Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (FULL NOVEL)

by V. Lakshman

an excerpt from

MYTHBORN:
Rise of the Adepts

by V. Lakshman

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is

indistinguishable from magic.”

—Arthur C. Clarke

Histories: Sovereign’s Fall

“War is not about who is right.

It is about who is left.”

—General Valarius Galadine, High Marshal

The final battle lasted for days, leaving the ash slopes littered with the dying and dead. Bodies lay strewn about with the haphazardness of violence passed. King Mikal Galadine stepped his horse forward carefully, mindful not to trod upon those who had fallen in his name. His gray eyes drank in the scene, the dark earth of the volcano’s slope now stained with the blood of men. In that gaze, the toll the past years had taken was there for all to see. New lines creased his face, and his shoulders slumped with the weariness of a man who had labored far too long at the task of war.

Too many sacrificed, he thought, and now one final duty. He motioned to his armsmark.

“My lord?” the armsmark grunted.

Mikal sighed, then ordered, “Bring your men forward.”

“At once, sire.” The mounted armsmark turned and cantered back to the lines, barking commands at the assembled soldiers.

The ground shuddered. Mikal’s horse whinnied, then stepped to the left, the animal’s senses attuned to the minor rifts occasionally snapping into and out of existence around them. He’d been told to expect small quakes, by-products of the magic that allowed a space between their world and the demon plane to open. The tremors would pass, now that the Gate was closed.

Mikal gave his horse a few pats on the neck then turned his attention back to the slope and the ragtag band of men and women descending it. They stumbled along slowly, supporting each other, with barely the energy to breathe, much less walk. Hundreds had gone up to do battle with the demonlord Lilyth, but barely twenty staggered down from that final struggle, their black uniforms gray with soot.

But they had succeeded, and the demon was dead, buried in the volcano’s smoking pit. Lilyth had destroyed vast stretches of the land in her quest to subjugate and rule, and much work remained to bring back what her all-consuming hate had perverted. An army of lore-masters had bought new hope, but the price of their service had cut deep.

So many signs had been missed, and so many mistakes made. A younger Mikal Galadine might have dwelt on such regrets and allowed them to change his heart, but the elder king’s sense of justice took over, silencing any doubt. Mistakes had indeed been made, but some debts are paid for in blood.

The survivors came down the last rise. At their lead was Mikal’s friend Duncan, who raised his hand in greeting. The king could see the effort it cost him.

“Rai’stahn has pulled the dragon-knights back. The gods be praised, we were successful. Lilyth is no more.” Duncan lowered his pale eyes. “I am sorry… for the loss of your brother.”

The king brushed off the concern that was plain in his friend’s voice, and said, “Whatever was left of him died years ago. We do what we must.”

Duncan turned his attention to the people behind him, missing the look of determination on his friend’s face. “Your leave to move to shelter? Sonya is especially drained.” Pride shone in his eyes and a slight smile escaped, despite his immense weariness. His leaden arms moved automatically to support his wife, who stood a bit unsteadily beside him, though her eyes were clear and alert. “She truly is the Lore Mother to us all.” At his touch, she leaned into the comfort of his embrace.

“A moment,” King Galadine said, holding up a mailed hand. His armsmark cantered forward and handed him a scroll. After he’d backed away, the king undid the black ribbon and unrolled the parchment.

Confusion ran for a moment across Duncan’s face. “My lord, can this not wait?”

For the first time, the king met his eyes. “No, it cannot.” He looked down at the parchment and began to read:

“On this day, the twentieth of Peraat, I, King Mikal Petracles Galadine, proclaim the Way of Making false. It shall no longer be practiced in the lands of Edyn. Those who continue to adhere to and follow its teachings shall be put to death. Those who exhibit the Talent shall be sacrificed for the greater good of the land.”

The king met his friend’s confused gaze, “Never again shall we find ourselves under the yoke of the Way.” A breath passed, then two, and in that instant the two knew each other’s hearts. Then Mikal bellowed, “Archers, forward!”

The armsmark repeated the command and one hundred archers moved forward in lines on either side of the king.

Duncan looked about in alarm, then shook his head in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“I killed my brother for the safety of this land, archmage. Why would I spare you?”

