Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (6 page)

Stiven gulped, looking at the storm clouds, then turned a wide-eyed stare back to his commander and said, “Garis said they have powers... that we can be turned into things...
unnatural
things.”

Lieutenant Kearn shook his head and smiled. “What makes you think you’re so normal now?”

Another soldier bumped the kid with an elbow and said, “Don’t worry Stiv, you’ll likely be turned into a man. That’ll be a real trick.” Good-natured laughter followed as the platoon of men moved through the forest toward the village. Then the rain began to fall in earnest, ruining the moods of many. They had spent close to a fortnight on the hunt and wanted nothing more than a roof that didn’t leak and a dry, warm bed.

Their mood was further darkened by the woman who rode next to them on her black destrier. Her name was Alion Deft, the king’s mark, and her job was to hunt down and kill those who would threaten Edyn again. She wheeled her horse, then signaled Kearn to stop. She cantered over and met the young lieutenant’s unvoiced question with a flat statement. “I’ll address the men here.”

Lieutenant Kearn nodded, then motioned to his sergeant to have them form up but keep silent. At this distance, sound could still carry to the village, though the rain had muffled much of their progress through the undergrowth.

The men shambled into a loose square facing their sergeant. The fact the order had been obeyed instantly was the only indication these were seasoned fighting men. Some pulled their hoods farther forward as the rain fell harder. Lieutenant Kearn looked at the ragtag grouping and scowled at the lax formation, but then said, “Shield rest.” The men relaxed, but only a bit, waiting for their commander to speak.

Deft moved her warhorse forward to face the men and dismounted. Her cloak was the same dark blue as the others, but her armor was silver and steel, with a circular symbol stamped upon her breastplate. Her fingers rubbed it absentmindedly, a ritual before every cleansing. She looked at the assembled soldiers and asked, “Why are we here?”

There was no answer, and she seemed to expect none. She pulled her sword from its scabbard, the steel ringing its own note of death, and continued, “There is a pestilence. I mean to remove it.” Her gaze swept the men while the clearing remained silent. The only sound, rain falling through the trees. “I act on the king’s order, and by his grace and our Fathers, so do you.” Her eyes hardened. “No mercy.”

The men shuffled a bit, but nothing they heard was new. At a nod from the king’s mark, they all knelt. Deft raised a circled hand in supplication and said, “Let us pray.”

The men lowered their heads as the king’s mark intoned, “Fathers, bless our acts tonight. Aid us to smite the demons who wish harm upon your good lands. Let us be the hand that delivers justice, in peace.”

“In Peace.” The men responded. They slowly rose, some making the sign of the Circle and kissing their fists. Soon, they knew, it would be over.

Kearn watched Stiven look at the king’s mark as she stood there in the rain. “She’s beautiful,” he heard him whisper, to no one in particular.

“Aye,” said the sergeant who had lost an eye during one of the many border fights following Lilyth’s defeat, “and deadly. Stay away from her when it starts.”

“Why?” Stiven asked, in a voice that sounded like a boy more than a man.

The one-eyed man turned back and said, “Just stay out of her way.” He cinched Stiven’s pauldron closer, tapping it with a mailed fist to be sure it sat securely on his shoulder, then walked away, disappearing into the wet gloom.

Stiven stared at the sergeant’s back until Kearn thumped him out of his reverie. “Come on, Stiv. You’re assigned to the catchers. Grab some torcs.” He motioned to a basket holding dozens of metal collars, dull and gray. Still, every so often the light would catch one just so, and the coppery orange metal would flash into life.

Stiven moved over and grabbed one of the collars, holding it as he had been taught. It didn’t weigh much, but Kearn knew Stiven had seen what it could do. He clutched it tighter, making the thrusting motion once, twice, as if to remind his own arm how it was used. Then he took two more and hooked them onto his belt, within easy reach, and was obviously relieved to see the others do the same. Everyone knew Stiven hated standing out.

