Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (24 page)

“The lore father senses something stirring, something at Bara’cor. I have been sent to investigate,” Silbane offered. As he had discussed with the lore father, he kept his answers brief.

The dragon-knight looked thoughtfully out over the ocean expanse, his long hair whipped back by the wind. His next words drifted back to them, as if the ancient creature were speaking to himself. “There hath been a stirring in the Way, one that hath not occurred since the Demon Wars.”

Rai’stahn trailed off, but the words sent chills through the master, and Silbane’s heart began fluttering. A nameless dread, different than dragonfear, gripped him now. Silbane could feel something turning over in the creature’s mind, and a part of him wanted to grab Arek and run before the outcome was known.

Then Rai’stahn turned from watching the sea and looked at his apprentice and asked, “And what of thy hatchling? Why take it?” He stood there with mailed arms crossed, like an armored god awaiting an answer.

A few moments passed as Silbane got a grip on himself. He knew he was walking a fine line with Rai’stahn now, and debated truthfulness versus expediency. In the end, expediency won with the master deciding it was still prudent to say as little as possible.

Now was not the time to talk about Arek and his peculiar Talent, and Silbane had to admit he would not be surprised if Rai’stahn already knew. Given the dragon had not brought it up, Silbane continued with the tact he and the lore father had agreed upon. Nodding, he answered, “I wish to teach him more about the world.” He watched as the dragon-knight flicked a brief look at Arek again.

“I doubt thee,” hissed the dragon, his reptilian gaze piercing into Silbane’s own. Then something seemed to change, a decision had been made, and Rai’stahn moved forward to stand towering over Silbane and said, “I will convey thee, but a sojourn must be made, one of great importance. Dost thou agree?”

Silbane licked his lips, a bit surprised at the sudden shift in the dragon’s demeanor, then said carefully, “If we must.”

Rai’stahn eyes narrowed, “At the sojourn, we will judge thy next steps, assuage my doubt.” His golden gaze never wavered from Silbane’s own and he said softly, “Dost thou agree?”

Silbane measured the dragon before him, feeling again that something was being decided here that had more importance than this short question seemed to reflect, but he did not gainsay Rai’stahn. “Of course, my lord.”

The dragon-knight turned, motioning for them to stay as he walked away. Silbane could feel a building of power and realized Rai’stahn was about to assume his true shape. He turned and grabbed Arek, backing away from the armored figure. Behind their retreating backs, the dragon-knight’s form exploded in a flash of white fire that for an instant burned brighter than the sun.

Silbane blinked, purple afterimages of the knight’s form dancing across his blurred vision. Looking down for a moment, he rubbed his eyes to clear them. Arek held Silbane’s arm for support. He felt the boy’s hand stiffen and heard the sharp intake of breath. Nothing, he knew, could have prepared his young apprentice for the sight that met his eyes.

Arek’s mouth hung open as he saw Rai’stahn in his true form. The dragon was at least a hundred paces in length from nose to tail, ebony scales encasing its entire body. Razor sharp claws larger than a man’s body tipped the ends of his feet and fangs the size of swords revealed themselves as Rai’stahn opened his mouth to sound a tremendous roar. Arek covered his ears at the sound, wincing in pain. They watched as the dragon slowly extended a leathery wing, its tip touching the ground in front of their feet.

Climb and secure yourselves, lest thee lose thy grip.

Arek gave a start as the words formed unbidden in his mind, as they did in Silbane’s, in Rai’stahn’s strange, archaic tongue. Mindspeak! Arek took an involuntary step back and bumped into Silbane, who, with a wry smile, gently pushed the young apprentice forward.

“Do not be afraid, Arek. Rai’stahn will not harm you.” The wizard laid a gentle hand on Arek’s shoulder. “Come, we must climb aboard quickly.”

Watching his master get on the dragon’s wing with no apparent harm seemed to make Arek feel a little better, though Silbane knew that nothing could completely wash away the unease he felt this close to such a creature. Cautiously Arek moved forward and onto the resilient membrane of the wing. Scrambling up to the yard-long spikes emerging from the dragon’s spine, he seated himself between two of them and waited for Silbane to do the same.

In moments, all was ready for their departure. Silbane looked back in the direction of the Halls in farewell, though he couldn’t see it. Then he said to Rai’stahn, “We are ready, my lord.”

To Bara’cor then.

With a mighty leap, the dragon launched himself into the air, his powerful wings catching the ocean breeze and lifting him and his riders over the Shattered Sea. Silbane felt a great weight on his chest and was thankful for the spine spike supporting him from behind. Looking back, he and Arek watched the Isle slowly shrink in size as Rai’stahn gained altitude. Soon, it was nothing but a small speck of brown and green in a vast sea of blue.

Silbane checked their direction against the sun, estimating a northwestern heading. Only a slight wind caressed his face, a byproduct of the magic that allowed a dragon of Rai’stahn’s size to fly.

“Be careful about your bare flesh touching Rai’stahn,” he said to Arek. “I do not know if you could affect such a powerful creature, but I’d rather not have him suddenly change form while we’re on his back.” Silbane smiled at the joke, but Arek looked at him wide-eyed. “We should be in the air until almost dusk. I would suggest getting some rest.”

Though Arek nodded his head, Silbane knew sleep would be far from his mind. Meeting a dragon and flying in one day was too new an experience. Silbane, however, had no such problems. Relaxing against the spine ridge, he allowed himself to doze into a light sleep.

* * * * *

They flew swiftly, Rai’stahn taking advantage of tail winds to increase his already considerable speed. Arek watched with fascination the small whitecaps that appeared on the water below. Because of the dragon’s bulk, though, his vision was limited to the sea in front of them.