Duncan dropped all pretense of mannered speech and exclaimed, “We fought side by side! Now we are to be executed?”

“No. Just as my brother, you are a casualty of war.” The king turned and nodded.

Bows bent and released, their strings thrumming as deadly shafts sped to their targets. Having defeated Lilyth, few mages had any strength left to defend themselves. Arrows pursued the few who tried to flee, ripping through flesh and finding vital organs. Most died where they stood.

Sonya screamed, diving at her husband, who had not moved. She caught hold of his chest, placing herself in the way of coming death. In a moment the sound of bowstrings stopped. She cautiously opened her eyes and found the rest of her friends and compatriots scattered about. All were dead or dying. Only she and Duncan remained.

Duncan looked around in shock. “You… they defend you with their lives.” He looked up numbly. “They were heroes. They had children, families…”

“No,” the king said.

His answer caught the archmage off guard. The king’s dead gaze never shifted as he watched a sickening realization set in across Duncan’s features.

“You killed their families, too?”

Mikal remained silent, his eyes searching the blasted landscape for an answer. Then he looked back at his friend and said, “I cannot allow this to happen again.”

Duncan shook his head, “Women and children?” He paused for a moment, then added, “Why have we been spared?”

The king motioned with his hand and a runner came forward with Valor, the fabled bow of House Galadine. “You have not, for I share the burden of my law.” He grasped the weapon, rune-carved and ancient. Its black wood seemed to soak up the little light left. “Hold each other. I will make it quick.”

Sonya stepped forward, her hands protectively over her belly and said, “You’ll be killing three of us.”

It was simply said, but delivered with such intensity it swept aside any royal formalities, speaking directly to the man she had called friend these many years, instead of a king who now sat in judgment.

Mikal’s gaze fell to her stomach, her meaning instantly clear. Slowly, his chin dropped to his chest and he slumped forward, every part of him physically echoing the grief he felt. He sat there for a moment in silence, then answered her from under his helm, his voice sounding hollow even to himself. “It is the worst thing I have done,” he said, even as he slowly nocked an arrow. “But not the worst I will ever do.”

“How can you live with yourself?” she accused.

The king took a deep breath, then raised himself and met her incredulous stare without flinching. “Make no mistake, my lady, for I am damned as well. I have killed the innocent, those pledged to my service, even children. Unborn shall be put to death for no crime they can control. Is this justice, fairness, or misery I now spread in the name of safety?”

Neither answered, but the battlefield replied with the moans of the dying, and the cawing of crows. Then, Duncan turned to his wife and held her close. Their eyes met, the years behind their gaze speaking more than any words could. Their hands touched tenderly, and in that briefest of moments a small blue spark jumped from her to him, unnoticed by anyone else. Duncan looked at her, first with astonishment, then with anguish.

She grabbed him tighter, then whispered something in his ear, to which he slowly nodded. Their embrace lasted only a moment before Duncan met Mikal’s eyes and said, “Nothing dies.” It was an age-old adage, warning of the ghosts injustice always raised.

The king’s grip tightened, but he said nothing. He sighted down the shaft, his hands steady, and slowly drew back. Valor groaned, as if the runebow knew what was about to happen and ached for release. Then, its twang-thrum echoed across the battlefield, the sound scattering a few black-winged thieves, their bellies full of the flesh of men. Two bodies fell, pierced by one arrow.

The king looked down, drew a shuddering breath, then turned back to his handiwork. His eyes, however, did not waver with remorse or regret, for there was none. They remained hard, like the granite rocks surrounding him, and just as dead.

Many years passed while King Mikal Galadine descended further into grief. Some heard a cawing of crows whenever the king was near. Others heard screams echoing from a far off battlefield. The word, ‘scythe’, was cautiously whispered, but no one knew why. Perhaps none wanted to say, ‘curse’ – that the king now reaped what he had sown.

Madness soon overcame grief, ghosts of a friend’s last words haunting Mikal’s every waking moment. No one knew exactly when he decided to take his own life, only that the deed was done after an heir had been born.

Darker times, though, were still to come…

PART ONE

Histories: Magehunters

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

How 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.”

