Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (67 page)

Hemendra never overextended himself and finished the short, deadly circles with his axe where they started, protectively across his own body. Jebida braced himself, then launched a swing that could have sheared a man’s head from his shoulders with ease.

Hemendra barreled forward, ducking under the horizontal swing and catching the Bara’corian warrior in the ribs. He swung an elbow around, hammering into the man’s collarbone and driving him down to a knee, then brought his own knee up in a short, brutal arc. It caught his opponent under the chin, driving him up again to almost a full standing position. Before he could recover, Hemendra spun and struck with his axe. Only a slight misstep, causing the flat of the blade and not the edge to connect with Jebida’s breastplate, saved him.

Jebida was hurled backward in a shower of sparks from steel on steel. The firstmark hit the ground on his back, but curled into a roll, coming to his feet in a moment.

Hemendra stalked forward, his axe held across his body. He raised it as if to strike at Jebida’s head, but then switched to a dangerous undercut swing. The axe whistled in, unerringly toward its target.

Jebida moved forward quickly, angling slightly away from the blow, but not too far. While he did so, he raised his arm, bracing himself. Hemendra’s axe blade slid up the side of Jebida’s body, but missed his groin, the chieftain’s intended target. Then Jebida clamped his arm back down over the axe blade, trapping it before it could gain its full deadly momentum. It saved him from certain death and trapped Hemendra’s axe against his body, too close for the nomad to use effectively.

The Bara’corian firstmark punched, once, twice, before the clanchief raised his offhand and trapped Jebida’s axe. For a moment they stood, axes locked and eye to eye, each straining for leverage. Neither said a word, but then the clanchief punched Jebida in the face with the knuckles of the hand still holding his axe. The strike broke the firstmark’s nose. He blinked furiously to clear his eyes. Then he grabbed his axe handle, still held trapped by Jebida’s armpit.

They re-engaged, each choosing to keep his opponent as close as possible, looking for any small advantage, taking in each other’s measure, concentration, and focus. Nothing needed to be said as they pushed and strained, looking for one mistake.

* * * * *

Jebida knew he had countered the Chieftain’s advantage well, but one of them would have to disengage to use his weapon effectively, so he readied himself. When he let go, his opponent would push forward to build his own momentum for another attack. He had only one choice.

Jebida sucked in and spit blood into the clanchief’s face, then heaved his axe up. The axe didn’t move, but the sudden spittle combined with his great strength pushed the clanchief off balance. He used this to get his center lower, then spun in place pivoting on his forward foot, the hand holding his opponent’s axe hilt and circling down and then up.

The movement looked like a children’s dance, but the outcome would be deadly for one of them. It forced his opponent to circle with him or lose his weapon, and this was the trap. The Chieftain would fall out of position and the battle-knife in Jebida’s hand would make short work of the Clanchief... but the strike never happened.

Even as Jebida spun, he felt a punch to his back. Suddenly his body went numb, the shock traveling up and down his spine. He felt his side go limp, yet strangely, no pain. He looked back at his opponent, both locked in an embrace separating them by mere inches, and had a moment of regret. He couldn’t remember why he had wanted to kill this man. The edge of his vision became gray and he looked questioningly at the nomad chieftain.

"Sleep, Firstmark. Better men than you have fallen to my blade." Hemendra pulled the short dagger in his left hand out of his opponent’s spine.

Jebida’s eyes cleared for a moment and he knew exactly what had happened. He could feel the life gushing out of him. He looked into the nomad chieftain’s eyes and saw no remorse. He felt shame for dying in his killer’s arms.

Still, the bone-hilt of his own knife
had been
in his hand, or had he dreamt that too? His thoughts became jumbled and gray, no longer sure what was true. His mind turned to what he loved above all else, lost so many years ago. He could see them now, waiting for him, just ahead. A smile flitted across his face and he whispered to himself the promise of rejoining them at last, "My family..." One hand outstretched, gripping nothing but hot desert air.

"If they live in Bara'cor, they will join you soon," the chieftain replied softly.

Slowly, with a small sigh, the last breath left Jebida Naserith’s body and the light went out from his eyes. His lips, however, were still curled into a small private smile, as if he had at last found a small measure of peace before the walls of his own fortress.

* * * * *

Hemendra pushed the lifeless body of his opponent away from him and raised his dagger in triumph, but the assembled warriors did not cheer. He felt suddenly weak, and stumbled a few steps back. His leg brushed something and he looked down. Jutting out from the inside of his thigh was a black-hilted dagger. Blood flowed freely from the wound and down his leg, quickly pooling at his feet.

The clanchief stumbled again and fell to one knee.

"Healers!" he bellowed.

A haze came over his vision and a figure stepped from the crowd. It was Clanfist Paksen, who cocked his head at the clanchief. "Hemendra, we cannot request a healer for a challenge accepted."

"I am victorious! Call a healer, Paksen." The words came out thick and jumbled, barely above a whisper.

Paksen leaned forward, grasped the black-boned blade, and pulled it out. A sudden warmth of blood spurted out even more quickly, a gush timed with each beat of his heart.

"I am sorry,
U’Zar,
I cannot help you."

Journal Entry 21

I have survived, but not in the way expected. Through my failure, I have learned a truth, and it comes from my imps.

They saw me create the blood Marks and believed these have power. When the raids came, my Marks failed, but their power manifested itself. Each imp unexpectedly took up one of the Marks in my defense, and tasted my blood.

They evolved into frightful behemoths, sentinels who stood watch throughout the night. They are my guardians, my belief lending them power. It is truly amazing to behold, but what have I learned?

The young Aeris cannot affect reality, but they are available for use. Our faith gives them power. I can already feel mine growing as stalwart friends come to my defense.

