Mythborn III: Dark Ascension (Fate of the Sovereign Book 3) Read online

  MYTHBORN III

  Dark Ascension

  by

  V. Lakshman

  MYTHBORN III: Dark Ascension

  Copyright © 2018, Vijay Lakshman & Mythborn Media LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any persons, actual or fictional, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author, Vijay Lakshman.

  Made in the USA.

  Cover art by Stephen Najarian

  Map by Ralf Schemmann and Raymond Lei Jin

  Certificate of Copyright Registration: TXu 1-887-058

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9850620-8-8

  Dawn’s Light Media

  Noble Sun Press

  For more information on Mythborn, please go to:

  www.mythbornmedia.com or www.dawnslightmedia.com

  NOTE TO READER

  Please FOLLOW and LIKE us on:

  Note to reader: We hope you enjoy

  Mythborn III: Dark Ascension

  If you’d like to learn more about Mythborn, please go to:

  www.mythbornmedia.com

  or

  www.dawnslightmedia.com

  Look for the rest of the Mythborn saga here:

  Mythborn 1: Rise of the Adepts

  Mythborn 2: Bane of the Warforged

  Mythborn 3: Dark Ascension

  Mythborn 4: Arcadia Lost (Q4, 2018)

  Mythborn 5: Genesis (Q1, 2019)

  To my fans both old and new, my editors who rock,

  and of course my friends, and family –

  thank you all for your support.

  Now, get ready for a seriously awesome adventure in a world where dreams and faith can actually kill you.

  CONTENTS

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Preface

  FLASHBACK: Arek & Kisan

  Ben’Thor Tir

  The Tomb

  The Giant’s Step

  Ill News

  Dark Blood

  Once Keeper

  Bloom

  Living Legends

  Reunion

  Nothing Dies

  A Dragon’s Quest

  Decisions

  Brianna’s Tomb

  Blade of the Morningstar

  Duncan’s Plight

  The Gate’s Toll

  Revelation

  Into the Mountain

  Direwood

  Vengeance

  Released

  The Test

  Regicide

  Hands of Justice

  Dragon’s Offer

  A Keeper’s End

  Opposite of Fear

  Olympious Eternal

  Baalor’s Dawnlight

  A New World

  Epilogue

  Reader’s Guide

  About the Author

  Author’s Preface

  When this journey started, and after writing close to a novel’s worth of backstory, I attempted something I’ve never done before – writing an actual novel. Mythborn started without an outline or editors… it was a labor of love that my fans on Facebook helped me craft and polish.

  The end result has been a publishing deal, a video game in development, and a discussions on a television deal to bring the world of Mythborn to life. You fans helped me create this, and I’m grateful for your patience and support. Now as I finish writing Mythborn III, I’ve got professional line editors, copy editors, and proof readers assigned to the Mythborn flag. I’m surrounded now by folks whose only job is to make Mythborn the best it can be, and you all get something better because of this.

  As Mythborn II ended, you’ve probably come to realize not everything in the story is as it seems. Lilyth has a complex motivation to do what she is doing. Sovereign also has a reason for wanting to remake the world. And the Adepts aren’t as squeaky clean as we’d originally thought. They’ve dispatched Kisan to kill Arek, to murder their own in hopes of promoting a greater good.

  It’s this kind of moral dilemma that I’ve always wanted to explore. Is there a right or wrong answer? Maybe, maybe not. One thing is certain – Arek isn’t going to just let himself be killed, and in that we are going to experience ‘days of high adventure’, to paraphrase a movie from back in the 80’s that I loved.

  I’m so excited to be sharing Mythborn III with you all. Please like us on Facebook and join our community. You fans, are the reason I write.

  Thank you!

  V. Lakshman

  July 2018

  It is not fair to ask of others

  what you are not willing to do yourself.

  ~Eleanor Roosevelt

  FLASHBACK: Arek & Kisan

  You must find strength within yourself.

  Be not the stream that meanders but instead the ocean.

  What you are must run deep.

  - Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades

  B

  egin!”

  Arek moved quickly to his left, his loose-fitting, brown uniform soaking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. His feet barely made a sound as he circled his opponent, who had for her part, remained motionless. Master Kisan’s eyes tracked him like a snake poised to strike, her body slowly twisting at the waist. At some point he knew he should attack, but she was as famous at countering as Arek was at charging in.

  He kept circling, knowing she would have to move her rear foot to keep him in view, or twist herself all the way around and reverse her stance. The change would mean losing him visually for a moment. That would be his opening.

  When she reversed her stance to bring her other hand up, he leapt into action. His body arrowed in, leading with a kick then two strikes in rapid succession. His opponent blocked the kick and moved in close to jam his punches. At that moment Arek had the distinct impression she’d known what he’d intended.

  Then her ridge hand strike came out in a slow and easy to block counter. He unconsciously slowed to match the master’s pace. A sudden blinding strike left his vision swimming and he felt the ground hit his cheek. When had he fallen?