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, causing 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. 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.

* * * * *

“Wake them,” Alion said, motioning to the unconscious.

Guards went to the well and roped up buckets of cold water. With these they doused the fallen, following with kicks and slaps until all were at least semi-conscious and able to kneel next to their friends.

When the king’s mark was satisfied she had everyone’s attention, she said, “You know why we are here. You harbor those decreed by the King’s Law as a threat to this land. Point them out, and we will release you.”

None said a word, which did not surprise Alion Deft at all. Simple folk often saw those with Talent as some kind of benefit and harbored them, a mistake she would not allow to go unpunished. She moved slowly until she stood silhouetted by the fire, which blazed like a mantle of yellow power behind her. “Separate them.”

At her command, the children were grabbed and moved to one side, while the adults were held at sword point. Screams ensued and one mother ran forward to grab her son. Alion moved with the swiftness of a cat. Her blade licked out, slicing the woman’s head from her shoulders before returning to her scabbard in one smooth motion. The body and head fell separately, and the villagers instantly sank into a stifled hush of broken sobs and muttered curses.

“You are in violation of the King’s Law, a decree designed to safeguard your lives! I bring justice and order. Where are they?” Alion knew she could have asked Kalissa, but this was the interesting part. She always wondered why people had such faith in their friends, when it took so little to turn them against each other.

“Justice?” a kneeling man asked. “The king’s brother summons a demon and the land is plunged into war. For that, we pay with our lives?”

Alion nodded, and a guard picked the man up and brought him before her. Her eyes narrowed. “Lilyth destroyed our world. King Galadine saved it. You owe him your respect.”

The man shook his head, clearly distraught, “My wife…”

The king’s mark looked at the headless body and shrugged. “She chose her path, as will you.” Alion grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Where are the mages? Answer, or your son dies.”

Two guards snatched up the boy in question and brought him to where the man could see him. It was clear this was the boy the dead woman had tried to save. They shoved him down to a kneeling position, and one placed his sword point at the nape of his neck.

“No!” The man looked back at the king’s mark, pleading, “No, please.” He then looked about the group and pointed to a man near one end. “He is the one you seek. He and his wife!”

Alion looked to where the man pointed and saw one of the men who had been unconscious. He knelt now, holding one hand to his bleeding forehead. She looked back at the man, then shoved him away. “Well done.” She then looked at the guards near the accused man and said, “Bring him here.”

The guards obeyed, and the man was dragged before the king’s mark and dumped at her feet. Alion looked at the man and said, “Kalissa?”

The girl walked forward, a small tremble in her lips. She came slowly, fear dragging at her feet.

“Is this man one of your kind?” Alion asked.

The girl looked at the man, who now focused his eyes on her with hatred. Because he was collared, she would not be able to see his aura, a sure sign he had Talent. Normal people always shone, regardless of the collar or not, just not as brightly as those with Talent. “Yes, King’s Mark. He is one of us.”

“And the other?” Deft had pulled a dagger, wicked and sharp, absentmindedly picking at her nails.

Kalissa looked at the pile of bodies and pointed. “Dead. His wife w-was the other,” she stammered.

Alion watched the girl, then the man. When Kalissa mentioned his wife, she caught the look of anguish that flitted behind his eyes. So, she thought, the girl speaks truly, or at least it is true his wife is dead. We shall see.

The king’s mark addressed the kneeling man. “Take off the torc, and you will be released.”

The man turned his attention from the girl who had pointed him out and now looked at the tall woman before him. She was square-jawed and horse-faced, her voice without emotion. There was no love or compassion in her eyes, only apathy and death. “The Lady curses you,” he said weakly, knowing his fate.

“My Kalissa is seldom wrong. If your wife had lived, maybe I could have persuaded you to work for me, but with her dead, there is little to compel your obedience.” Alion paused, “Unless, you have a child?”

The man shook his head. “No,” he spat, and the king’s mark could see he wished her death, or worse.

“Then take off the torc and you will be absolved in the eyes of your Fathers.”

The man slumped into the ground, head in his hands. Then he grabbed the torc in both and pulled, his neck and face straining until red. When he could pull no more, he gave up, exhausted. “What does it prove?” he muttered.

