Adept tegw-1

by Michael Arnquist

  That the land was dying was plain to see. The questions that had to be answered now were how, and why.

  “Could this be another way the disruption of Essence in the region manifests itself?” Halthak asked.

  “I do not know, but I doubt it,” Amric said with a slow shake of his head. “These symptoms do not match those of the forest, where life is maddened and twisted but not drained like this.”

  “I must concur,” Bellimar said. “The magic in the region is rising out of control, strengthening magical effects and causing chaos through the agitation of all things that are linked to Essence. This would seem to represent the opposite. It does not match the pattern.”

  Valkarr grunted, frowning down from the saddle at the barren ground beneath his mount’s hooves. “The earth dies,” he said. “Just as it did beneath the flesh of the black things we fought in the forest.”

  Amric felt a chill, recalling how the flora had wilted and died wherever even a severed piece of the creatures came to rest for any length of time. It strained coincidence to believe that there was no connection between nearing the source of the foul creatures and encountering this widespread effect.

  Syth was scanning the bleak horizon with a look of dismay upon his face. “Even if the flesh of these creatures is toxic, could they have done all this merely by walking around?” he asked in a dubious tone.

  Bellimar shook his head. “I do not see how, unless there are unimaginably vast multitudes of them. To cause devastation at this level by tread alone would take more than seems possible, more than could be concealed. But we still do not know their source yet, and I think that might yield the answer.”

  Thalya sat her restive mare with a drawn expression, her green eyes roving from Bellimar to the seemingly boundless wasteland ahead. Amric tried to guess at her thoughts, but her stony expression yielded no hints. He swung into the saddle of his bay gelding and wheeled it about to face the group.

  “Either way, we must be getting close. We continue south.”

  They rode on into the wasteland with the somber afternoon sky turning slowly above them. The terrain grew even more bleak, the remaining signs of plant and animal life becoming rarer with each passing hour. Stark outcroppings of sun-bleached rock knuckled their way through the sweeping dunes, and the ground around them seemed to peel back in aversion. The southern road became an ephemeral thing, a tentative strand of hard-packed earth winding through the parched land; it would come and go in glimpses, swept under by the wind-blown sands as often as not. Amric had begun to believe they would see no other creature in this desolate sea when they crested a ridge and caught the first distant signs of motion. At first he thought the shimmering waves of heat clinging to the ground were playing tricks upon his vision, but the more he stared, the more he realized what he was seeing. He brought the column of riders to a halt and pointed.

  A group of a dozen or so dark figures was running over a faraway swell of sand, moving together with tireless purpose. As they watched, a second group of tiny, indistinct figures appeared over another hill, and then a third. The creatures were all headed north, toward them. Amric turned and led the way back behind the ridgeline. They left the remains of the highway and rode west for a time. As they threaded along the hills, the terrain offered occasional views of the progress of those they sought to avoid. The creatures did not appear to have noticed them over the yawning distance, as they continued on their respective paths to the north as if on a shared mission. Amric turned the group and headed south once again, deeper into the wasteland.

  Over the next several hours, they were forced to change course many more times. Each time they reached a summit, they were greeted by the sight of more and larger packs of the black creatures skittering across the hills. It became an increasing challenge to avoid them, requiring the riders to weave back and forth in an ever more erratic pattern. On several occasions, the creatures passed close enough to the riders that Amric, lying flat upon the hill separating them, could pick out details of their ebon flesh and the tattered cloth wrappings dangling from their limbs. As with the ones they had faced before, these seemed to be modeled after various races, like animate statues cast of some lightless material in the mold of the peoples from far-flung lands. He saw the forms of humans and slender Elvaren, stout Duergen and heavyset beast-men, the bird-beaked men from some deep southern clime whose nation he could not recall, and even an occasional Traug. He saw countless others too far away to discern, but their shapes and sizes proclaimed their diversity. At one point he was convinced he saw the tail and lean, broad-shouldered build of a Sil’ath, but it was too far away to be certain and the figure was quickly lost to sight behind the hills.