  “Hold.”

  Master Silbane’s voice sounded like it came from a tunnel, hollow and tired. Arek found himself prostrate. The ache in his forehead and nape of his neck told him he’d been felled by a wrist or knuckle strike to the back of his skull, though with Master Kisan it could just as easily have been a hook kick. He shook away the stars, causing him to wince, then sat up, angry at himself.

  “What are you waiting for?” Master Silbane asked. “These are basic techniques. There’s no magic. If there were, I would teach it to you and save myself years of frustration.”

  “Yes, Master,” he intoned automatically. No magic moves? Of course there were. He’d seen all the adepts do more than a normal person could. He silently got up and shook himself off. Then he took his stance and faced Master Kisan again.

  She smirked, a glint in her eye betraying her inner laughter, clearly directed at him. Anger boiled up and without a second thought he attacked, jumping in with a snap kick and then a combination of punches and kicks, forcing the master to follow a rhythm of alternating up and down strikes.

  Kisan blocked them all easily, spinning past him on the ball of her foot and delivering a back kick to his short ribs. The blow wasn’t hard, but hard enough to make him hold his ribs with one hand while wheezing out his next breath. The master assumed her stance again, waiting.

  Arek took a deep breath, clea
ring the stitch from his side, and with the same breath striving to clear his mind. Then he attacked with a combination of rapid punches. This time, he kept alert, watching her breathing.

  Every time she blocked he could hear her softly exhale, her breath flowing with her moves in perfect harmony. Still, not everything was perfect. Concentrating, Arek shifted his strikes to fall off tempo, like a drummer missing the beat. The sudden asynchrony threw her timing off; her nostrils flared slightly, the sign of an unexpected indrawn breath. That was his moment, and he took it. He doubled up his last attack, throwing two right-hand punches instead of alternating hands.

  Her eyes widened and for a moment he thought he’d caught her. It was the merest hesitation but Arek knew it was real. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride.

  His hubris was rewarded; she slipped under his second strike. A tight right hook caught him on the point of his chin. When he awoke, he was on his back with Master Silbane looking down at him.

  “Did I win?” he asked, his attempt at humor sounding rather when it came out, even to himself.

  “It has occurred to me that I could dress you in towels and save time cleaning the ring,” replied his master, without smiling.

  “Yes, Master.”

  He propped himself up, annoyed at the blatant smile pasted on Master Kisan’s face as she watched him from the side of the ring. When he rose, she raised the towel she’d been using to wipe her hands and dangled it, then threw it to the side. The taunt made Arek want to smash her teeth in. Then she moved lightly into her place in the ring and resumed her stance, never uttering a word, her face devoid of sweat or emotion. He looked back at his master with frustration.

  Silbane said, “She is the master and you are the student. Bring the fight to her. If you win, it’s her fault.”

  Instead of answering Yes, Master again, Arek rose and bowed, then retook his stance. He moved forward, watching the same smirk flit across Kisan’s face. It wasn’t nice or noble, and ignited in him a fury that could only be expressed through attack.

  He knew what she expected, and he gave it to her. He charged in, but instead of a headlong attack, he faded to his own right at the very last moment. His opponent read him and raised herself up, just enough that his roundhouse kick got in under her elbow, slamming into her ribs.

  He followed that with an axe kick, aiming for her shoulder. She pushed herself up and caught it early, grabbing his upraised leg and him by the waist and throwing him over her hip. For a moment, he was upside down and knew his shoulder would likely dislocate on impact. As the moment of danger caused time to slow, thoughts raced through his head and his training took over.

  He knew the counter, to do exactly what his brain told him not to do—hold on. He grabbed her lapels tightly, tucked his chin, and rolled his shoulders in. As he went over her hip and his weight shifted into a fall, his grip pulled Master Kisan down with him like a teetering top.

  Her instinct for self-preservation kicked in and she held him up. Not a lot, but enough to turn a bone-crushing fall into something more like dropping Arek like a bag of rocks.

  Arek tumbled to the ground in a heap, but he wasn’t done. He’d survived the fall and now rotated, still holding her lapels. With Master Kisan bent over him he had the leverage and used his momentum to throw her into a full body slam. He heard the breath whoosh out of her and immediately pulled off a glove, exposing the bare skin of his hand. He knew what one touch would do, and it seemed from her widened eyes, so did she.

  “Do you yie—?” he started to say, his body straddling her and his finger inches from her forehead.

  Kisan struck with lightning speed, her covered forearm pushing his hand up and away while her legs twisted into a scissor-hold. Her legs trapped his ungloved hand outstretched high above his head, her thighs closing around his arm and throat in a vise-like grip. She squeezed until his head felt like it had grown two sizes.

  All Arek would remember of that day was being inches from Master Kisan’s cold and deadly eyes, before he fell a third and final time to her embrace.

  * * * * *

  “What do you think?” Silbane asked as Arek’s unconscious form was carried to the infirmary.

