Adept tegw-1

by Michael Arnquist

  “I owe you no debt,” Amric growled.

  “Sadly,” said the merchant, “that is not, strictly speaking, the case. You have caused me a loss of face, however indirect, and I cannot be seen to brook such defiance. It would erode my business dealings.”

  “What do you propose?” Bellimar interjected before Amric could retort.

  “I understand you seek the Sil’ath warriors who came to me weeks ago,” Morland stated, then paused. “Speaking of which, where is your other Sil’ath companion?”

  “Oh, he is about somewhere,” Amric said. “He sends his regrets that he will not be meeting you face to face this evening.”

  The implication was not lost on Morland, who gave a tight-lipped smile. “How unfortunate. May he come to no harm in his wanderings tonight. As I was saying, you seek the Sil’ath warriors who came to me weeks ago. As circumstance would have it, they undertook a task for me but have not returned. You can absolve your debt to me, and theirs as well, by completing this task. This will be of mutual benefit to us both, since you must realize your best chance to locate them will be to follow in their steps.”

  Amric bit back another angry response contesting the debt. He needed to glean as much as he could from this man, so instead he asked, “What is this task?”

  “I am coming to that, swordsman. First I must return to my initial question: Do you know why I am here? No? It is not, as you put it, for the scenery.” Morland’s lip curled in disdain. “Geographically, this city is an inconsequential little dung heap. It is making me rich, I must admit, but I will celebrate the day I leave this place behind. Being here in Keldrin’s Landing is like living in a demon’s armpit. Strategically, however, this city enjoys a number of unique properties that warrant close consideration. Very close consideration indeed.”

  He trailed off, one finger caressing the base of the goblet. After a moment, Bellimar cleared his throat. Morland’s brow creased in irritation and he turned to the old man as if noticing him for the first time.

  “Your name is Bellimar, yes? How did you come by it? Surely no parent would bestow it, given its history.”

  Bellimar’s smile was fixed upon his face, and he did not return the sudden looks from his companions. “You were extolling the strategic properties of this city, Morland?”

  “So I was,” Morland murmured. “Of this region, more accurately. This wart of a city just happens to be the nearest speck of civilization to the phenomenon. Are you aware that the greatest scholars among the nations are observing a marked drop in the world’s magical energies, of late?”

  Amric and Halthak exchanged a blank look. Only Bellimar seemed unsurprised at the turn of the conversation.

  “It is true,” Morland said. “It was gradual at first, a year or more ago, but in recent months it has accelerated. The most powerful sorcerers in all the lands are expressing concern as they can no longer draw on the same reservoirs of power they have in the past.”

  “I fail to see the problem,” Amric said in a dry tone.

  “Do not be a fool, boy,” the merchant snapped. “Magic is power, and our civilizations are in no small way built on that power. If this trend continues at its current rate, we face chaos and upheaval on a heretofore unseen scale.”

  “There are many who theorize,” Bellimar said, his voice soft, “that magic is so intrinsic to life that, were that energy to ebb too low, our world would become a barren husk, devoid of life. Remember our discussion of auras, swordsman. Magic resonates with other magic, humming together like harmonic vibration, and we exist in accord with the energy that permeates our world. Not only will the fantastic creatures suffer from its loss. None of us would survive.”

  Amric said nothing, unconvinced. A world with less magic, or no magic at all, sounded very much like an improvement to him. Morland, however, was nodding grudging approval.

  “An educated man,” he said. “Furthermore, are you aware that this region is seeing an even more marked increase in magical energies, as they decline everywhere else? So much so that sorcerous endeavors in this area have become hazardous due to their unpredictability, their sheer instability. Imagine, if you will, lighting a candle only to have it blaze up and fill the room with flame. It is as if all the magical energies in the civilized lands are being drawn to this region.”

  “Perhaps even,” Bellimar said, “all the magic in the world.”

  Amric shifted, uncomfortable at the thought. “Why is this occurring?”