Alion turned and faced the man kneeling before her and said, “It proves you have been judged, found guilty, and served the King’s Justice.”

She brought the blade up in a short, brutal arc, stabbing under the man’s neck and through the back of his skull. The man coughed a gout of blood, clutching at the Mark’s hands. His grip was at first strong, but as his life gushed out, became weak, feeble pulls on her wrist. His last breath gurgled out of him as he died.

Alion pulled the dagger from his neck and wiped it clean, shoving the dead man onto his back with her booted foot. Then she grabbed the torc, which came undone easily at her touch, and tossed it into a basket sitting some feet away. Sheathing her dagger, she looked to Lieutenant Kearn. “Get them up.”

At his command, the villagers were lined up facing the king’s mark. She watched them without emotion. These were worse than the ones who sullied themselves with magic. They turned their backs on the Almighty Fathers, embracing instead the work of demons.

Her men grabbed the large basket she had tossed the torc into and placed it on the ground near the standing villagers. Alion motioned to the basket and said, “Take off your torcs and put them in the basket. Then go wait in that hut.” She pointed to the back of the village. “Once I have satisfied the king’s decree, we will release you and depart.”

The survivors moved slowly, stiffly, reaching up and pulling off their torcs with numb fingers, tossing them into the basket. Unlike the man before them, they had no Talent, and the torcs came off easily at their touch. As each collar came off, that person was ushered into the hut to stand with his neighbors.

From the back of the line came a child’s squeal. Alion looked and saw a small girl, no more than five, pulling at her torc. A nearby adult reached down, but the king’s mark stopped her with a word: “Hold!”

Four men formed a circle around the girl, who looked more frightened now than ever. She sat down in the mud and buried her face in her hands. Alion moved in closer and said, “Little one, what is the matter?”

She looked up, with eyes so blue they almost glowed. Soft black hair spilled down her shoulders, and Alion found herself stunned by the child’s simple beauty. The girl stifled her tears, then sobbed, “You hurt him!”

The king’s mark looked back at the dead man. Not as truthful as I was led to believe.

She turned slowly and faced Kalissa, a little satisfied when the girl shook uncontrollably, her eyes showing white. “Did we miss one?”

With a scream, Kalissa turned to run, but was grabbed by Malioch. He punched her once in the face, then slapped the torc back on her before she tried any more mischief.

Alion grabbed Kalissa by the scruff of her neck and dragged her back to the little girl, then threw her to the ground. “Did you think to save one of your own?”

When the girl did not answer, the king’s mark looked to the other villagers. “Remove your torcs, now!”

The townsfolk scrambled to obey, and within a few heartbeats there were no more wearing the king’s metal collar. They were pushed and shoved back to the hut, until all were crammed inside. Guards stationed themselves at the entrance, as others circled the hut to ensure none escaped.

Alion turned her attention back to the little girl Kalissa had not mentioned. “The collar, it won’t come off?” she said sweetly.

The girl looked up, then shook her head, pulling at it. “I want my da,” she said in a small voice.

The king’s mark drew her blade. “You’ll join him in a moment.”

“Hold your arm, Deft.” The strident command came from behind her, the voice strong and composed. She saw her men turn and look. Any undrawn weapons sang out of their scabbards now with the ring of steel. She blinked once, then turned to the voice.

At the village’s entrance path stood three men. No, not men, she corrected herself, one man and two boys. They were dressed in dark, close fitting clothes without armor. They carried swords strapped across their backs, the hilts jutting up defiantly over their shoulders. Even as she watched, the man in the center stepped forward into the light of the village fire.

Recognition sparked and she paused, thinking through her options. This man was an outlaw, a malcontent, but dangerous. Her eyes narrowed and she drawled, “Captain Davyd Dreys, what a pleasant surprise.” Suddenly a simple evening’s culling had turned into a fight for her very survival, and Alion was too pragmatic to lie to herself. Still, she had to buy time and asked while readying her weapons, “How does it feel, knowing you are both a traitor and cursed?”

The man she had called Davyd looked about and said simply, “I’m no longer captain and don’t serve your king. That doesn’t make me a traitor.”