It’s so blue, he thought, as he watched the ocean through the space between the shoulders and where the dragon’s wings met his body. There’s so much water around us, Arek marveled, feeling a strange vigor course through his body, a boundless sense of wellbeing.

His vision sharpened and gazing at the horizon, Arek fancied he could already see the southern coast of the mainland, though Silbane had cautioned they were still far from their destination. He thought of eating some of the food he had packed, but dismissed the idea when he realized his pack was wedged behind him.

After a considerable amount of time, Arek found he was able to lean back in the sunshine. The problems of the last few days seemed so far away, as if nothing had ever happened. He took a deep breath of fresh air, felt the wash of energy permeate him, and watched the white, puffy clouds drift by.

Journal Entry 5

Finnow should have listened. Her obstinacy forced my hand. She had the single-minded opinion one only finds in the young and the stupid. Not enough wisdom yet to turn her knife into a spoon. Seeing her fall was difficult, but inevitable. She earned what she wrought. I will think about her no more, for I have no guilt. None whatsoever.

These things I see, they are significant in some way. I had discounted the dragon’s vision, but now appreciate more of what they tried to impart. These points of light are the substance of everything. Could they be the unseen hands I felt, the touch of the Aeris? This is worth rewriting: they are what makes everything. Therefore, I know what the dragons meant, we and the Aeris are somehow linked.

Because I know these things respond to me, I believe they are the basis of the Way. However, here their power is multiplied tenfold. They move and respond to my presence, yet they are invisible to normal sight.

If I can unlock this secret, I will be the most powerful mage in recorded history.

T
HE
W
ALL

It is difficult for the body

To continue fighting without its head.

Perfect separating the two.

—The Bladesman Codex

S
ergeant Alyx Stemmer picked her way carefully along the upper tier of the outer wall. The afternoon sun slowly set, blazing yellow to the west, painting her features orange and copper in its ruddy glow. Bara’cor soaked in and then radiated that heat, a warmth the night watch would welcome when the desert turned chill under the gaze of the sun’s sister, the moon.

The barbarians waited patiently, camped out of arrow range. When the wind shifted, she could make out the sound of drums and laughter. Well, she thought, at least someone is having fun. Behind her came Yetteje and Niall, each armed and accompanying the sergeant on her rounds. “Walking the wall” had become a habit of Yetteje and Alyx, but including Niall was something the king hoped would give his heir a new appreciation for what the soldiers of Bara’cor went through.

Alyx felt sorry for the princess, who recently became a girl with no family nor lands. Still, she had come to know Yetteje had strength within her, a strength that through this period of hardship would temper her like a fine blade, if she allowed it.

They came upon a small square landing cut into the area where two walls joined. It was used as a catapult staging area and served as an unofficial combat ring for those who wanted to try their hand at blades. Though not sanctioned as part of official duty, the unspoken rule was any amount of practice was not just tolerated, but encouraged. Each year the fortresses held the King’s Tourney, as teams from each competed for recognition.

Last year, Bara’cor’s armsmark had won the King’s Thorn. The ceremonial blade would call Bara’cor home until the next annual tournament. It had been made clear that losing the blade to another fortress would earn the team the “best” of duties. The Galadines liked winning, and so did their teams, so practice made perfect and practice was the rule. Still, if rumors of the fate of the other fortresses were true, it would be some time until any new tourneys were held.

A few off-duty men had gathered, casting dice and waiting for the shift change. Alyx nodded to them, then picked up two wooden bohkir
s,
tossing one to Yetteje. “Come, some lumps will do you good.”

Yetteje caught it automatically, but shook her head, her eyes on the barbarian encampment, “No thanks, Al. I’m not in the mood.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed and a steel came to her voice. “Is that what you’ll tell the nomads who killed your father?”

Yetteje’s head snapped back, anger flashing to the surface quickly. She started to advance into the square, the bohkir twitching in her hand as if it were alive. “Fine.”

“Bring what you will,” the sergeant said with a smile.

Niall stepped back, clearly a little disappointed the sergeant hadn’t asked him. “I’ll just wait for my turn,” he added somewhat lamely.

Yetteje moved in quickly, throwing her weight behind a strike aimed at the sergeant’s temple. Though the swords were wooden, a strike would still cause damage, or “love lumps” as known by the men-at-arms.

Sergeant Stemmer caught the wooden blade on the base of her own, pushing it out and forcing Yetteje back.

“You’re swinging with anger,” Alyx said. “It’ll make you—”

She never finished. Yetteje attacked with lightning quick strikes alternating from head to chest and then back to head. Anger lent her speed and strength, and the attack was furious in its intensity, but short-lived. Her breathing became erratic, first deep then shallow but never in rhythm with her strikes, as Alyx watched her struggle to control herself. She knew Tej would have to flow with her weapon, but it was clear anger was overriding training.

For her part, the sergeant took the strikes, alternating her blocks, then jumped forward with a heavy overhand strike to Yetteje’s head. It was an easy strike to block, not intended to score but to get the girl to think. Alyx wanted the girl to be in the here and now, and only the physical shock of blocking seemed to get her attention.

Tej brought her blade up, catching the sergeant’s inches above her forehead, and pushed it off.

Alyx could see that hurt had replaced anger, and the girl’s so easy-to-read feelings of abandonment were growing. But the sergeant didn’t respond, knowing any response would only give Yetteje an excuse to stop and wallow in self-pity.

Instead, she pressed her attack, throwing a flurry of slashes the Princess of Tir had no choice but to counter, dodging and twisting to avoid the gruff sergeant’s swings.

Yetteje braced, then stabbed and spun her blade in a well-known Tir move, “the flower cut.” Had it been executed correctly, it might have scored.

As it was, Yetteje’s discordance made the move forced and choppy. It didn’t wheel and dance through a graceful figure eight, but instead came out as four diagonal slashes, each easily blocked and turned.