Adept tegw-1

by Michael Arnquist

  The battle lasted only moments, for the Nar’ath greatly outnumbered the unprepared men. One by one, the torches tumbled to the hard-packed road and were snuffed out below the press of bodies. Cries of pain and anger echoed through the chill night air, but swiftly dwindled in number until only the sound of scuffling remained. The horses, which had been shrieking and jerking against their bindings throughout, were at last brought under control by the remaining guards around the carriage.

  On the road, the Nar’ath wasted no time in hoisting their unconscious prey to black shoulders and threading away like a chain of otherworldly insects, moving at a dead run.

  The Nar’ath lieutenant, as Morland had come to think of the larger ones that could speak, faded back into the blackness and was gone. Aside from the brutish lieutenant, the Nar’ath had made no sound whatsoever during the encounter. Morland suppressed a shudder as he watched them disappear into the darkness. In mere moments, the only signs of what had transpired were the unlit torches strewn about like charred bones. The merchant considered the agreement he had made and felt an odd twinge, but he quelled it savagely. A man of his refinement and station should not be engaging in such base activities, that was all. In the future, he would leave such visceral deeds to lesser men.

  He turned and ducked into the carriage.

  “What of the extra mounts?” one of his men asked in a hushed tone.

  “Bring them along,” he replied. “There is no reason to waste good horses.”

  Nyar and Nylien joined him in the cabin and shut the door behind them. The carriage wheeled into a turn, and soon was trundling on the road back to the city. Morland leaned his shaved pate back against the carriage wall and closed his eyes. It was several minutes into the ride before the silence in the cabin was broken by a quiet voice.

  “My lord,” murmured one of the Elvaren. “We will return to the city with fewer men and a number of riderless horses. The guards at the gate may raise questions.”

  “Tell them whatever you wish,” the merchant said without opening his eyes. “Remember their faces, however, for you will then seek them at their shift change later in the night and make sure their tongues do not wag to anyone else.”

  “Yes, lord,” the assassins whispered together.

  Morland allowed his mind to wander, lulled by the rocking motion of the carriage. He had many preparations to make and not much time in which to make them. Fortunately, in sharp contrast to the ride from the city, the return trip was quite pleasantly free of annoying chatter.

  CHAPTER 17

  Amric sat his bay gelding in the courtyard by the southern city gate. High above him, brooding clouds scudded across an iron sky. The mantle of night had been peeled away, but the new dawn had brought nothing of its usual comforting warmth or color. In fact, he mused, it looked as if the cordial revolving arrangement between night and day had ended at last and they had fought each other to a standstill, leaving the land caught somewhere in between. He gave a rueful shake of his head; such peculiar thoughts did not become a warrior, and he should instead be focused upon the coming journey. In any event, the stormy skies were a blessing in the sense that they would not have to endure the crushing heat, and their supply of water would last all the longer.

  The bay snorted and tossed its head, prancing back a few steps, and Amric kept a firm hand while allowing the horse to work off some of its nervous energy. It was a spirited animal, eager to be off after its time confined to the Sleeping Boar’s stables. Would that I shared your carefree enthusiasm, he thought with a smile as he patted the glossy neck, but then, I know more of where we are heading.

  All about, the city was shaking itself awake. More and more of the citizenry seeped into the shadowed streets with each passing moment, and the guards at the gate welcomed the next shift with bleary-eyed gratitude. Amric watched as the heavily laden carts of a portly baker and a short, furry stonemason almost collided. He winced, waiting for the inevitable shouting match as to which was more at fault, but instead the two merely exchanged a tight nod before hastening past each other on their respective errands. They were not alone in their demeanor, he noted. The subdued manner evinced by the residents of Keldrin’s Landing owed something to the cold, early hour, but there was of course a larger pall hanging over everyone. Two nights had passed since the abrupt morning attack that shattered the eastern gate, and the city was still holding its breath for the next.

