Adept tegw-1

by Michael Arnquist

  Xenoth lifted hands that blazed with fire. Amric was still rising unsteadily to his feet, and some detached part of her mind noted that the swordsman would not be in time to ward off the coming attack. Bellimar knelt with his back to her, motionless, waiting.

  Thalya released her breath as she released the arrow, just as she had been trained to do. It struck her as peculiar that it came out almost like a sigh of relief, like a parting kiss to speed the weapon on its way. The string thrummed and the arrow leapt from her bow. That elusive sense of fulfillment flooded her at last as she watched it go with a grim smile. Fly true, she thought fiercely after it.

  Xenoth saw it coming at the last instant. He froze, and his features twisted from murderous intent to an almost comical surprise. He threw his hands up in a warding gesture, and the missile struck an unseen barrier less than an arm’s length from his face. There was an ear-shattering detonation, and green fire coruscated over an invisible dome-like shape before the man. Xenoth staggered back with a cry and dropped to one knee. A wave of hot air washed over Thalya and brought a biting cloud of dust and sand with it. She raised an arm to shield her eyes, and when she lowered it again, Xenoth was staring at her, shaking with incredulous rage.

  “You dare?” he thundered. “You insolent-”

  Amric attacked in a roar of flame. He stood, braced forward, arms extended and palms outward as if he meant to push Xenoth away through sheer force of will.

  And push him he did.

  Brilliant white light erupted from Amric’s hands and fountained into a column of energy as thick as a man. It was bright as the sun, but more narrowly focused than the uncontrolled torrent he had called forth before. Xenoth managed to lower his head and cross his arms against it, but the strike slammed into his defenses, lifted him from his feet and threw him backward. The Adept flew through the glowing rift he had opened and disappeared into the mists beyond in a flutter of black robes. The fissure wavered at his passing, and then its fiery edges contracted and came together like a great winking eye. The seam flared once in the night air, then faded and was gone.

  Xenoth blinked, and dragged in a shuddering breath. A steady ringing sound droned in his ears, and he felt strangely weightless. Pale mists curled about him in a cool embrace, but he caught glimpses of the night sky through that shroud, and it seemed to him that the world was tilted the wrong way. For that matter, the damp, lanky grasses intertwined with his beard and tickling his nose and lips seemed out of place as well.

  A soft rustling sound approached. Large, almond-shaped amber eyes regarded him behind a thin veil of mist, and he blinked back at them, uncomprehending. A scratching noise came to him, claw upon stone, and an eager mewling escaped the creature. It was answered from a smattering of other directions, all drawing nearer.

  It was those sounds that jarred the Adept from his stupor. They carried notes of need, of intent, of hunger. The danger of his situation crashed in on him.

  Xenoth lurched upward to a sitting position with a thin shout, sweeping an arm around in an arc to wave them back. The nearest creature shrank away from him, its rabid eyes narrowed, and it turned as if to leave. The Adept pushed to his feet and staggered for a moment, shaking his head to clear it. The creature gave a rumbling hiss of unmistakable pleasure at this show of weakness and took another slow step toward him. Xenoth felt a momentary stab of fear that gave way to burgeoning rage.

  “Back, you carrion-feeders!” he shouted, whirling his hands in a wide circle that sent lashes of fire into the mists. The lurking shapes scattered, keening in fear and frustration. They melted back into the murk, and then Xenoth was alone.

  He slapped at his robes with more vigor than necessary to dust them off. He could not decide if he was more furious at the defiance of lesser creatures such as the wilding and his companions, or at his own foolishness for being caught by surprise like that. In the end, he concluded he had fury enough for both at the moment. The boy had made a quick recovery, and had shown surprising strength and focus in that last attack. Xenoth knew little of wildings; perhaps that wild, instinctual nature to their magic enabled them to adapt with unnatural swiftness. Doubtless it was merely one of many reasons the Council had eradicated them with systematic precision, throughout the years. And where had the woman procured a nasty little surprise like that arrow, anyway? This primitive world was proving to be full of unpleasant surprises.