“Really? What would your men say, the ones lying dead at Sovereign’s Fall?” A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, for Captain Drey’s desertion was a well-known fact.

Davyd ignored her jibe and looked about, taking in the whole scene. “Still consorting with children? Have you found no better work since your days in court?”

“This is better suited to my particular tastes, but what of you? Do you not care for the mark you still wear?” She raised her arms and displayed the two interlocked circles worn by all king’s marks, tattooed on her forearms.

Davyd was hit with a fit of coughing, a phlegm-covered sound emanating from deep within his chest, and held a hand to his mouth. Beneath his sleeve, she could still see the same tattoos on his forearm, twin to hers. After a moment, his coughing subsided and he rasped, “I was too late to help my brothers, but will not allow you to kill their children. You will face justice today.”

Alion’s eyes took on a calculating stare, and she nodded slowly. “The wasting sickness is upon you, judgment from the Fathers’ hands.” She moved to one side and motioned to her men, who moved forward in a loose semicircle. “Why chance your sons’ lives? They do not have the benefit of the training you’ve received.”

Davyd signaled to his sons to remain steady. They, in turn, drew weapons and came to stand by their father. “I’ve taught them what I know.”

Alion Deft, the king’s mark and magehunter, bowed to the outlaw and said, “By all means then, have at us.” She looked to the brace of men still guarding the hut with the villagers inside and screamed, “Release them to their Fathers!”

At her order, her men hefted long spears and began stabbing through the thin hut walls, killing any within reach of the leafed blades. Normally they would have set the hut afire, but the accursed rain had put an end to that plan. The men at the entrance waited, stabbing any who ventured near the opening. The screams of the dead and dying soon filled the night air.

Davyd and his sons exploded into action, summoning the Way. Their forms flashed in a burst of blue fire, a flame-like skin protecting them as armor would. Without speaking they ran in three directions, with Davyd taking the shortest route to Alion and the other two winging toward the hut where the soldiers continued massacring the townsfolk. To the assembled men, the three looked like angels, shining like blue stars in the dismal night.

It was not a moment too soon, for guards began flinging their torcs at them, lethal rings aimed at the mages. The torcs did not need to fasten themselves to be effective, only loop around a limb, and Alion’s men knew it. They had practiced this and the air soon filled with the weapons of the Magehunters, seeking any kind of contact to deaden a connection to the Way.

Davyd blocked one, deflecting it with his sword, then ducked and rolled under another as a soldier swiped at him with his weapon. The mage raised his blade and blocked the soldier’s, then opened his palm.

Blue flame engulfed the man, incinerating him in less than a heartbeat. Davyd did not slow as he dived through the dying man’s ashes and stabbed another through the eye. He yanked his blade free and spun, slicing with his arm. A thin blue light arced out, like a line with a weight at the end, severing anything it touched. Soldiers fell screaming, their legs cut out from under them.

Alion felt the blue line come her way and dodged, rolling through it. Her armor shone, bending Davyd’s spell and protecting her from its lethal cut. She thanked the king’s priests and their ability to bring the power of her Fathers to protect her.

Over the blue devastating line streaked the elder of Davyd’s sons, Armun. He landed lightly, swinging his blade in a tight arc and swatting aside two rings. He knelt and punched his fist downward. The ground erupted in a circle from the impact point, cracking under the soldiers’ feet, but leaving the villagers unharmed.

The men caught in the spell fell into crevasses appearing suddenly beneath them. Armun stood and clenched his fist, and the earth closed again on the trapped men, crushing them in its black embrace. He looked to his father and smiled, then made his way toward the hut, cutting men in half with his blade as if they were made of paper.

Davyd leaped at Alion again, weaving a net of silver steel around the king’s mark. The strikes were lethal, but each time they came near, his sword bent and twisted in his hand as if it had a life of its own. Her armor acted as if it were a reversed lodestone, repelling his blade at every thrust. He cursed, then pointed his finger and a bolt of lightning, pure blue and white, flashed at his opponent.