  “No one knows,” Morland said, with another appraising look at Bellimar. “But it is also behind the swell of wealth here, in Keldrin’s Landing. The area was discovered to be rich in natural resources quickly enough after Keldrin first landed here. Now, however, the gems and minerals here are imbued with essence energies at a much higher rate than anywhere and anytime in recorded history. The nations have boundless appetites for such baubles: focus jewels to enhance rituals, magic alloys that never dull or cannot be pierced, and countless more. Those with mining rights, such as myself, were until recently making money as quickly as we could pull it from the ground.”

  “Why no longer?” Amric asked.

  “Our crews have fled their work sites, and many have departed the region entirely on the first ship that would have them. Chance or not-and I tend to think not-the meteoric rise in magic has coincided with a spreading contagion of dark creatures. We lost many workers, vanished or found torn limb from limb, and now no amount of promised wages is sufficient to coax them into performing their duties.”

  Morland shook his head and sighed, and Amric ground his teeth. The merchant cared nothing for the loss of life, only his own profits.

  “And thus,” said Bellimar, his tone wry, “the wealthy elite of Keldrin’s Landing found themselves at the golden spigot, now clogged, and put out a plea for assistance to the lands. Ample reward offered to any blades that would travel here and pit themselves against these creatures. Payment terms in arrears, naturally?”

  “Spare me your moral arrogance, Bellimar,” the merchant sneered. “If you share anything with your namesake, you are on shifting sand of your own.”

  Bellimar pressed on, his grin broad and predatory. “But times of strife call out to avarice, and one’s rivals can be so wonderfully vulnerable when all attention is facing outward. So the wealthy must fortify against each other, and continually more so as the armament continues; for every coin spent on the public defense, two go to outfit the estate. Stop me when you wish to resume the narrative yourself, Morland.”

  “How does all this relate to my Sil’ath warriors?” Amric interrupted. “They would not have been diverted to serve as hired swords so that you could return to exploiting laborers.”

  “You are correct, swordsman. Irksome, but correct. Your friends refused any offer of employ, but we found a common goal nonetheless.”

  Amric snorted. “I doubt that.”

  “Immaterial, as it is still true,” Morland remarked. “You see, your reptilian friends were seeking the source of the disruption in this region, for reasons they refused to divulge. I too have been seeking its source, investing considerable resources into research on that very subject. I offered to put your friends on the right path, provided they returned to me with any information they discovered regarding the fate of a business associate of mine who has been closely studying the phenomenon. The mineral wealth in this region has become secondary to a deeper game now.”

  Amric’s jaw tightened. “Controlling the flow of magic.”

  Morland gave an approving nod. “Very good. Your brains are not all in your sword arm, then. As magic grows scarce elsewhere and bountiful here, there may be opportunity to control the flow, the supply, the very future of magic on this world. Unfortunately, your friends failed to fulfill their end of the bargain by perishing somewhere out there, and still I lack the information I require.”

  Amric felt the rage that had been simmering inside him swell against his restraint, cause a spider web of cracks, and burst through like a
searing geyser. His vision swam before him, and he darted a look at his companions. He thought his expression under strict control, but they read his intent nevertheless; Bellimar’s eyes narrowed an almost imperceptible amount, and Halthak swallowed hard.

  Morland was saying, “Now, we could transfer that accord to you, as would be only-”

  Amric twisted in his seat and struck the guard behind him in the throat with rigid fingers in a hard upward motion that catapulted the man backward. In a flash, the swordsman was out of his chair and across the table. Morland had a split second in which to gape in shock before Amric hammered into him, overturning the merchant’s chair and landing astride him with hands locked about his throat as they slid to a halt on the marble floor. The jeweled goblet hit the floor with a wet clang and skittered away. Amric witnessed a fleeting gamut of emotions flicker through Morland’s bulging eyes: terror, pain, fury, appraisal, scheming. Then they were hooded once more. The man must have ice in his veins, a detached part of Amric marveled, to retain his sneer in the face of his own demise. The explosion of movement occurred with such blinding speed that the remaining guards were rooted in astonishment for a long moment before putting hands to sword hilts and charging forward.