  He clenched his fists and spent a long moment contemplating the idea of ripping open another Way to go finish off the wilding. No, he decided at last with a sigh. As much as it would bring him pleasure, it was a poor plan. Opening a Way to unfamiliar territory was a taxing endeavor, and he had already done it twice this night in rapid succession. Another trip to and from the wastes to capture the wilding, after all that he had spent that night, would leave his strength ebbing to a dangerous level.

  Xenoth frowned. It galled him to admit it, but that damnable vampire had been correct: he was weary. Subduing the wilding had been no real challenge. The boy was strong and unpredictable, but he lacked any semblance of craft that would make him a true threat. The Nar’ath monstrosity, however, had been another matter. The fiend had hardly been slowed by attacks that should have torn it asunder, and Xenoth had been forced to put more and more energy behind each strike to affect it at all. In the end he had resorted to indirect means, pouring energy into the creature’s surroundings to batter at it, to weaken it, and to slip past its armor at last. He considered its intimations that its kind had built up some resistance to magic over time in preparation for facing the Adepts, and he shuddered to think of untold numbers of the monsters already lurking within his world.

  He knew what must be done. He knew as well that it might well mean his life to do it.

  When the flare of magical activity here-power that could only have been an Adept-had drawn the attention of the Council, it had confirmed his greatest shame at the same time it offered his chance at redemption. Find and eliminate the boy, an enemy of the Council by extension, as he had failed to do all those years ago. It was made quite clear that Xenoth’s life was forfeit if he returned empty-handed again.

  That, however, was exactly what he had to do.

  A new, higher priority had surfaced, and it could not wait upon his original mission. He had to close the doorway used by the Nar’ath to enter Aetheria and warn the Council of the hidden threat already harbored there. Would his masters understand the choice he faced? Would they show lenience for the decision he was about to make?

  Xenoth took a deep breath and turned to look upon the Gate. It towered above the fog, a massive arch of stone that stood silent and majestic atop its marble platform. A faint nimbus of light surrounded it and imbued the crawling mists in all directions with an eldritch glow. The weathered sigils carved into its surface, each as tall as a man, pulsed in a slow rhythm as if the ancient construct was drawing breath. Within the arch, a shimmering surface stretched and rippled like dark waters kissed by moonlight. Even standing hundreds of yards from it, Xenoth could feel the power of the Essence Gate pulling at him. The power to give or take on a cataclysmic level. The power to share or to destroy. The power to unmake.

  The black-robed Adept let his eyes travel over the Gate, following the curve of the great arch and lingering upon each luminous glyph. He knew in principle how to proceed, though he had never thought to perform the actions himself. What he was contemplating carried its own penalty of death or imprisonment. The Essence Gates transmitted the lifeblood of Aetheria; the Council did not tolerate tampering with their operation except under its own express orders. And yet, it had to be done. It was the only way to be certain, the only way to protect Aetheria.

  With that much decided, he had one more choice left to make: close the door entirely, or throw it wide open? The door was open a crack at the moment, figuratively speaking; Aetheria was sipping at this world’s essence through the Gate. He could disable the Gate, which would simultaneously sever the flow of magic through it as well as prev
ent its use as a transportation portal between the two worlds. Aetheria required the sustenance it received from its feeder worlds, however, and the Council would not be pleased to lose one that was drawing at this level.

  If the door could not be closed, then, that left only the other option: he could open the door wide by fully activating the Gate. This world would be drained of its magic in rapid, catastrophic fashion, and all life here would perish. Rather than a reduction of its intake, Aetheria would receive a veritable flood of new energy to meet its needs for a time. The Nar’ath scourge waiting to cross over would be dead, and the troublesome wilding as well. A hard smile spread across Xenoth’s features. It was a way to protect Aetheria and fulfill his mission at the same time. In any event, the Gate’s current activity level was an indication that this world was scheduled for harvest soon. He would merely be accelerating the schedule somewhat. He could only hope the Council would see it that way as well.

