Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts Read Online Free PDF Page A

necessary. As long as
that
remained true, his lifewater would remain unspilled.
    Turning from the sight of the fortress, he addressed the lead clanfist, “We shall camp, Indry. Have the brothers dig themselves in for the storm and shield the fires.” Hemendra paused for a moment, looking out over the Altan Wastes. So beautiful, he reflected, yet as deadly as a
sarinak
’s sting. Turning back to the two waiting chieftains he finished, “Tell the sun sages to begin the bloodletting for their spells. Tomorrow, under cover of the storm, we advance on Bara’cor again.”
    “And the Redrobe’s orders?” Indry asked, looking at Bara’cor with hunger in his eyes.
    Hemendra eyed this nomad chieftain, his hand casually straying to rest on the bone hilt of his fighting knife, a knife that never left his side. He saw Paksen’s eyes widen as the second clanfist realized his companion’s error and prayed the chieftain would react so he could kill him, too. Wisely, Paksen did not move.
    “Tell me of the
asabiyya.”
    The other chieftain spun to face the u’zar, the simple question laced with deadly undertones, and realized his error. He fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the sand. “Mighty U’Zar—”
    “Tell me, Indry.”
    The man stammered, then said, “Me against my brothers; my brothers and me against our cousins; my brothers, cousins, and me against the world.”
    “And what family is the Redrobe to you?”
    Indry shook his head slowly, almost as if he knew his fate. “He is nothing, Mighty U’Zar.”
    Slowly, Paksen also fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the sand. “Of course, Mighty U’Zar, your orders are not to be questioned.”
    Hemendra waited for a moment, looking towards the camp. He could hear the priests chanting their spells, ones that banished fatigue or called up springlets of fresh water from the dry, windblown wastes. Looking down, he growled, “Look at me, Indry.” At first he thought the man would refuse, as what could only be a stifled sob ran quickly through him. Then, as Indry’s head slowly came up, Hemendra kicked him under the chin.
    Blood spurted as the ill-fated clanfist bit through his tongue and went tumbling backward down the dune, landing in a heap at the bottom. Hemendra strode down and grabbed him by his neck, picking him up like a rag doll. Dark blood ran freely in rivulets out of the nomad’s mouth, dripping off his chin and staining the front of his robes. He was on the verge of screaming when Hemendra’s grip tightened like a vise, choking off any sound. “Your lifewater is accepted.”
    The man fought, his desire for life overcoming any fear he had for the clanchief. He tried punching, kicking, and pushing the gargantuan man, trying to find any kind of purchase or weakness, but Hemendra’s grasp was like iron, unyielding. Indry’s punches soon became lethargic, then feeble. Finally, they stopped all together.
    Hemendra waited, watching until life drained from the man’s eyes, then he released his hold. He flung the dead nomad to the desert floor, feeling his fingers stick together where blood had congealed. Stalking back up the dune he stooped to grab a handful of sand and began to rub off the drying blood. Paksen, who he noticed had not moved, slowly came to his feet and paid the proper homage, palms to forehead. I will have to watch this one, he thought, angry at himself for letting the Redrobe’s presence affect him so.
    He could have let Indry’s lapse go unpunished—killing nomads for slight transgressions was not sustainable, not for a true leader of the Altan—and Indry had brothers and cousins who would now feel obligated to retaliate. They would die too, in a ripple of violence, but to what purpose? He had been foolhardy, he knew.
    Yet another part of him forgave his harsh action. Indry
had
given him what he needed most, a show of strength in front of a clanfist as powerful as Paksen. Fear was a strong motivator, and killing one to