Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (66 page)

Kisan looked around, then her eyes fell upon the firstmark. She smiled and said, "Jebida, could you assist us?"

The gruff firstmark came over and looked at the collar. What they wanted slowly dawned on him and he asked, "It’s magical?"

Kisan nodded. "But you won’t feel a thing," she said with a small smile.

Jebida scowled at the woman, then looked at Silbane. It was clear that much of the world still held a distaste for magic that ran deep, but without Silbane’s help they were doomed. Need was the mother of all things. He lightly touched the torc. With a small click, it unlatched!

Jebida pulled the torc from Silbane’s neck and handed it to the master. "You’ll carry your own weight."

Kisan sensed the Way surround Silbane, flooding his body with healing and awareness.

"A lot has happened," she told Silbane. "You need to know." She closed her eyes and touched Silbane’s forehead, imparting in an instant what had happened to her since they saw each other last. However, she kept from him anything she had learned about Arek’s true nature, as the lore father had ordered.

Kisan had become comfortable that the boy was dangerous and could not afford to have Silbane try to protect him. Furthermore, she couldn’t risk having to face the other master. Instead, she conveyed her regret at their argument, her flight with the assassins, Giridian’s news of the death of the lore father and Thera, the assault on Bara’cor and the plight of Arek, the attack of the assassins on the king, and her defense of the same.

Grief visibly punched Silbane’s gut at the news confirming Themun and Thera’s deaths. He paused, then gave Kisan all the details of what had happened to him. He started with the journey to the Far’anthi Stone, then his argument with Rai’stahn, the great dragon’s death, and his own capture at the hands of Hemendra’s men, and finally the details of a red-robed mage called Scythe.

Scythe held onto sanity by a very fragile thread and this made him an unpredictable foe. However, Silbane suspected he knew much about the Gate, his "life’s work," as he had called it.

Most importantly, he shared his vision about General Valarius’s meeting with the Conclave of Dragons, given to him by Rai’stahn along with the gift of Sight. When he stopped, Kisan looked at him with a mixture of awe and a strange intensity.

"What?" Silbane asked.

Kisan didn’t reply. The vision was disturbing because the revelations contained within seemed eerily similar to the ones Giridian had with Thoth. She also realized only she had seen both visions and therefore had a unique perspective on the situation.

Having shared thoughts, she knew where Silbane fell on the matter of Arek. Oh, it was true the master had some doubts about his apprentice, but had already faced grave danger once due to his paternal instinct for the boy.

She, however, couldn’t allow herself such latitude. The new vision about the blackness Silbane saw filled her with dread. To her, the fact that he destroyed the Way was obvious and every mishap concerning Arek on the Isle supported this conclusion. Rai’stahn’s admonition portended to dire consequences should Silbane’s apprentice be allowed to live. It firmed her resolve to keep this information to herself until she could sort things out, but also gave her hope that if the order came to share this with Silbane, the information might compel him to lend his aid and not stand against them.

She could not, however, trust Rai’stahn. Though they seemed to have aligned interests, she still did not know if this so-called Conclave had fed Silbane a true vision, or if it had been invented for his benefit. They had their own agenda, something that Lore Father Giridian clearly did not trust, and therefore neither did she.

She looked at her old friend, feigning disbelief at the circumstances at the Far’anthi Stones, and said, "You faced Rai’stahn and lived? Impressive."

She didn’t trust herself to say more, afraid Silbane would see through her easily. Still, they had suffered much loss over the past few days and rescuing Silbane felt right. She squeezed the other’s hand again, a reaffirmation of their common bond and friendship, based on their years together. She unrealistically hoped the situation with Arek would not come between them, and at the same time knew with certainty that it would.

Then Silbane stepped around Kisan, faced the firstmark, and said, "Jebida, we can’t leave just yet."

The firstmark was startled when this new mage used his name. "How did you...?"

"I know everything she knows, a tactical advantage of sorts." He missed the chagrined look that flashed momentarily across Kisan’s face at the mention of "everything," his unwavering focus on the giant warrior instead. "Even the way you treated my apprentice." It came out detached, but the intensity in his gaze hinted at the anger brewing behind his eyes.