Alion stabbed her sword into the ground, then knelt behind it. The arc of lightning hit the air in front of her and curved around, bending the stroke into a sphere of power surrounding the king’s mark, but not touching her. The lightning danced until it gathered at the hilt of her sword, following the blade down and channeling itself into the ground, leaving Alion entirely unharmed.

The ground around her exploded outward from the force of the lightning strike, scorching the earth in a radial pattern of force. From its smoking center rose the king’s mark, smiling, blade in hand.

While Davyd combated Alion, his youngest son, Themun, leapt away from the clearing and began cutting down sentries and those who had managed to escape their swath of destruction through the camp. As he rounded a tree, a blade came whipping out, only to be caught on the hilt of Themun’s steel.

Lieutenant Kearn pulled a shorter blade and faced his opponent, who looked no older than his new recruits. This would be simple work. “I’ve never heard of a mage who can fight.” To his side came Stiven, holding a cudgel he had found to replace his lost sword. He held one in one shaking fist, a torc in the other.

Kearn motioned to him to attack. “Easy kill,” he cajoled, “they can’t stand against our—”

Themun’s form blurred, moving faster than the man could blink. His blade sliced effortlessly through the torso of the hapless lieutenant, the body falling in two pieces even as he kicked the other man in the face.

Stiven tumbled and landed on his back. He threw the torc blindly at his attacker, then rolled and began feverishly crawling into the undergrowth, trying to hide.

Themun deflected the torc away, then placed a booted foot on the boy’s back. He heard him scream, then watched as he rolled over and begged, “Mercy! Please, this is my first time! I knew it was wrong! From the very beginning!”

The look on the boy’s face made it clear he had not expected to be facing someone his own age, but Themun didn’t care. He could hear the lies fall from the man’s tongue even as he spoke it. Magehunters were despicable and the song of retribution sang in Themun’s heart. Only blood would quench it.

“Please, don’t kill me,” begged the boy again. He began to grab for a dagger.

“I’m not my father,” the Themun said, then sliced twice with his blade, opening Stiven’s bowels. “I’m not as good at making this painless.”

Stiven screamed in agony and fell back, the dagger falling from nerveless fingers.

Themun stabbed him once in the neck, then held the boy’s hand to the spurting wound. “Hold here, it’ll be slow; let go, and you’ll die quick. More mercy than you have shown these people.” With that, he stood up and literally vanished into the undergrowth, never looking back to see what the boy chose. He simply did not care.

                            * * * * *

Armun did not hesitate, speeding to the hut holding the villagers. He knew his father battled Alion and that he could not get there in time, so he did the next best thing. At least saving some of the villagers was still within his power. He grabbed the soldiers at the door and flung them away, his touch sending a surge of lightning through their bodies. They fell in smoking husks, dead before they hit the ground.

He pushed forward with both hands and the hut exploded outward. The grass and thatching detonating with such force that many of the larger pieces sliced into exposed skin and blinded those soldiers unlucky enough to have been looking in that direction. Armun had a special affinity with earth and trees.

He snapped his fingers and every piece of grass or wood lodged within a soldier or on their person burst. The force was not huge, but enough to break bone, tear flesh, and incapacitate them. Literally dozens of men fell dead or dying from Armun’s touch. He let out a sigh and surveyed the area. In a few heartbeats he and his brother had laid waste to almost fifty men.

                                * * * * *

Alion and Davyd battled back and forth, their swords an intricate dance of death. When Davyd pressed, Alion pulled back, forcing the other to commit. Davyd however was too well trained to allow her to draw him in. Worse, she knew his sons would be done soon, then it would be three against one. She knew her time was running out.

When Davyd’s sons returned, her life would be over. She cursed her luck again at having the errant king’s mark appear now, during her raid. Alion was no fool, and though Davyd Dreys had not participated in the final battle against Lilyth, he was not one to be trifled with. He had been trained by the best, before going outside the law.

Had she been assigned a full complement of troops, they might have prevailed, but against one who had the combined training of a bladesman and the lore of the Way, this was no longer about winning, it was about survival. It didn’t help that his sons were turning out to be as lethal as he was. What she needed now was leverage if she was going to get out of this with her skin intact.