The sergeant whispered a command to douse the torches, and Stiven’s went into the wet ground with a hiss. The clearing where they stood fell into inky darkness, until his eyes adjusted and Kearn could make out the rest of the men. They looked like shadows, disappearing between the rain, leaves, and trees, and death followed their every step.

* * * * *

Alion Deft stood where she had delivered her prayer, scanning until her eyes came to rest on an older man, grizzled and gray. He had the look of one who scowled regardless of the weather. His mouth worked a repetitive chewing motion that spoke to the wad of
hazish
within. He stood near a small cart they had wheeled along with them. It was made of wood, and along one side held a small door, bolted closed. The king’s mark nodded her chin at the cart and said, “Malioch, bring her out.”

“Royal whelp.” He said the words like they were a private curse, talking
at
Alion, but not about her.

The king’s mark moved in front of him, her eyes fixed on the man until he acknowledged her with a spit to one side. She waited a moment longer then said, “Bring her out.”

It was the flatness of her voice, the dead calm that gave the man pause. He spat again, a brown liquid, foul smelling and pungent, then produced a large iron key. The bolt unlocked with a snap and he pulled wide the door. He waited a moment, then thrust his hand inside. “Come on!”

A squeal sounded from inside the box and Malioch cursed, then grabbed a handful of hair and yanked. Out came a girl, dumped unceremoniously into the wet mud. He kicked her so she tumbled forward again, falling face down. “Curse you, witch.”

Alion watched this without care, waiting for the girl to rise. Slowly, as the desire to stand and stretch overcame her inherent fear, the girl came to her feet. What was once a white robe was now matted with filth and stains, hanging from her bony shoulders. Dark hair that had not felt a loving hand in weeks fell in clumpy strings. When she finally looked up, what had been a face filled with laughter held only the frightened gaze of someone trying desperately to avoid another beating. The girl cringed with her entire body and spirit, looking far younger than her twelve summers would indicate.

The king’s mark stepped forward and stooped so her eyes were level with the girl’s own. She noted the prisoner still wore the torc around her neck. As she neared, the girl stepped back but Alion held up a hand, “Steady now, Galadine. You know your job, yes?”

The girl looked as if she were about to cry, but nodded vigorously.

“Do as I say and you may have your father’s love again.” Alion lied without a second thought. This vermin, along with the rest, would be food for worms long before the king forgave her sins. Alion did not care. Using these magelings had become a necessary evil. How else would they be able to find others like her?

The Talent ran strong in the Galadine line, their curse to bear for being faithful stewards of the land, and the king’s willingness to sacrifice his own blood spoke to his character and nobility. Still, the need to consort with this
thing
filled her with disgust. She could only imagine the royal family’s shame that they should be so afflicted.

Despite these thoughts, her revulsion, along with the deepest desire to thrust her blade into the heart of the creature, never reached her eyes. She said the words with utter sincerity, allowing the briefest hint of a smile to play across her features, reassurance that everything would be all right.

She stood and motioned to Kearn. “Take the torc off.”

As the lieutenant obeyed, she looked back at the girl and said, “Kalissa, you know what happens if you run?”

* * * * *

Kalissa Galadine nodded again, not saying a word. The instant the lieutenant touched the torc, it unlatched with a small
click
and the metal collar opened.

Power flooded through Kalissa’s senses, reawakening her connection to the Way. It sang into her heart, healing minor injuries, succoring her weariness, and cleansing her soul. The pain fell as if washed away like her mud stains. She felt reborn, but knew this was only temporary. If she did not obey, her father would keep her here. Nothing she did, no connection to the Way, would ease the pain of what she had to do next.

She opened her eyes and Saw, then pointed and stammered, “Th-through the trees. There are two you want.”

Alion looked at the girl for a moment then asked, “Just two? Are you sure?”

She nodded.

Alion looked up, her eyes calculating. “You stay near me for this.” She handed the reins of her warhorse to a nearby soldier who secured it to the cart, which would remain behind.

Kalissa came forward, standing woodenly next to the king’s mark. She never took her eyes off the glowing folk she could see, amongst the less bright signs of the people in the village around them. They stood not more than two hundred paces away, beacons of Talent marking them for death.