Jebida took it in, then spat once and grunted, "Your skin. Risk it however you will. I’m not Ash and I don’t want or need your help. You are welcome to leave."

Silbane shrugged, then continued, "We must capture a man known as Scythe. He’s unstable and left unchecked could cause serious harm, both to what I care about and to Bara’cor."

"You both are a strange lot. I say you can leave, and you decide to stay." Jebida moved past the man to grab a sturdy wooden desk. With a heave, he pushed it over on its side, creating a barrier. "I hear you on Scythe, and I don’t trust either of you." He paused and flashed Silbane a half smile, saying, "But you already know this."

The firstmark continued upending tables, stools, anything that would provide cover, as they heard cries of alarm sounding. He buried the point of a spear into the ground and the butt end into one of the tables to brace it, then grabbed another to do the same, saying, "I hadn’t expected help from you but... one doesn’t throw away an advantage."

"You’re going to trust us?" Kisan asked.

"Nomads going after you means less going after me. Simple math, so don’t get in my way and stay alive long enough for me to get to their leader."

"Spoken like a true hero," Silbane said, and Kisan knew Jebida’s part in Arek’s torture would be difficult for the master to put aside. "You can bait the chieftain. It won’t be hard. In the treatment of prisoners, you both have a lot in common."

Kisan stepped in on the heels of the jibe. "Arek is alive and perhaps healed. You have to let it go. We will capture Scythe and then get to your apprentice. Let’s stay focused." She paused, then looked meaningfully back at the firstmark and said, "Be quick with the chieftain. We need to move fast."

"You’ll not be waiting on me," replied the giant warrior from over his shoulder. Another chair crashed into the makeshift barrier.

Silbane looked at the firstmark and said, "You and I are not finished."

Jebida nodded, not missing the meaning. "If we survive, you know where I am."

They continued to stare at each other, then Silbane broke eye contact and muttered, "After this." He shook his head and let loose an explosive sigh, grabbing Kisan’s arm. "It’s good to see
you
again."

"Likewise," the younger master said, happy the encounter between Silbane and Jebida had not come to blows. "You don’t look too worse for the wear, maybe a bit uglier," she said with a slight smile.

Silbane reached up and took his half of the Finder, still hanging from a nail in his tent. He looped it carefully around his neck. "I ended up here by making every mistake possible. You made it here by quick thinking and skill. The lore father was right; you have always been a falcon." He smiled back and did not realize how deeply his praise buoyed Kisan’s spirit.

The firstmark looked back at them, having now secured a crossbow and a stack of bolts. "The two of you might consider talking less and actually
doing
something."

Kisan was about to say something to Silbane, but nodded instead in thanks, then took position near the firstmark. "Talking is one of our best skills."

"Evidently," muttered the firstmark, "but I understand him." He said this while looking sidelong at Silbane. "Let’s hope we live long enough to make amends."

"I hope that for all of us," answered Kisan, but then her attention was caught by a motion at the tent flap.

Just then, two nomads burst into the tent. Jebida didn’t hesitate but fired his crossbow, catching the first in the throat. Kisan picked up a bolt and whiplashed it into a throw. It hit the second man as if it had been fired by Jebida himself and took the nomad off his feet.

Both dove for cover as those outside the tent returned fire, with dozens of bolts smacking into the table Jebida had overturned as improvised barriers.

"Hold your fire!" a voice screamed from outside. "Silbane, we can discuss this."

Silbane turned to Kisan and whispered, "Scythe." Then he raised his voice and responded, "If you’re ready to surrender, we accept."

Laughter, a bit halting, followed. Then Scythe continued, "Clearly someone has used the Finder. I can sense the portal is open and the presence of at least one other like you. So why haven’t you escaped?"

Silbane motioned to Kisan to take a flanking position to his right.

Jebida raised his voice and said, "The U’Zar of the Clans is a
coward.
How many warriors has he brought to help him?"

"Who dares challenge me!" a guttural voice roared. From the sounds of it, half a dozen men were barely holding him back.

"Jebida Naserith, Firstmark of Bara’cor," Jebida replied.