At that moment, Davyd was wracked by a fit of coughing, so Alion took the advantage. She pushed forward and kicked him in the chest, then bolted to one side. In an instant, she dived and rolled, snatching up the little girl they had found. Alion put her back to a tree, a blade to the girl’s throat. She did not have to wait very long.

Davyd Dreys was joined by his two sons, neither of whom seemed particularly winded, a testament to their own training. He clapped them on their shoulders, then came to stand in front of Alion. He sheathed his blade and opened his hands. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“Another mage, dead before she bears more filth!” Alion spat this out, her hand tightening on the hilt as she prepared to slit the girl’s throat.

“Wait. You must want something.” Davyd gestured to the open forest and asked, “Free passage?”

Themun looked to his father in astonishment. “She can’t live!”

Another bout of coughing erupted, bending Davyd over. When the attack subsided, he let loose a breath and wheezed, “Her armor… It bends the Way. Do we take that chance?”

Themun’s eyes met Alion’s own, and she could almost hear his thoughts. She would do this again if left alive. He looked back at his father, “For one girl?”

Father and son regarded each other, and Alion knew Themun saw the death of this hostage as a small price to pay for eradicating someone like her. “Trust me?” He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and then turned back to the woman holding the knife. “Free passage, for her life.”

“You would trade? After telling me I will see justice today?” Alion laughed. “Do you think me a fool?” Still, a part of her began to believe she might yet gain her freedom.

“I would trade even scum like you if it meant saving her,” Davyd said, looking at the little girl. “Release her and I will grant you safe passage.”

“Your Oath, then? And my other girl, Kalissa? You know who she is.” Alion raised a bushy eyebrow. “Protect the innocent I understand, even the child of a Galadine. She must return to her father.”

Davyd stepped back, sighing. Alion knew that to let her go was against every fiber of his being, but he would not mete out justice in the same manner as the king’s men. It simply was not what he believed in. He needed to know that in some things, he and his sons were different. And she would use that against him. She remained silent, knowing he could only come to one decision, and was not surprised to hear him utter the Oath.

“By the blood of my forefathers, I bind myself,” he said. “My oath as Keeper of the Lore, no harm will befall you by my hands.” A small flash of yellow encompassed the mage at the uttering of the Binding Oath, then disappeared. “Now, do what your honor demands.”

Alion stood and released the girl, shoving her forward with a booted foot. “You’ll never survive the King’s Law, honor or not, and neither will your sons.” She looked around the camp. Of the villagers, perhaps ten survived and she had killed the two that had been mages. An incomplete victory, but one she could accept with her honor intact.

Armun stepped forward and said, “Be thankful we value his Oath, or your blood would water the ground here.”

“Your father is a fool,” Alion replied with a smile. She limped over to Kalissa, who lay unconscious on the ground, paused to sheathe her blade, then picked up the girl and slung her over a shoulder. Looking back at Davyd, she said, “You can’t win.”

“Perhaps, but that depends on what ‘winning’ means.” Davyd nodded to the trees. “Be gone, dog. I took the Oath, but my sons did not.”

Alion clenched her jaw at that, but said nothing. She adjusted the weight of the girl over one armored shoulder, then made her way into the trees and disappeared.

                          * * * * *

“You’re letting her go?” A villager exclaimed. “She is a murderer and she goes free?”

Davyd turned to the voice and said, “The message she carries back, without her men, without accomplishing what she set out to do, will strike fear into the hearts of the Magehunters.”

Though he believed this, none of the people around him did. They had lost those they loved most dearly and now sorted through the memories of their lives, strewn about because of one night’s casual violence. This was not a time to accept his point, much less care. Only their shock at this attack and their fear stopped them from exacting their own vengeance on the king’s mark.

He looked to Armun and said, “Help them, check the wounded, help who you can.” He coughed again and spat out dark phlegm that looked bloody, but neither of his sons commented. His healing had done what it could to slow the sickness, buying him maybe a few more years. Nevertheless, the outcome was inevitable.

He wiped his mouth and smiled at his youngest, barely fifteen. “Go, see to the girl. One of the villagers can take that torc off her.”

The boy scampered away and landed lightly at the girl’s feet. “Come on.” He had a shock of brownish-blonde hair standing out from his head and the little girl smiled at him. It looked funny.