  Amric absorbed it all, the sights, the sounds and smells of a city in the vise-like grip of fear. He took it in with eyes the same hue as the unforgiving sky above, the eyes of a man raised in battle. The city-nay, the very land, and perhaps the world as well-was being slowly strangled. He wondered if the city would enjoy another unhindered breath. For that matter, he wondered if anyone would.

  The crisp clatter of hooves approaching on the cobbled courtyard shook him from his reverie. Valkarr rode toward him on his black dun and drew rein alongside. Amric gave his old friend a broad, warm smile, and in return the Sil’ath warrior inclined his wedge-shaped head in a salute overdone with mock formality.

  “Quit needling me, you great oaf!” Amric laughed. “I am no longer your warmaster, if you will recall. Out here, we are merely friends, as we have been since before either of us could hold a blade.”

  Valkarr snorted. “Perhaps before you could hold a blade, with those useless pink paws of yours. As for me, I am quite certain I held my first breath upon entering this world until my hand curled around a hilt. There is a proper order to be observed, after all.”

  Amric grinned. It was a vast relief to have his friend hale and hearty again.

  “It is a fine joke the fates play on us, is it not?” Valkarr said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Putting two friends who wish nothing of magic on a path to try to put the world’s magic aright,” the Sil’ath said with a chortling hiss.

  “A fine joke indeed,” Amric said with a laugh, though he found himself quickly sobering. He realized with some discomfort that his viewpoint on magic had begun to alter of late, and he sought to trace the source of that unwelcome change. Was it a sense of gratitude for whatever force had intervened on their behalf at Stronghold? There had certainly been plenty of evidence of the catastrophic effects of magic to counterbalance one beneficial event. Had he been swayed by Bellimar’s description of Essence being intrinsic to life, being everywhere and an irrevocable part of all living things? Or was it perhaps Bellimar’s own struggle for redemption after an unmatched descent into evil, where magic played a key role in both parts of the tale? Whatever it was, he no longer viewed magic with the simple conviction he had enjoyed before.

  He also found a new flicker of empathy within himself for the creatures whose magical natures were twisting in pain along with the land, for he had to entertain the possibility that they were somehow driven to their hostile actions. Some of them might be much the same as the mountain cats back home; those predators were wild and dangerous, to be sure, but only when wounded or cornered did they lash out without discrimination, in a berserk rage.

  He frowned. Of course, he thought darkly, it could be that he had become tainted from prolonged exposure to the corruptive influence of Essence, and his own aversion was a defense that had been overrun.

  “We are ready, yes?” Valkarr asked after a moment. His friend regarded him askance, seeming to sense the shift in his mood.

  “Yes, we are ready,” Amric said with a lop-sided grin that he hoped would reassure.

  “Not just yet,” called a voice from across the courtyard. Bellimar rode toward them on his sway-backed dun mare, with Halthak beside him on his own chestnut mare. “You will not be rid of us so easily, swordsman.”

  “You are late,” Amric returned. “I promised to leave with the dawn, and you’ll not convince me that you, of all people, overslept.”

  Bellimar barked a laugh, but his gaze darted about the courtyard. No one paid their conversation any heed, however. Amric felt the reference was to
o obscure to cause worry, but then he supposed the layered cautions of keeping such a secret for centuries would easily stir to the surface. It was a revelation of Bellimar’s strange situation that, freed of both the mortal need to rest and the vampire’s need to hide from the sun during the day, the old man never slept. It must be a relief for the vampire, he thought, that he need no longer maintain the ruse of sleeping at night and eating sparingly with claims of delicate digestion.

  “Indeed not,” the old man said. “Most of the stabled horses did not welcome my presence, and I required some assistance from the good healer here in retrieving my mount so as not to cause a panic among the irritable beasts. At least there is one regal lady among the swine who is a more astute judge of character.” He gave his placid mare a soothing pat on the neck.