I have now seen the defense they can muster and fashioned their Marks for wearing on arm, each consecrated with my blood, shields against harm.

Swords will be next, made of birch and pine. It matters not, for they believe if it is touched by my blood, it becomes blessed with power. They believe and are changing the Way for me.

I am becoming a true Shaper.

B
ROTHERS IN
A
RMS

In the din of battle, choose your enemies wisely.

Trees are known by the size

Of the shadows they cast.

Your prowess will be defined

By whom you defeat.

—Kensei Shun, The Lens of Shields

S
ilbane and Kisan glimpsed portions of the battle through the slight opening of the tent, watching carefully for any advantage they could take. While it was conceivable they could have just attacked or left the tent in stealth, the portal into Bara’cor sat behind them, wide open for anyone to enter. Leaving it unguarded or calling attention to it before finding Scythe was tantamount to putting out an invitation and killing the men and women who defended the fortress.

Then, before either of them expected it, Jebida fell. Kisan began to move forward but Silbane stopped her with a look. "No heroics, we must find Scythe and escape. The portal will close behind us once the Finder goes through."

"Find him, where? Through thousands of nomads?"

"Scythe is here, close by, and we cannot leave him behind."

"Is he that important?" asked Kisan, though with each heartbeat the chance Prime had taken care of her problem with Arek increased.

"Very," he said. "We need him to close the Gate."

Kisan understood the other master’s plan and grudgingly acknowledged its need. She nodded, preparing.

Even as they repositioned themselves, they heard Scythe call out, "We have a mutual friend, Adepts."

Silbane’s eyes widened in shock. A sudden explosion of psychic power erupted near the outside of the tent. He said, "We’re in real trouble."

Even Kisan, who did not have the sensitivity Silbane did, could feel the incandescent burst of energy. "What was that?"

As if in answer, bladed claws grabbed the tent and pulled it up from its moorings, smashing and tossing it aside like so much tinder and cloth. The sun flashed in, blinding in its brilliance.

Kisan and Silbane stood amongst the wreckage of the tent. Surrounding them were hundreds of nomads, but they held themselves outside a larger circle occupied by an enormous black-scaled creature who took their breath away. It was the great dragon, Rai’stahn.

"Not good," muttered Kisan. "I don’t think they’re going to give up."

"No," answered Silbane, "nothing is ever easy."

Behind them yawned the portal, open and black, leading back to Bara’cor. Before them towered Rai’stahn, in full dragon form. His great black wings flexed and he growled, "The Scythe and I are oath-forged. Thou wouldst be wise to surrender." The great dragon’s eyes then narrowed and he looked meaningfully at Silbane, "But mortal, when wert thou ever wise?"

Kisan’s mind raced. Because Silbane had shared the vision granted by the dragon, Kisan knew the great dragon had been killed, his neck broken. Now he stood before them, whole again and
oath-forged?
How had Rai’stahn survived? How had Scythe convinced a dragon as ancient as Rai’stahn to commit himself to such a bond?

She knew, too, that Rai’stahn and she were possibly on the same mission. But Scythe was another story all together, and at best unpredictable. Still, the dragon would choose the most destructive path to Arek, whereas the deed might already be done by her decision to leave Prime unchecked.

Then she paused, thinking back to her youth and those days hiding from the Magehunters in the forests of Sunhold. She had beaten the odds and survived because of her wit and, she reluctantly admitted, her luck. A part of that luck had been meeting Silbane and Themun, who guided a stubborn and willful child to a new purpose, a new life. Was that her role now after losing Piter, no longer the falcon but instead the shepherd?

Something had happened when she had come face to face with King Galadine. He had not been the ruthless warlord intent on killing those of the Way as his forefathers, but instead a father looking for his son. She had heard his sorrow, the fear plain in his voice. It had not been selfish or false, he had not worried about the succession of his royal line, nor matters of the throne. Rather, he had asked as she would have, a simple request to save Niall. The only difference was his son was alive and Piter was lost. Had their positions been reversed, she knew she would have done the same. Now, though she had never met him, Kisan found herself hoping for Niall’s survival despite the necessity of abandoning him.

Arek was another story. She had no mercy in her heart for him, but there was little reason to let Rai’stahn carry out the wholesale slaughter of Bara’cor and all the defenders within her walls. Her choices had put the hapless prince directly in danger. A sadness stole over her as she thought, no one should outlive those they love... no one should bear her grief. There were still children in Bara’cor, and she could not let them die for no reason.

Kisan looked at Silbane, her eyes glistening with the sudden memory of her apprentice. "No parley," she said, "we hold them here."

Scythe stepped forward. "We can settle this. Leave the portal open and allow me to enter Bara’cor. You two can go free. I have no wish to destroy those who practice the Way, in any form."

Silbane took a moment, then said, "You know of the vision shown to me, that of the Conclave?"

The red-robed mage smiled and said, "I don’t need the vision, Silbane. I stood with them against the demonkind at Sovereign’s Fall."

Shock ran through Silbane and Kisan at that, but Scythe was clearly not the man in armor who faced the dragons. That man was General Valarius Galadine. What did this unbalanced mage mean?

Kisan mindspoke Silbane regardless of the waste of energy, her tactic clear.
He’s crazy, we kill him.

No!
Silbane kept his eyes on Scythe.
Rai’stahn will intercede and we cannot prevail against the two of them.

A new voice interrupted them both,
Escape is your best chance.
Scythe smiled, then nodded.

Rai’stahn drew a deep breath then unleashed dragon fire, blasting the wreckage of the tent and igniting everything around the two masters in a fireball of heat and flame.