  Amric ground his teeth in frustration at the pace of their progress. It seemed for every mile they struck further south, they spent as much or more effort in backtracking and sidestepping to avoid detection. Sooner or later they would be unable to avoid a conflict, and if the creatures had any way to signal each other over even moderate distance, the riders would soon find themselves thoroughly overwhelmed. Even if they did manage to win free, the creatures would be alerted to their presence, which would only make it more difficult to traverse this harsh wasteland unmolested. Casting a scathing look at the darkening heavens, he began to search for a suitable place to camp and wait out the night.

  There had been precious few candidate locations on the journey here. Little more was offered than the lee of a coved hill or a scraggly copse of trees here and there. He preferred something far less visible and exposed to attack, here in the midst of hostile territory. They could turn west and head out of the desert and toward the coastal road, the same road that had brought him and Valkarr to this region, but it was a good half day’s ride in that direction and would of course cost them the same amount of time on the morrow to return to this point. No, it had to be something close, and soon.

  They veered to the southeast, avoiding two more groups of the black creatures running north with mile-eating strides. The ground became harder in vast, bare patches, as if the capricious winds had worn enough of the sand away to expose the ribcage of the land. The obscured sun began its preamble to setting, tinting with a rosy glow the whole of the sky to the southwest, where the cloud cover was most thin.

  As they cautiously peered over another rise, Amric saw a huge, conical structure rising from the earth and forming a sharp silhouette against the pale sands in the distance. His skin prickled the instant his eyes fell upon it. It did not look man-made, and yet its shape was too symmetrical, too purposeful, to have been crafted by nature’s hand. His eyes narrowed, straining against the fading light and the blur of the miles that separated them from the edifice. Tiny shapes scurried up and down the sloping sides of the thing like a swarm of black ants.

  Amric clenched his jaw. They had found the hive of the black creatures at last.

  Valkarr gave a low hiss and pointed eastward. With an effort, Amric tore his gaze from the nest and followed the Sil’ath warrior’s gesture to see a huge tumble of rock jutting up from a rolling hill to the east. A narrow, chiseled path ascended to the top, and the ground fell away almost vertically on the other sides. Amric nodded his satisfaction; this would do very well. He took another sweeping look over the dunes, checking the movement and positions of the scattered packs of black creatures, and his eyes lingered again on the upraised nest. Then he swung his bay gelding back down the hill and around its base, wending toward the peak Valkarr had spotted.

  It took the better part of an hour to reach it without exposing their profile along a ridgeline. Amric and Valkarr dismounted at the foot of the crag and, leaving the reins of their mounts with the others, began to climb the crumbling path up its side. The carved channel looked water-worn, which seemed incongruous with their desert surroundings, but Amric had to remind himself that this area had not always been so arid. The horses could be led up this path, he decided, but it would be a slow and noisy ascent. Anything lurking at the summit would be alerted by
the clamor, and it would be best to ferret out such surprises beforehand.

  The warriors worked their way up the path, silent as ghosts, until the soft rasp of metal on stone behind them caused both to glance back. Syth was following, one steel-sheathed hand braced against a squat boulder as he ascended. At their stern looks he flushed and hastily withdrew the offending gauntlet from the rock, but from the set of his jaw the man would not be turned back. Amric and Valkarr exchanged a look and continued up the path.

  At the top of the escarpment, the warriors slipped over a raised lip and into a large crown of rock. They clung like shadows to the encircling wall, scanning their surroundings. Here, nestled within this giant bowl, was a marvel of vibrant greenery. A beard of ferns and thick bushes surrounded a strip of trees, and a carpet of fine grass led down to the jewel at the center of the crown, a clear, rippling pool. The waters curled and bubbled, fed from below by some brook or geyser that managed to force its way up through the heart of the crag. Amric shook his head in wonder. Life persevered, even amid such desolation. This explained the smoothing of the stone along the pathway, then. Rainfall and water pressure from below must couple to periodically flow over that lip, the lowest escape point, and over the centuries had carved a channel to the ground.

