and nose. Tomorrow the storm would be here in full force and his nomads would hide in its swirling sands.

“Once again we follow you, Redrobe,” he whispered into the warm desert breeze, but the words came out like a curse.

Casting one last look around, Hemendra made his way down the dune and back to his tent to perform his evening ablutions. Storms, spells, or not, he vowed, Bara’cor would soon see its last sunset.

T
HE
M
ASTER

In preparation for close combat,

Take heed of your opponent’s stance;

In making a strike, his arms;

In giving and taking blows, his chest;

In all else, watch your opponent’s eyes.

—Tir Combat Academy, Basic Forms & Stances

S
ilbane moved through the wide hallway toward the stairwell that would take him to his quarters. This is insanity, he thought. Using Arek could not be the only answer. There were always other options. Still, the danger to Edyn was great. Were they not pledged to serve that need? And as the lore father had pointed out, his apprentice intended to take the same oath of service as an adept, a Binding Oath. It was not a decision taken lightly.

In fact, the Binding Oath did much more once uttered, for it combined the true intent of the two who pledged it, heard and enforced by the Way. Breaking the oath had varying degrees of punishment, from something as simple as blindness or deafness, to complete annihilation. A dark cloud would appear, and the person would be forever changed. None had ever escaped its punishment, so the uttering of such an oath was taken with the utmost sincerity.

Was Arek not already committed by his allegiance to the council, and his intention to test for the rank of adept? Was he not governed by his intention to take this very same oath, whether uttered or not? Silbane did not trust himself to answer that question now.

Another thing troubling the master was that the other fortresses of the land had been destroyed. This only strengthened the argument that something was happening, and it was not some random testing of strength. There were many other targets, ones more convenient and easier to defeat than an armed and guarded fortress of granite. Regardless of his opinion of nomad strength, Silbane knew that desert warriors armed with horn bows would not survive an assault on a fortress stronghold. At least, not without help. Themun had surely gone through the same line of reasoning, and staged that charade for his benefit. Silbane inwardly cursed, then asked himself, what had been the point?

He strode up the circular stairway, exiting on a level high above the main training halls. He ignored the bows of respect protocol demanded students and servants offer as he passed, his mind deep in thought. If Bara’cor is the last fortress standing, then the nomads have combined their strength with someone else, and Themun is correct... it did not bode well for the security of the Gate.

Silbane strode through the double doors to his quarters, which swung silently shut behind him. Placing his things in a corner, he made his way into his personal library. There he searched the stacks for a particular manuscript on the history of Bara’cor, snapping his fingers when his eyes fell on its faded brown leather cover. Retrieving it, he settled into a plush chair near a window and began to read.

Bara’cor, it stated, stood at the southwest corner of the Altan Wastes, straddling Land’s Edge, aptly named for the two thousand foot cliff face separating the upper desert region from the lush, abundant grasslands surrounding the capital city of Haven below. The fortress stood with its back to Land’s Edge protecting the one safe way down, a wide road cut out of the sheer face of the cliff.

As a result, Bara’cor had found an ever-increasing amount of people traveling through its walls, the pass between the upper and lower regions creating the perfect atmosphere for trade to flourish and grow. The fortress served as the protective nexus for traders from the Wastes and those from the lower, fertile valleys to meet in a neutral place that welcomed all.

It was dwarven-made, with towers and minarets reaching gracefully into the desert sky. The stone itself was shaped in a manner unlike any known in the land, as if poured and then hardened in place. It was beautiful, and bespoke of a mastery of stonemasonry long since lost.

Still, the citizens of Bara’cor could not entirely dismiss the obvious intent of the original builders to protect their work of art. Bara’cor held a strong military presence and surrounding its fragile inner city were hundred-foot walls of solid granite, rising out of the desert floor. It stood alone along the cliff’s edge like a great stone fist so only the walls facing the desert were open to possible attack.

Atop those walls were catapults, standing like silent sentinels. The area in front of the stronghold was mostly sand with a few boulders strewn haphazardly, as if some giant had upended a sack of rocks, none of which were big enough to afford any protection against the deadly barrage of missile fire Bara’cor could bring to bear.

One of the most astounding facts about the fortress, Silbane read, was the natural lake within its walls. Fed through underground springs, Bara’cor had an unlimited supply of fresh water, a commodity worth more than gold to inhabitants of the Wastes. Silbane sat back for a moment, the last thought repeating in his head.

Closing the book, he moved out into the main room and settled down near another large window. The afternoon sun shone with its usual springtime intensity. In the distance, he could hear the rumble of the waves crashing onto the surf. He noticed a few of the older apprentices gathering for informal practice on the hill behind the tower, their brown uniforms contrasting with the bright green of the grass.

The nomads could be after that source of water. Though it did not seem logical, no explanation could be ruled out. But there were easier ways to get water, including trading between the people of the desert and those of the fortresses—a practice well respected and known.

Also, it failed to answer how the nomads had already destroyed three other fortresses, and now looked to the fourth. Nothing about this fit with the ways of nomadic life, nor with their favored style of warfare, fast-moving and mounted. It gave him a very uneasy feeling.