  A shrill whinnying turned their heads in a new direction. Syth entered the courtyard from a cobbled side lane, wrestling with the reins of a spirited smoke grey horse. Thalya followed on her black mare, her expression caught between alarm and amusement as she watched the thief and his mount dance in every direction except a straight line. Syth wore a broad grin, and the excited breeze swirling around him fluttered both his clothing and the horse’s flowing mane.

  “Is he not magnificent?” he crowed. “I found a trader willing to part with this fine young stallion for a song! I think it only fitting that a warrior of my caliber should possess a mighty steed of war such as this one.”

  Thalya burst into rich, genuine laughter, doubling over in her saddle. “That is no war stallion,” she gasped. “It is a mare, though I will grant you it is a tall one, and it would be generous to call it broken to the saddle. I thought you knew since the evidence was, ah, plain to see.” She cast a meaningful glance at the underside of the horse.

  Syth’s face fell. “Not a war stallion, eh? So that fat fool of a tradesman took advantage of me.” Then he shrugged, and the grin reappeared in a flash as he raised his eyebrows at the huntress. “I thought perhaps it was a kindred warrior spirit that caused the animal to be so unquestionably drawn to me, but now that I know it is female its attraction is, of course, less of a mystery.”

  Thalya wiped away mirthful tears. “Better keep your charms in reserve for now, thief, at least until you can tell the difference between stallion and mare. One never knows where the next such mistake will lead you. And I will ignore, for now, your unwise implication that a woman cannot possess the spirit of a warrior.”

  The pair quieted as they drew rein before Amric, Syth looking somewhat abashed and Thalya’s face becoming a frozen mask as her emerald gaze fell upon Bellimar. Amric noted that the huntress had never allowed Halthak to heal her, but the bruising and abrasions had subsided enough now that her features were more evident. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, even with her features settled into lines of anger and suspicion, as they were at the moment.

  “I must admit, I am surprised to see you all,” Amric said. “Unless you are here to see us off?”

  The others exchanged glances, but Bellimar spoke first, the intensity of the old man’s gaze like a physical thing pressing against him. “There are questions yet to be answered, swordsman,” he said. “I will be there when the mysteries are solved.”

  “I go where the fiend goes,” Thalya said immediately through clenched teeth.

  Amric turned to Syth. The man drew himself up in his saddle, and his words simmered as he spoke. “I spent months in a cell, waiting for an inglorious death at the hands of a madman. I had nothing of freedom, excitement or change in scenery, and no chance to strike out at a deserving foe.” This time when his grin returned, it was a slow, wolfish thing. “At least this madman offers those things.”

  Amric looked finally to Halthak, who flushed and gave a sheepish shrug. “Someone has to keep all you mad fools alive,” he said.

  The warrior considered making another attempt to dissuade them, but as he looked around at each of their faces he read defiance and quiet determination, and he bit down upon the words before they could form. Who was he to impugn their courage, anyway? They had each made their decisions with full knowledge of what they faced. For their own reasons, each had chosen to accompany him to aid his missing friends and, with luck, all of the lands. He and Valkarr were well accustomed to the battlefield, and Bellimar had certainly seen his share of death, but the others were not so inured. All in all, he decided, he could think of no more valorous act.

  He nodded his thanks to them and wheeled his bay gelding toward the city’s southern gate. The riders fell into line behind him, and they rode from the city under the gathering sky.

  Twin pairs of eyes, pale and sharp as the hard frost before the first driving winter snowfall, watched from high atop the southern wall of Keldrin’s Landing. As Amric and company disappeared over the first distant rise where the winding thread of road split the rolling green sward, the Elvar assassin Nyar turned to his brother Nylien.

  “They depart the city,” he remarked.

  “Our lord predicted as much,” Nylien said.

  “Our lord is wise, as ever.”

  “The Nar’ath will no doubt ensure they do not return,” Nylien said in a sorrowful tone.

  “But our lord prefers to take few chances,” Nyar pointed out.