  Amric dropped into a crouch, cocking his head to one side. There was no enemy in sight, but he knew with sudden certainty that they were not alone. One of his swords whispered free of its scabbard along his back, and he turned and melted into the bushes. Valkarr did the same in the other direction, and the warriors began gliding in a slow circuit of the place.

  When Syth arrived at the summit, his mouth fell open at the sight that greeted him. He stepped forward onto the grass and took three quick strides toward the pool, grinning in delight.

  “What heavenly place is this? I-” he began, and then he stiffened. The cold steel that appeared at his throat brought startling focus to several things in rapid succession. The first was that the scaly, muscular arm holding the weapon and the reptilian visage regarding him belonged to a Sil’ath, without a doubt, but it was not Valkarr. The second was that neither Valkarr nor Amric were anywhere to be seen. The last was that his senses had dulled considerably during his long months as an unwilling guest within Stronghold; he should never have allowed himself to be caught so blithely unaware.

  Syth met the dispassionate eyes of his assailant and wondered if this Sil’ath could match Valkarr’s blinding speed. He knew himself to be swift as well, and with one quick twist he could bat that blade aside with a gauntleted hand-

  “Do not try,” the Sil’ath said in a sibilant whisper. “I have no wish to take your head.”

  “Tis an empty prize you would be claiming there,” called a nearby voice. Amric stepped from the undergrowth, and Valkarr rose like a wraith at his side. “And I must advise against making that strike, for fear of dulling your blade on his thick skull.”

  Syth scowled at the grinning swordsman even as the blade at his throat fell away.

  “Warmaster! Valkarr!” the Sil’ath exclaimed, striding forward to clasp forearms with Amric.

  “Well met, Innikar,” Amric responded, clapping the newcomer on the shoulder as the fellow clasped forearms with Valkarr in turn. Another figure rose to its feet from a tall cluster of ferns a few yards away, and Syth jumped at its sudden proximity. It was another Sil’ath, more slender and wiry than Innikar or Valkarr, but no less formidable in appearance. The figure took a sinuous stride forward, and Syth realized with a start that it was a female of the species. Another round of the oddly formal greetings followed as she traded forearm grips with both Amric and Valkarr, and then she stepped back with a sly smile.

  “You have both been away from home too long, if your senses have dulled so far as to permit a concealed potential enemy so near,” she said. “Valkarr, were you not the one who instructed me in the ways of stealth?”

  “So I was,” Valkarr said with a grunt. He reached around and drew a small knife from his belt at the small of his back, reversed his grip on it with a flick of his wrist, and offered it to her hilt first. “Just remember that as long as I have been gone, Sariel, you have been gone longer still.”

  Sariel burst into musical laughter and accepted the knife, returning it to an empty sheath at her hip. She ran an appraising look up and down Syth, who realized the swirling winds around him had increased with his tension. He took several slow, deliberate breaths, and the air calmed with him. Sariel quirked a delicate brow ridge at him, and he flushed.

  “It warms my heart to see you both,” Amric said. “We lost your trail at Stronghold, and I feared the worst. Now I find myself hoping that my senses are indeed dulled, however, as I was able to detect only the two of you. Where are the others?”

  Innikar slammed his swords home into the scabbards crossed upon his back. Syth noted that he was not as powerfully built as Valkarr, but he was a lean mass of corded muscle and moved with the same fluid ease. The Sil’ath warrior lifted his chin and met Amric’s gaze. His tail lashed behind him and then grew still with a spasm of effort, the only outward sign of his agitation.

  “We have much to tell you, warmaster,” Innikar said in a bleak tone.