  The Essence Gate seemed to beckon to him from its platform. The device was an ancient and formidable magic, but it would take some time to reach full operation. It would take longer still for it to drain the essence from this world. The sooner he started, the sooner Aetheria would be safe.

  Xenoth squared his shoulders and strode into the mist.

  “Did you kill him?”

  Amric tore his gaze from where the glowing rift in the air had vanished, and shifted it over to the huntress. The wilding magic was flitting about inside him in a state of wordless elation, and the sensation, akin to a persistent buzzing in his ears, was very distracting. “What did you say?”

  “Did you kill him?” she repeated. “The Adept, with that last attack of yours.”

  Something inside the warrior flinched at the wary mask she wore as she regarded him. He shook his head. “No, I do not think so,” he said. “It was a weak strike, but it caught him off-balance and gave him a good push while his attention was elsewhere.” He gave her a steady look. “You have my gratitude for your intervention, Thalya. I owe you my life.”

  Her cheeks colored and she lifted her chin in a clipped nod.

  “Foolish girl,” hissed a voice that brought them both sharply around. Bellimar had withdrawn to the light’s edge, and was once again wreathed in deepest shadow. His eyes burned blood-red from the darkness. “You had your opening, girl. You should have taken the shot. I may not have the strength to offer you another.”

  Thalya’s features hardened. “I made the choice to save Amric’s life over ending yours, Bellimar,” she snarled. “I hope I chose the greater monster for that last arrow. Do not prove me wrong!”

  The huntress spun on her heel and stalked away, muttering about the need to find Halthak so they could depart this place. Syth was weaving a drunken path toward them, and she brushed past him without a word. He craned his neck to watch her stomp into the darkness.

  “What is she so angry about?” he demanded in a too-loud voice, knuckling his ear and shaking his head to clear it.

  “She questions herself over the shot not taken,” Bellimar responded. Then he gave a dry, sibilant chuckle. “And she wishes for one more such arrow.”

  Syth eyed the old man, exchanged a meaningful glance with Amric, and then turned to follow Thalya. “I will help her look for the healer,” he called over his shoulder. “He cannot have been thrown far.”

  Amric faced the vampire, and they regarded each other without speaking. At last, Bellimar broke the silence with a whisper. “You already know what must be done, swordsman. Freed of the binding that suppressed my demonic nature, I will once again be more monster than man, soon enough. You will be forced to end me, if you can, or I will slay you all.”

  The warrior shivered at the quiet conviction behind the old man’s words. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bellimar was already shaking his head. “There is no salvation for me this time, Amric. Last time, it took a group of Adepts, each far more powerful than the one we just fought, to change my very nature in this way. Even if the Adepts of today are still capable of such acts, we simply do not have the time before I once again become a scourge of death upon this world-starting with all of you.”

  “How long can you hold out?”

  “Not long, I am afraid. My hunger has been long denied, but its victory is now inevitable. My control erodes with each passing moment, and I find it harder and harder to remember why I should fight against it.”

  Amric folded his arms across his chest, fixing storm-grey eyes upon Bellimar. When he spoke, his voice was level and edged with the steel of command. “You staved it off for centuries, holding together a failing enchantment through sheer force of will. You have risked yourself for all of us more than once. Even Thalya, looking upon you just now, found something worth saving.” The pinpoints of scarlet blinked and shifted in the direction the huntress had gone, before settling back upon the warrior.

  “We must tend to our fallen,” Amric continued. “We must be gone from here before either the Adept or the Nar’ath minions return. We can regroup with the survivors from the hive at the crag where we camped last night, and make our plan there. Xenoth must be stopped. I need you to hold out that long.”

  Bellimar snorted. “You cannot stop him. You were fortunate to survive this encounter.”