  The other brightened. “Just so, brother, just so.”

  “There will be many Nar’ath on the move.”

  “But we are shadows,” Nylien said with confidence.

  “So we are, brother. We are indeed shadows.”

  “I believe our lord will wish us to follow, and ensure they cannot affect his plans.”

  “We should prepare for travel,” Nyar said with an eager nod.

  “Ho there!” bellowed a voice from further down the wall-walk. A heavyset guard strode toward them, slightly favoring a bandaged left leg, and a crossbow dangled from one hand at his side. “What are you two doing there? Citizens are not allowed upon the wall-walk.”

  The Elvaren blinked at each other and broke into slow smirks.

  “It addresses us, brother. It demands to know our purpose.”

  “So it does. It would be rude not to respond, despite our hurry.”

  “I had the same thought, my brother.”

  Pushing themselves lazily from the wall, they spread out and began to stroll toward the guard on either side of the walkway.

  The guard slowed and faltered, his brow clouding as his gaze darted between them. “Wait, what are you doing?” he stammered. “You cannot be up here.”

  The assassins continued to advance at a leisurely pace, vulpine smiles splitting their features. Their pale faces and shocks of white hair seemed to float disconnected above their dark, leather-clad forms. The guard raised his crossbow, bracing it with his other hand and leveling it at first one and then the other. The Elvaren took no apparent notice of the weapon. The man searched their expressions and blanched. He began to take shuffling steps backward.

  “You cannot be up here,” he repeated in an overloud voice. “Do not come any closer, or I’ll raise the alarm!”

  Nyar slowed to a halt and put a slender finger to his lips, tapping them in thought. “It raises a worthy point, brother.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Nylien, stopping as well and turning to face him.

  “It occurs that if our conversation proceeds with this one, the aftermath may serve to draw additional unwanted attention to the southern wall and gate, today and tonight. And our lord would certainly not wish this.”

  “Ah,” sighed Nylien. “As ever, brother, your adherence to duty does you credit. Of course you are correct.”

  “Regrettably, the pleasures of conversing with this one will have to wait until we return,” Nyar agreed with a sigh of his own.

  “If it still remains within the city,” Nylien said, raising one delicate eyebrow.

  “It is the price of pursuing larger game, and doing our lord’s will. We will not be so constrained, when he rises to power.”

  “But until then…”r />
  “Yes, until then.”

  The assassins turned to the guard once more. The man stood facing them, bewildered, the point of the loaded crossbow bolt wavering between the two figures. His finger tightened upon the trigger as the pair regarded him with all the detached interest one might show an intrusive, uncommon insect. Then, in unison, they spun on their heels and began to walk the other way with identical sauntering gaits. The guard let out a long breath and watched them go, tracking their progress until they disappeared into the stairwell leaving the wall-walk. They did not once look back.

  Amric kicked free of the saddle and slid to the ground. He knelt there, brushing his fingertips over the parched earth and then digging in to withdraw a fistful of sand. It poured from his hand and was caught by the breeze, swirling away like a gossamer veil. He squinted back the way they had come. A mere twenty yards away the soil was dark, rich and moist, giving rise to the lush green sward that undulated away behind them.

  “What do you make of this?” he asked.

  “Something is leeching the life from the very land here,” Bellimar responded at once, nudging his steed closer. “There has long been a desolate region at the southern foot of the Hoarfang mountain range, but it was isolated, ringed in by crags and fertile plains.”

  “It is the same, the spreading wasteland my father heard about,” Thalya said with quiet conviction. “It must be.”

  Bellimar’s expression was grave. “If this extends all the way to the mountains, then its expansion has been rapid indeed,” he said. “Too rapid.”

  Amric nodded and stood, brushing the sand from his palms. He turned and sighted along the ragged line where the vegetation gave grudging way to the advancing desert. Along that line, the grasses browned and grew thin, and the scattered copses of trees withered into weak, skeletal things. The transition was far too abrupt to be natural.