“What’s your name?” she asked, not understanding that this same boy had argued to sacrifice her life just a moment ago.

He turned, then offered a very formal bow and said, “Themun. Themun Dreys, and you?” He gave her a small smile, but Davyd watched his son carefully. He knew the boy’s mind was still on his decision to let Alion Deft go.

She smiled back and answered, “My name is Thera.” She looked about a little sheepishly then added, “I don’t have a last name.”

“No matter.” Themun looked toward the north and said, “The city of Dawnlight lies not too far away. We’ll call you that. Thera Dawnlight.”

                                  * * * * *

Some distance away, Alion reached her horse and untied the reins. Dumping Kalissa’s leaden weight across the saddle, she mounted, then hurried along the path that led back the way they had come. She heard a groan and realized the treacherous girl had come awake. Alion slowed and grabbed her by the back of her head, pulling her upright.

“Sit up, or I’ll carry you across it all the way home.”

Kalissa looked about in confusion, then said, “Where are we?”

“Alive,” said Alion dispassionately. “Don’t thank me.” She didn’t say anything else, but counted herself lucky. Losing the girl might have meant her own neck in a Galadine noose.

They rode slowly for a short distance while she adjusted to sit in the saddle as Alion had commanded.

Then both their attentions were taken by a man standing on the path, the moonlight streaming through the clearing, clouds painting his red robes the color of dried blood. Alion kicked her horse, intending to ride him down, but he raised a hand. For some reason the horse obeyed his command to stop, pulling up short with a whinny.

The man said, “Well met, Alion Deft, king’s mark.”

Alion vaulted off her saddle, the sword clearing its sheath as her feet touched the ground. If this person knew her, he was likely in league with Davyd. She would deal with his treachery now and be on her way.

She pulled her arm back to strike and felt her muscles go stiff. Normally her armor would have bent enchantments around it, but this time she felt as if she were encased in stone.

The man tilted his head to the side, as if examining something, and said, “Your armor won’t protect you, king’s mark, and neither will your simple faith in the gods. They don’t care, they never did.”

She tried to move, but her muscles were frozen tight, still locked in paralysis. Only her mouth seemed to work. She snarled, “So much for honor. Had I known Davyd to be so craven, I would have slit that girl’s throat when I had the chance.”

The man stepped forward past her blade and pulled his hood back, revealing blond hair and pale blue eyes. His gaze told her this man had nothing to do with Davyd Dreys.

His eyes gripped hers and he said, “I am the Scythe. Like the reaper’s tool, I ascend those found worthy, or wanting.” He then reached up and tapped her forehead lightly. The flesh began to blacken and shrivel away.

“I judge you wanting. You have much to atone for, Alion Deft. This spell will take several hours to kill you, and you will feel every moment of it. Call to your gods. Perhaps they will grant you solace in the next world.”

                        * * * * *

He stepped past her and came to stand by the girl, Kalissa, who had dismounted with a grimace that gave testament to the punishment she had suffered at the hands of Alion Deft and her men. She ran to and hugged the man, saying, “She deserves it. They all do.”

Scythe laid a gentle hand on her head, stroking the soft hair. His eyes looked back through the forest to the mountain of Dawnlight, a black silhouette of jagged rock climbing up to stand illumed in the clear moonlight. There were forces at work in the ancient city that could aid him on his quest, ones he meant to investigate.

He looked away from those moonlit peaks and could sense Davyd and the others hard at work in the decimated village. The youngest in particular bore watching, for he had Talent far beyond his father and elder brother. He could sense others too, doing what they could to create a better life far from the king’s Justice. He looked down, sadness in his eyes, then knelt in front of Kalissa.

He froze her in place, then tapped her forehead lightly, watching the blackness spread like an inky stain. “I am the Scythe. Like the reaper’s tool, I ascend those found worthy, or wanting. I judge you wanting, Kalissa Galadine. You have hunted your own kind, killed others so you might live, and sown sorrow in your wake.”

He looked again in the direction of Dawnlight, took a deep, cleansing breath and said, “Like your father, I do not show mercy.”