  Kisan’s skill and careful application of force had resulted in no real damage to his apprentice, one of the many reasons he used her to fight the boy. Arek’s ability to negate magic was a hurdle for most, but at his level of training it was expected he would fight with near lethal force and bring any advantage he had to bear. If a master couldn’t handle a student like him, even with his strange touch, what business did they have teaching?

  Only Kisan could bring the skill necessary to meet that level of a challenge and still deal with his special power. Arek’s injuries were part of everyday life here on the Isle, something no student complained about. In fact, Silbane struggled to remember a day when he hadn’t ached during his own training.

  “He talks too much, thinks too little, and matches his power against me instead of using overwhelming force.” She looked at Silbane, her eyes clear and resolute. “He’s too kind, and that will be his undoing.” Gone was the smirking and other mannerisms designed to make Arek lose his cool. Silbane knew her assessment was free of emotion or favor. Kisan’s judgement was a mirror of herself, matter-of-fact and final.

  Silbane looked at her with one raised eyebrow, then said, “Yet he caught you.”

  “I don’t question his skill, but his control,” Kisan explained. “He’s too easy to goad, yet worries about giving insult. In short, he cares too much about what others think.”

  “Coming from someone who cares too little,” Silbane replied dryly.

  Kisan shrugged, “We are what we were made to be. You are content to be the poet. I have always been the blade. At least Themun taught me to love my purpose.”

  Silbane ignored that jibe, knowing Kisan had issues with his martial philosophy. Themun had taken over her training many years ago, but he still thought of her as his student. Still, his heart could not help but go out to his former pupil and in an effort to value her skill and experience, he asked, “What do you suggest we do next for his training?”

  Kisan watched the space where the apprentice had disappeared before looking back at Silbane. To him, she seemed to genuinely consider what was best for his student, and though her attitude lacked empathy, he liked that trait about her. It was the only part of himself he saw in her now, since Themun had taken over her training.

  “He needs to lose something dear to him. Loss will teach him the ephemeral nature of life.” She grabbed the towel she had discarded earlier for show and carefully folded it into a neat geometric pattern.

  “Now who’s being the poet?” asked Silbane with a smile.

  Kisan sighed, then said, “The boy needs toughening, that’s certain.” Her eyes narrowed, looking at the small white score on the ground Arek had lined up behind at the start of their fight.

  She looked at Silbane carefully before saying, “From now on my students will give no quarter. That goes especially for Piter.”

  “Piter?” the elder master asked. “They’re getting to that age where competition may breed anger.”

  “You can’t avoid the negative in everything. The shadows also define the light.”

  Silbane’s expression must have told her he didn’t feel so convinced, so Kisan continued, “Arek can still accept losing to us. It’s not the same with his peers. A little good-natured ribbing from his classmates is just what he needs to push him. He’ll eventually tire of it, and maybe then he’ll start fighting at the level of his training.”

  “You risk making them enemies,” he said simply.

  Kisan rolled her eyes at that and said, “Stop being so worried all the time. Children fight. It’s normal and you can’t protect them forever.” She eyed him a bit longer then said, “But I’ll temper it if it gets out of hand. We all benefit from hands-on instruction.”

  She moved closer and laid a hand on Silbane’s arm. “And you know h
ow I love that,” she said coyly. She slid a little closer and smiled, her eyes glinting now with mischief instead of anger.

  “Unless you’re offering something uncomplicated, stop,” muttered the master as he looked at the towel she’d folded. For all her pride at remaining detached and logical, the intricate folding pattern was stunning to behold, a true work of art from someone who had to truly appreciate beauty to create the same.

  His love for her was not hidden, but it had grown through the years to more of a friendship than any amorous need. They’d been together off and on, but it had never stuck. How could it, for people who lived hundreds of years? It might have lasted longer if Silbane wasn’t so unsettled by the way Kisan’s moods changed so abruptly. He never knew exactly what was happening behind her eyes.

  He smiled wryly and said, “Let’s focus on training our students. Everything else is a distraction.”

  “Cutting me off?” She arched an eyebrow and with a small smile she teased, “Now who’s being the blade?”

  Ben’Thor Tir

  There’s a large and ugly beetle,

  black like the dung it rolls before climbing inside.

  When it emerges, it’s iridescent blue-green,

  and beautiful to behold.

  - Keren Dahl, Shornhelm Survivor’s Guide

  Y

  etteje watched Orion inspecting three parallel slashes in his silver wing. The claws of the nephilim created by Tomas’s death had torn the metal like it was cloth. Luckily, nothing had penetrated to his skin. He was flexing his wing experimentally, she guessed to confirm its range of motion. Occasionally he’d wince, a sure sign he was actually feeling pain from the metallic parts, as if they, too, were part of him.

  They had been walking some distance when the Watcher suddenly stopped. Motioning for them to wait, he moved a short distance off, his form silhouetted in the early morning sun as it rose over one edge of this island. It was here they found themselves while Orion finished his inspection. To her inexperienced eye however, the slashes already looked much better.