Opening the window, Silbane breathed in the cool sea air and watched the initiates gathered on the hill, not without a bit of envy. Simpler times, with simpler pleasures, he remembered fondly. Silbane had been brought here almost eighty years ago, a wide-eyed lad of perhaps nine. He had expected to see all sorts of magical beasts and eldritch incantations of power. Instead, much to his disappointment, his first years exposed him to stacks of books, none of which were magical. Themun and the other teachers had pounded the basics of reading, writing, history, and mathematics into his young mind until finally he passed his entrance examinations, proving he was intelligent enough to continue. Mathematics in particular had been emphasized. For some reason, it had been shown that those with the highest aptitude in numbers had the greatest connection to the Way.

From that day forth, Silbane had been subjected to intense physical and mental conditioning, something he had not at all expected. Each day had been dedicated to hardening his body in unarmed and bladed combat, and sharpening his mind on logic and numerical puzzles. The mantra of this phase of his training was repetition, an ideology Themun in particular seemed to inflict upon him with a special zeal.

When the time came, he had taken the Test of Potential, proving once again he had a connection to the Way. His formal apprenticeship had begun that very same day, with him turning in his old white uniform for dark green. During this time he had been regaled with the histories of the land, and the Demon Wars.

The First Council had been ill-prepared for the war. They had not concentrated nearly as much on the physical aspects of combat, instead investing much of their time on more arcane manifestations of power. This decision, in Silbane’s opinion, rendered them incapable of protecting themselves when they needed it the most. Their bodies, lacking in physical endurance and stamina, had succumbed to the immense needs of facing Lilyth and the armies of demonkind that followed.

Themun and his Second Council had vowed never to let their adepts face such a situation unprepared. “A fool expects the same song to end on a different note,” was another favorite saying of his instructors.

As a result, a significant portion of an adept’s training now lay in the physical arts of combat. This ensured their ability to survive in situations a pure scholar could not, regardless of magical potential. The path to the Way was often thought of as hanging onto a rope, with an adept’s stamina eventually wearing out. To combat this, one needed to train both the mind
and
the body, before they could truly master the Way and the arcane energies flowing unseen throughout the world.

Silbane wondered how the lords of the First Council had ever made the journey to Sovereign’s Fall, leaving their cloistered lives behind. Their bodies could not have been ready for the hardships they would face.

In truth, the Second Council’s adoption of physical and mental excellence had made them better prepared in some ways for this crisis than their forebears. Their bodies were at the peak of conditioning, and enhanced by magical energy, could accomplish feats most would consider impossible. What they lacked in raw, overt, power they partially made up for with enhanced speed and strength. If the sham of the upcoming council “vote” went the way the lore father had engineered, the final task would come down to infiltration and assassination, something Silbane was especially well trained to do.

He cursed himself for daydreaming and moved away from the open window. His apprentice’s life lay in the balance, for Themun would not hesitate to send Arek with Kisan. If the Gate had opened, then Themun’s solution would be to push Arek through. To Silbane, it was clear the lore father believed Arek’s peculiar ability to dampen or disrupt magical energies was the reason behind this.

It
might
close the Gate, he conceded, but if successful would leave Arek stranded in Lilyth’s world. Silbane could not live that. His only choice would be to find a way to protect his apprentice, and that meant he would have to accompany him. He could no longer trust the lore father or anyone else to keep the boy safe, and this was exactly what the lore father had counted on. Silbane could see he was being manipulated and hated it.

Putting down the leather-bound tome, he rose and went back into his library. Searching the stacks, he retrieved another book,
The Altan Nomads.
He moved back to his chair and sat down, preparing for some intensive research. Being angry at the lore father was a waste of time, he semi-chastised himself. If there is an answer to the nomad’s actions, and a chance to safeguard Arek, it will be in here. Opening the old book, Silbane leaned back in the afternoon sun and began to read.

H
ISTORIES
: M
AGEHUNTERS

A bladesman does not kill;

He allows one to live, purely by his own will.

He kills or grants life when wielding his blade.

—The Bladesman Codex

H
ow often have you done this?” His voice came out nervously, looking to his lieutenant. He wore the dark mail and cloak of the king’s Magehunters, blue edged with silver. In his right hand he carried a torch, its dancing flame sputtering and hissing in the light rain. It painted his young face a lurid splash of orange and black, as light and shadow danced in the dismal night. He didn’t want to do this, but talking to his lieutenant kept him in good spirits.

“Half a dozen, Stiven, maybe more. Stop worrying.” He was not much older than the boy he spoke to. He rubbed his face clear of rain and looked up, silently cursing the weather and the clutch of new recruits like Stiven he had to look after. Dumber than a bag of onions, and not even as useful, but he could not afford to have the boy panic at the wrong time. He put a conciliatory hand on Stiven’s shoulder and said, “The king’s mark is with us. She’ll deal with any trouble. Just worry about your shieldmates.”