* * * * *

Outside the tent, Scythe put up a restraining hand as Hemendra surged forward again, "Hold, Clanchief. He seeks to bait you. There is no need," he said, indicating the hundreds of men now surrounding the tent, and the thousands behind them.

"No need!" Hemendra growled. "The man insults me on the very sands of my people. Do not speak to me of need."

Contrary to Scythe’s belief that he was angry, Hemendra knew the expectations of his brethren. If he said nothing, other warriors may think to challenge him for leadership, and that, he could not tolerate.

Scythe turned to the huge warrior chief and said, "You risk much. It is not important in the grand scheme. Control yourself; he is a coward hiding in a tent, instead of facing you openly."

The Clanchief took a deep breath, letting the Redrobe’s words have a seemingly calming effect. He turned a deadly gaze onto the closed tent flap, then nodded. "I can—"

Silbane’s voice rang out, "Scythe, give your dog permission to fight. We understand who really leads the clans."

Hemendra screamed, a guttural roar designed to scare the men around him as much as strike fear into this unknown warrior, a sound like an animal charging. He bellowed, "I accept your challenge! Crawl from your hole." The gathered troops quickly formed a circle in the sand outside the tent. "No one touch this man or I will kill you where you stand."

A moment went by, then the tent flap parted and a man emerged. The u’zar appreciated his opponent immediately. The man stood close to his own height, with a great axe held casually in one meaty fist. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light, then nodded to the clan chieftain. "You’ll be the man whose blood soaks the sands today." Jebida smiled and moved forward.

Hemendra could see the grace with which the man walked. He hefted the axe with an easy familiarity born only through countless hours of training and surviving the fields of battle.

* * * * *

Scythe gave a mental sigh, but realized this combat would have no effect on the outcome of his entry into Bara’cor. He had a far more powerful ally now than Hemendra of the Altans, as everyone was about to see. He smiled, then made his way closer to the tent holding Silbane as the two combatants neared each other.

He was more curious as to why Silbane and this other adept had not left through the portal. His plan had counted on any rescuers taking the quick path back to Bara’cor and dragging in his portal web strands, thereby locking it open. He was also curious because this other was clearly not Arek. Who was she and why had she come to Silbane’s rescue?

* * * * *

Hemendra picked up his axe and moved into the circle created by his men. "My axe is called, Blood Drinker." He smiled at his opponent.

Jebida smiled and glanced down at his axe. "Donkey." He looked at the men ranged in the circle around him, his eyes finally coming to rest on the Clanchief. "A better name for my axe than for the dead man standing in front of me."

The Clanchief’s confusion turned to a cold, calculating rage when he realized the man mocked the traditions of his people and his ancestors. To offer a weapon an unworthy name? Still, he was too disciplined to let this stone dweller’s words affect his fighting style.

"You will die here," he said simply. He measured the space between him and his opponent, his hands gripping his own axe with a strong yet supple caress, the result of years of swinging the killing stroke. "Those who fear, talk."

Jebida nodded with a hint of a smile, then burst forward with lightning speed, his axe blade flashing out for the clan chieftain’s eyes.

The sudden attack forced Hemendra to move his head and blink, and Jebida dropped low and stabbed downward with the spear-tipped point of his axe haft. The point entered the chieftain’s shin, but missed the vital bone and instead cut into the massive muscle of the barbarian’s calf. He pulled the point out, twisting it expertly to enlarge the wound. The resulting grunt of pain that surely gave the firstmark a sense of satisfaction that, while rewarding, would be short-lived.

Hemendra looked down at the point where his opponent’s axe tip had exited his shin and the resulting eruption of blood, already slowing to a trickle. As usual, he felt no pain, just anger that someone had pierced his flesh, the holy flesh of a true Warrior of the Sun.

But his anger, along with every other emotion within the giant clanchief’s heart, was held in check. He would only show what was necessary to be seen, but had notched his regard of his opponent a bit higher. The man had committed to his attack without hesitation once he realized the stage Hemendra had been setting.

Jebida spun and dodged to his right as the barbarian’s great axe whistled down, missing his head by a hair’s breadth. The nomad’s axe did not bury itself in the sand, but rather spun up and wove a figure eight, attempting two more times to connect with his opponent’s neck.