  Amric nodded and clasped his shoulder again. “The two of you are well, and it is a start,” he said. “Syth, let the others know it is safe to bring the horses up here. This peak is well sheltered from below, with a defensible path. We will stay the night here. I can only hope that Halthak has kept the other two from killing each other in our absence.”

  Syth nodded, and for once he had no retort. As he left, he rubbed at his throat where the caress of the blade’s edge still lingered. He found himself hurrying more than was necessary, and he glared down at his own feet as if in reproach. He sifted through his discomfort, seeking the cause. Was he angry that Innikar had surprised him so easily? No, that was little more than a pinprick to his rather durable ego, and was soon forgotten. Had the undeniable femininity of the Sil’ath woman roused surprising feelings in him? No. Well, yes, if he was being honest, but he found no shame in admitting it. He could appreciate beauty in another race, and Sariel was indeed beautiful in an exotic and somewhat frightening way. The huntress Thalya was more stunning by far, however, and perhaps a degree less likely to gut him for making an advance. At least he hoped she was less likely to respond that way.

  Soft laughter echoed behind him. The warmth of the reunion was an almost tangible thing at his back, and he felt a hollow pang in his chest in response as he started down the path. He could lay claim to no such future reunion of his own, he knew. No one would have come for him in Stronghold; if chance had not led a group of strangers to him, he would still be there, either dead or wasting away in that dreadful cage. Why did it bother him all of a sudden that no one awaited him with warm smile and firm grasp, eager to touch his flesh and, in so doing, reaffirm his well-being? It never had before. Trudging across the world and into the teeth of danger for the sake of lost friends was a grand gesture, if a bit dramatic for his tastes. And there was the rub, was it not? To be worthy of such gestures, one had to be willing to commit them on behalf of another. The air spun around him and tugged a persistent lock of hair across his eyes. Annoyed, he batted it away.

  The rocky path curved and brought the trio below into sight. They turned away from the darkening wasteland to watch him as he descended. His gaze caught on the oval of Thalya’s upturned face, and at that instant his heel slipped on a smooth, water-worn patch of stone. He bit back an oath as he caught himself. The green eyes of the huntress, still upon him, sparkled with amusement as a small smile played across her lips. His breath caught, and that strange pang lanced through his chest again. He shook himself and dragged his attention downward to focus upon his footing as he navigated the last portion of the path.

  Thalya sat upon a flat-topped rock and dangled her bare feet in the cold water. Having seen the pool in the day’s fading light, she knew it was shallow and held no mysteries, but it was easy t
o imagine different now as she stared into the black, rippling surface made depthless by the night. She looked up, searching again for the glimmer of stars across the roiling tapestry above her, but there were none to be found. The only light came from the insistent silver glow of the moon, pressed tight against the back of the clouds.

  Her eyes fell to the men, still gathered around a small fire nestled back against the trees on the far side of the pool. Their conversation was too low to overhear at this distance, but even from here she could read the determination in every gesture made by the Sil’ath warriors. She watched Amric in particular, asking questions and inhaling the answers. The burning intensity in his features both drew and repelled her. Her father had developed such unrelenting focus later in his life, when he became convinced that the fate of the world rested upon his actions, and the change had confused and frightened her as a child. In later years, it had merely saddened her. So she studied Amric with an involuntary tightening of her skin, waiting for the signs she should have seen earlier in Drothis.

  Syth glanced over at her many times, as he had been doing since she left the campfire in silence to sit here, alone by the water. She smiled and pretended not to see. Now and again she felt the weight of Bellimar’s eyes upon her, but each time she snapped up to meet that unholy gaze with her own promise and hatred, she found him instead with head turned, seemingly engrossed by the conversation at hand, and the sensation faded. She glared a few extra seconds at him each time, but somehow she doubted he found her stare quite as unnerving. Irritated, she reached up in response to the nagging itch of the scabs and welts upon her face and then caught herself. She let her hand drop once more; they would heal in good time, and she would only make it worse and risk infection by scratching at the wounds.