  “Come no closer!” Amric commanded, his grip tightening on the merchant’s throat. “I can snap his neck before you take another step.”

  The guards stumbled to a halt, uncertain, and then fell back as the merchant gave a surreptitious signal with one pinned hand. Morland’s neck was very near its breaking point, and yet he managed a glare through the agonized wince.

  “You,” he said, his breath wheezing through his constricted windpipe, “are a very fast man.”

  “And your indifference to the fate of my friends offends me,” Amric said. He leaned his face closer to the merchant’s, until the tips of their noses almost touched. “All this wealth, all this power, and I can end it right here in an instant. I wonder, does Vorenius stand to inherit it all?”

  “Now you are being purposely cruel, swordsman. You have my attention, but you still need something from me. How shall we proceed?”

  “Remove the price from our heads, and give us the sum of all information you supplied my friends, so that we may follow their trail. If they live, we will find them, and they will deliver the information they owe you, as per whatever agreement they struck with you.”

  “I will suspend the price on your heads,” Morland countered in a rattling gasp, “and remove it once the information is delivered to me by your friends or by you. It will be reinstated if you return empty-handed.”

  They remained frozen for interminable seconds, Amric glowering down at the merchant while the latter scowled back in defiance. The guard that Amric struck in the throat thrashed onto his side on the floor, drew one short, whistling breath, and vomited with conviction.

  “Agreed,” the swordsman said finally. “But before I release you, bear in mind that my Sil’ath friend Valkarr is inside your manor at this very moment, having infiltrated unseen earlier this evening, and he is faster than I am. He will depart your estate grounds after we have done so, safely.”

  Morland’s black eyes glittered. “Understood.”

  Amric released him and sprang to his feet. The merchant sat up with a grimace and put ginger hands to his throat, drawing deep, ragged breaths. His angry gaze raked over his guardsmen waiting with their fists curled tight around their sword hilts, then to the weapons piled at the far end of the table, then to Bellimar and Halthak standing before their chairs, and at last back to Amric, poised on the balls of his feet.

  Finally he spoke in a rasp, “Get them the maps, and get them out of my sight.”

  The interior of the carriage was primarily silent on the ride back to the estate perimeter, as the three companions each sat lost in their own thoughts. Amric held tight to the leather satchel containing the merchant’s maps and papers, his mind already racing ahead over the necessary preparations for the coming journey.

  There was but one interlude of conversation.

  “Amric?” Halthak whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “Was it true, what you said about Valkarr?”

  “No, I am slightly faster.”

  “I meant about him being in the manor house, ready to act.”

  “Ah, yes, that part was true.”

  Morland sat in the high-backed chair, tapping the heavy ring on his finger against the base of his goblet. Each tap was accompanied by an audible clink that echoed through the great hall. He did not move otherwise, but his gaze sifted through the corner shadows as he waited. Remembering Amric’s words, he quelled a spark of unease that the warrior’s Sil’ath friend might have stayed behind after all, might have evaded all the searching patrols and come here for him. He had sent all his guards from the room, as his next guests were peculiar, and the common soldiers found them unnerving. They always made his flesh crawl, despite their devotion to him, but now he felt too vulnerable alone and just found himself hoping they would arrive before some faceless intruder found him instead.

  When they appeared, it was from the opposite direction he was facing. It always was, he thought, irritated; but then, that’s what made them so good at what they did. He spun around at the low sound of their laughter. Twin shocks of white hair above pale, mocking faces seemed to hang disembodied in the air, and then dark leather-clad forms formed beneath them. Nyar and Nylien, the twin Elvaren assassins, stepped from the shadows.

  “I do not like to be kept waiting,” Morland snapped.

