Free Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts by V. Lakshman Page A

Naserith. The ursine man stood almost seven feet tall, his eyes flashing in humor. Jebida hailed from the lower reaches of the Shornhelm Expanse, where it was said giant’s blood still flowed in the veins of men. Looking at the firstmark, one could believe it was true. Moving forward, he bowed to the king before turning on the wide-eyed prince.
    “Shall we dispense with all you have learned in military strategy and leave the cover of Bara’cor’s walls? Or should we try the catapults and archers? A few might hit, though the godless heathens are out of range. We might get lucky.”
    Niall looked down and with a sigh he intoned, “Luck should not be your only partner.”
    Jebida straightened, peering out at the nomads. His experienced eye measured the strength, distance, and disposition of the nomad army out of habit, then flicked over to the king. He met the gray-eyed stare and nodded.
    Turning his attention back to Niall, Jebida placed one thick-callused finger on the boy’s chest and said, “Aye, you have the right of it.” Then his eyes softened and he continued, “But sometimes, a jester’s luck is the only thing between a blade and your heart. Do not worry, my prince. When they attack, we will be ready.”
    Niall responded with a nod, moving back against the wall and out from between the two veterans. The king gazed down the outer face of the wall pointing to a section hit hard with what could only have been a rock larger than a man’s head. Beckoning to Jebida, he asked, “Will it hold?”
    The firstmark peered intently for a moment then said, “I’m no builder, but it was made by dwarven hands and they have a way with rock.” Placing his meaty hand on the king’s shoulder, Jebida steered his friend away from the edge. “We number about eight hundred men. I would estimate the horde fields over ten times that. While we haven’t seen it, something in my bones tells me there’s sorcery involved or they wouldn’t even attempt the walls.”
    * * * * *
    Twenty summers ago, Jebida had left to fight alongside Bernal in the Dawnlight campaigns, a successful effort to solidify the northern borderlands. The king had liberated the fortress of Dawnlight, and in the process, won himself a new bride and queen, Yevaine.
    The firstmark, elated at their victory and the king’s good fortune, had returned to his village only to find it in smoking ruins, the houses smashed and burned into charcoal caricatures of the beautiful homes they once were. He recalled with perfect clarity the sight of his own home, reduced to a bed of gray ash like freshly fallen snow, barely covering the blackened bodies of his wife and daughter.
    The village blacksmith had been the only survivor. She wailed of winged creatures pouring through an opening in the air, what they now knew to be a small rift. Each creature was insubstantial, but fearsome in form. They dove
into
people, who then lost themselves. Their eyes glowed white and they walked mindlessly away, back through the rift and were never heard from again. Those few that fought or resisted were killed.
    Part of him had died then, with his family and people. The village had been decimated and as a result, nothing of the Naserith name had survived, except for him.
    Swallowing the knot of anger that had begun to form in his throat, the firstmark concentrated on finishing his report. “I have evacuated all the elderly and children down the pass to the lowlands, escorted by Captain Kalindor with Fourth Company. Any who passed their third blade are here, reporting for duty. The younger ones were given the chance to volunteer to stay if they wished.”
    Both Jebida and the king knew Tyrus Kalindor well, a straightforward man who had served the Galadines for over a quarter of a century. He was a seasoned veteran with a steady hand, a soldier who would bear even the underhanded maneuverings and political intrigues of Haven to watch over the queen and the evacuees.
    The king asked, “How many