  “Still, I mean to try, and I will need your counsel if I am to stand any chance at all.”

  There was a pause, and then Bellimar whispered, “And what then, swordsman?”

  “There has to be a way,” Amric said quietly.

  The vampire gave a slow shake of his head. “You ask the impossible, many times over.”

  “Still,” the warrior repeated, “I mean to try.”

  Bellimar drew back into the shadows until even the crimson glimmer of his eyes all but disappeared.

  “I need you to hold out that long, Bellimar. What say you?” Amric’s mouth quirked upward at the corner as he echoed the old man’s own words from when they met in the inn at Keldrin’s Landing, what seemed an eternity ago.

  “I will strive to do as you ask,” Bellimar replied at last. “But when the time comes, promise me you will act without hesitation. Promise you will do what must be done, if you can.”

  Amric inclined his head in a grave nod. “I will.”

  He turned his attention to helping with the fallen. Valkarr had already assisted Sariel to her feet, and though she was groggy from the concussive blast that had knocked her unconscious, she bore no serious injuries. The two of them greeted him as he approached. On the surface they sounded no different than the friends he had known since childhood, but there was an unfamiliar hint of reserve to the bearing of each that sent slivers of ice deep into his chest.

  A brief search for the horses proved fruitless. The animals had either fled too far to hear their calls, or had fallen prey to the denizens of the wastes. Syth and Thalya had better luck locating Halthak, at least. The healer had been hurled away in the chaos and partially buried under a mound of sand. He staggered back with the support of the others, and his own bruises and abrasions were scarcely healed before he began fretting over everyone else.

  The remains of Innikar were so blackened and distorted as to be unrecognizable, little more than warped blades and bits of metal in a pile of ash and cinder. The swords were in no condition to return to his family back home, so they buried them with him, there in the wasteland. It was a futile gesture, given the ephemeral landscape of rolling sands all about them, but one they performed by unspoken agreement. They had no suitable means by which to carry the remains anywhere else, and Sil’ath tradition held that their heroes should lie where they fell in battle, so that they could continue the fight from the spirit world. Amric pictured the irrepressible Innikar shrugging off an inconvenience like death as if it were some ill-fitting cloak, drawing his swords once more with the joy of battle alight upon his lean features. He smiled to himself. The Sil’ath were ever a stubborn, pragmatic people, and their beliefs were a firm reflection of that. The smile faded. The Sil’ath. His
people.

  The strange, silvery orb Xenoth had left hanging above them had begun to wane by the time they gathered to leave. Its light was but a glimmer when they crested the first rise. It was gone by the next.

  They trekked through darkness that was hemmed in below by the pale sands of the wastes, and above by the thick blanket of clouds laying siege to the moon. Bellimar kept his distance from the party as they marched. Amric forbade him from ranging too far ahead for fear that encountering the weakened captives from the hive while alone would prove too great a temptation. Even so, the vampire vanished for uncomfortable stretches of time before reappearing in some new and startling direction. Several times it seemed a great winged shape, blacker than the night, passed over them in a wake of bitter cold. More than once, the wilding presence within Amric roared to the surface in response to something out there that he could not see. Each time it would gibber and bristle at the unseen threat, making his entire body tingle with tension, and then it would slowly subside. More than once, he caught Bellimar’s penetrating red eyes, out in the darkness, following their progress with an inhuman hunger.

  In the earlier ride from the crown of rock to the hive, they had taken a circuitous route to conceal their approach from the Nar’ath exodus. As they trudged the reverse route, they made no such effort. As a result, the return trip took almost the same time, despite being on foot. When the rocky crag finally reared up before them, stark against the subdued luminance of the clouded sky, Bellimar was already crouched at its base.

  “I cannot go up there,” he called as they approached. “Blood has been spilled.”

  Amric pulled up short, facing him. The hair rose at the back of his neck as he caught the rough, throaty character to the old man’s voice. “What have you done, Bellimar?” he demanded.