  The Elvaren said nothing, and Morland felt a chill. He relied on their speech patterns to know when their ever volatile natures were turning against a target, and he did not want to inadvertently become one. He tried a different tact.

  “You heard everything, I trust?” he said.

  “We did, lord,” one replied. Nyar or Nylien, he could never tell them apart. “You were very tolerant of its boorish behavior.”

  “Then you heard our arrangement as well. They are to complete a task for me, and then they will be yours once more. They must live for now.”

  “We understand, lord.” There was a petulant quality to his voice.

  “You need not worry, my boys,” Morland soothed. “I will find targets for you until they return.”

  “As you command, lord,” one of the Elvaren said, mollified. They turned, faded back into the shadows and were gone.

  Morland began to sift through the papers on the table, paused at a thought, and spoke into the air. “The guard who was struck down tonight and failed me, I have no further use for his service.”

  The reply was a whisper, directionless. “Thank you, lord.”

  Morland sipped from the goblet and resumed reading.

  CHAPTER 4

  Gormin wiped the sweat from his brow, surveying his crops in the failing light. He was down to just two of his largest fields, all he could manage alone, but they were thriving and he felt a fierce exultation. He had finished harvesting the oats today, and could start on the barley with the morrow. It would take several days by himself, but then he could load his wagon and commence bringing loads to the city, and both vindication and profit would be his. Then his gaze slid over his other fields, all lying fallow, and his mood soured.

  He beat the day’s dust from his wide-brimmed hat and cast a look back at the barn he had just finished locking up for the night. It was difficult to recognize as a barn any longer, with all the fortifications he had added: boarded windows, reinforced doors, buttressed walls and a ring of outward facing stakes. His early years in the Marovian infantry had served him well, though he had never expected his experience defending military camps and forts to be used later on his own farm.

  From inside the barn came a coughing grunt and the protesting creak of wood. Gormin paused to listen, but it was not repeated. The graffas, short-tempered beasts at the best of times, had been worked hard today and should be quick to slumber this night. Great, bullish draft animals, they were more costly
than oxen but Gormin had never regretted the expense; their prodigious strength and constitution more than compensated for the additional cost and their irascible natures.

  He turned and trudged toward his house. It bore many of the same defenses as the barn, and just past the edge of its roof he could just see the gleaming walls and towers of Keldrin’s Landing in the distance. The sun was setting behind the city and a blood-red hue seeped across the intervening land. His was one of the farms nearest the city, and, as far as he knew, the last remaining. The rest of the smallholders in the surrounding lands had abandoned their lands and fled. Between the drop in production and the severe overcrowding in the city, food prices had risen dramatically. As the only grower still tending crops, Gormin knew he was sitting on a fortune.

  The financial prospects would have been even better, he thought with a frown, had his family and his hired help not retreated to the city. If they could have cultivated all the fields, what an opportunity! They had borrowed heavily to buy this much land, and in one stroke they could have shaved years from that debt. He swallowed a lump of bitter disappointment. He would not run to Keldrin’s Landing with tail tucked to become a penniless beggar on the streets, would not abandon his holding to some infestation of wild pests. There was nothing for it now but to prove them all wrong, and he would do that by riding into town with a mountainous harvest yield.

  As he neared the front porch of the house, a large shape rose to its feet in the shadows by the eastern wall. Gormin bit back an oath, his hand going to his hip for a sword he no longer wore before he realized it was just the dog. Other than the two graffas in the barn, the dog was the only animal remaining on the farm. Shaggy and long-limbed, its head reaching nearly to his chest, the beast was far too large for his wife and children to feed and board in the tight quarters of the city, and so they had been forced to leave it behind. What had they named it? Vulf, or Wulf, or something like that? Gormin could not recall. It had a voracious appetite and did no work on the farm, and so to him it was just another mouth to feed. But his family had loved the ugly brute, and so he made no overt efforts to drive it away, though it could also be said that he made no especial efforts to prevent it from leaving, either. He sneered at the dog, and it gave a low growl in return.