Next to them, she saw a third, brighter than they were, someone with the potential for true power. Her eyes flicked once to the knight standing next to her, then back to the village. This third one was young, a girl not more than five or six summers old. Kalissa did not know who she was, only that if the girl were discovered, it would likely mean her own death.

Why would the king’s mark need her Talent if another, younger child were found to do her bidding? The shame of the decision to let this girl be put to the sword along with the rest of her village would have caused her anguish in the past, but now it barely registered. If her own father could give her away to someone like Malioch, why should she be any more merciful?

Adults with Talent were killed, but children were harvested and put to work, just as she had been. She would not take the chance these men would choose this new child of power over herself, and she did not care anymore about the consequence to her own soul. She would live and that was all that mattered. It was not the first time she had chosen her own safety over others and she knew it would not be her last. It was simply a matter of survival.

* * * * *

The village was small, counting no more than ten huts arranged around a central fire pit that still held glowing embers, protected by a rain shield made of some sort of metal. The rain hit it with a
pang
that sounded at once both hollow and strangely muffled. Alion could almost hear the drops slide down the shield, before they joined their brothers on the soaked earth. At best, the king’s mark estimated, there were less than fifty people here. She looked to Kalissa, who pointed to the second hut on her right. Alion put two fingers up and pointed.

The men broke into smaller squads of four, each taking station silently at the entrance to each hut. The remainder of her men melded into the shadows in case any tried to sneak out, a strategy they had practiced and perfected over dozens of raids.

When they were in position, Lieutenant Kearn signaled to the king’s mark, who strode into the center of the village and its fire pit. Grabbing a metal poker, she stoked the embers, then grabbed some wood from the pile. She threw this onto the fire, watching as it lit, growing slowly into a warm, orange dance of flames. Then, she casually ran the poker across the rain shield, the metal on metal creating a cacophony of sound.

A few villagers to poke their heads out to see what was happening. At that moment those under Deft’s command exploded into action, streaming into each house and grabbing the people inside. Screams ensued as the village realized it was suddenly under attack, yet there was little defense offered, as the attackers were both well-trained and alert in comparison with these simple, sleep-addled folk.

Three entered each house and battered people into submission. A fourth would move in quickly and collar them, the torc snapping into place before they knew what was happening. Instantly, any path to their powers would vanish, or at least that was the promise. These torcs could only be removed by one without Talent. It made for an infallible test of who exactly was a mage and who wasn’t. If they had no power, they could remove their torc easily. If not, the king’s mark would deal with them.

* * * * *

Stiven raced in behind his team, torcs ready. He saw a man go down with a strike to his forehead, the flat of the blade hitting him with a dull thud. Stiven was upon him, dropping his torch and snapping a torc in place with a simple thrust of his hand. He fumbled to make another ready and looked up, only to see a woman slashing downward with something. He raised his blade instinctively, hearing the strike of steel on steel and feeling the shock of impact. The sword tumbled from his cold, wet fingers as he fell onto his back.

The woman carried a cleaver and raised her hand to strike again, but two swords plunged into her back as his squadmates came to his aid. They struck repeatedly as the woman let out a low groan, falling to her knees. They stabbed her even after she fell forward, face down and lifeless, pinning her body to the ground with their blades.

One leaned on his sword, thrust through the back of the dead woman’s body, then looked up at Stiven and laughed, “She had some swing in that arm!”

He didn’t answer, his mind still reeling from the speed of the attack and everything happening around him. Sitting on the ground, he watched numbly as the little girl who ran up to her dead mother’s body was torced, then pulled out of the hut along with her unconscious father.

Alion smiled at the brutal efficiency of her men. The villagers put up little resistance and were soon rounded up and left kneeling in the mud of the central square. Those who were unconscious were dumped to the side under the watchful eyes of the guards. Those who had been killed were dragged from where they fell and laid out for the count, a grisly sight for the survivors. Within a few moments, the raid was over and the people of the village were fully accounted for, one way or another.