The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  ADEPT

  ADEPT

  Book One of

  The Essence Gate War

  Michael J. Arnquist

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Michael J. Arnquist

  All rights reserved.

  For my family, with eternal gratitude for your love and steadfast support.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my test readers for your enthusiasm and for braving the hazards of a first draft as it was in progress. Knowing your eager, grasping hands awaited each new chapter kept me pushing forward.

  I would also like to thank CreateSpace and Amazon, and the other independent publishing platforms as well, for providing new authors the means to reach new readers.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Halthak watched the sword arc through the night air toward him. He resolved once more to deny his assailants the satisfaction of seeing him struggle further, and braced himself to accept the strike. At the last moment, however, his survival instincts betrayed his will, and his arms rose of their own volition to cross over his head in feeble defense. The blade bit into his flesh, a kiss of fire the length of his forearm, laying it open. Halthak bit back a cry and fell to his side in the dirt, curling around the injured limb.

  His attacker rocked back on his heels, roaring with laughter. Several of the other men brayed their own amusement from their positions around the camp. The wildest part of Halthak roared to the surface, gibbering in animal fury for the blood of his assailant, but he quelled his savage lineage with a control born of a lifetime of practice.

  Drawing a shuddering breath through clenched teeth, he examined his arm. The bleeding was profuse, but the blade had not quite reached the bone. For a moment he considered not repairing it, considered allowing this wound and the ones that would follow to weaken and kill him. It would put an end to their entertainment, and the thought brought him a grim sense of satisfaction.

  Again a spark of defiance within him flared against giving in so easily. He blew out a shaky sigh. In any event, the pain from the gash was severe, and he need not endure such discomfort while he waited for a clean killing blow.

  He concentrated for a moment and felt the familiar suffusion of warmth spread through his injured flesh. The wound sealed up before his eyes, his pebbled grey skin pulling closed and becoming whole again. Even the faint white scar would be gone within a few days, he knew, under other circumstances. Halthak pushed to his knees once more, drew the perspiration from his heavy brow with a sleeve, and raised his eyes to his assailant.

  Mercenaries, bandits––whatever they might call themselves, they were human predators, drawn to the region by the promise of reward from a wealthy port city in need. Unfortunately, Keldrin’s Landing was very remote, being at the farthest edge of explored territory, and travelers on the way were vulnerable to more than just the strange creatures rumored to besiege the area. Especially lone travelers who were far too trusting by nature, Halthak thought bitterly. Being a half-breed, visibly only half human and an outcast of two societies, did nothing to help matters.

  Not all of the bandits took delight in his torture. He saw a few, in fact, shift and exchange uneasy glances. Even if they were uncomfortable with the proceedings, however, they still stood back and allowed it through their inaction. Any distinction between these men and their leader, he decided, was too fine to matter much at the moment.

  Vorenius, the bandit leader, dropped to one knee before him, still chuckling. He propped an elbow on his forward knee and leaned in close. A confident leer twisted his coarse features, but Halthak noted the way his trailing hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. This close, Halthak could smell the liquor that hung on his breath and soaked his unkempt beard, but he knew better than to blame its influence for the man’s actions. The mercenary had intended this betrayal from the outset, he was convinced of that much now.

  “Proving your bravery by straying within reach of your unarmed captive, Vorenius?” The words were out before his sense of self-preservation could strangle them, but the sarcasm he intended sounded more like pity even to his own ears.

  Vorenius’s grin vanished, and he scanned his men for reaction before returning to Halthak, eyes narrowed. “You are in no position to mock me, you filthy––”

  “I am in position to do little else,” Halthak interrupted, keeping his voice level.

  “I can rid the region of one hideous menace, right here and now,” the bandit snarled, “and without any need of payment.”

  Halthak shook his head, casting his gaze about the camp at the rest of the bandits. “Do what you will out here, away from all authority, Vorenius. But do not insult us all by pretending there is anything courageous or noble about your actions.”

  The bandit’s jaw clenched and he stood, drawing himself to his full height. He raised his sword, murderous intent writ large upon his features. Halthak met his gaze, ready to let the sword land without deflection and end this charade. Just as the man’s arm tensed to descend, however, a startled oath from one of the other bandits spun Vorenius around. From his position on the ground, Halthak had to peer around the bandit leader to get a look at the source of the disturbance.

  A stranger appeared out of the night, seeming to coalesce from the very shadows as he strode forward into the campfire light. Clad in dark leather and an oiled black mail shirt, he moved with the leonine grace of a swordsman. All nine of Vorenius’s men drew their blades and oriented on the newcomer, but the latter made no move to draw his own swords, the hilts of which jutted from his back over each of his armored shoulders. He padded to a halt within a few feet of Vorenius, hooked his thumbs over his belt and stood at apparent ease. Without seeming to notice the bandit leader’s sword leveled at his chest, he addressed everyone.

  “Good evening. My name is Amric, and I am traveling to Keldrin’s Landing.”

  Vorenius’s sword point never wavered, but his gaze slid from the newcomer to search the darkness beyond the fire’s reach. Halthak realized he must be wondering how Amric had entered the camp without raising a cry from his sentries, and if he was truly alone.

  “What do you want here, stranger?” Vorenius asked.

  “A few moments of warmth from your fire,” Amric replied, seeming to notice him for the first time. “And I would pay well for a hot meal, if you have anything to spare for a fellow traveler.”

  “Take a slice from the spit and be on your way,” Vorenius said. “We are in the midst of something here.”

  Amric glanced at Halthak. “So I see.”

  “Do not think to intrude, stranger,” the bandit leader growled. “This is a matter between us and this creature.”

  “It i
s doubtless none of my affair,” Amric said, but he did not move, and instead continued to study Halthak.

  “Bloody right it’s none of your affair,” Vorenius said. “Now be on your way, before you join our troublesome friend here.”

  “Troublesome? Is this creature dangerous, then?”

  “Are you blind, or merely a fool? This is an Ork, a savage and mindless beast!”

  “Half-Ork,” Halthak corrected, from the ground. And not half the beast that you are, Vorenius, he thought.

  The bandit leader swung half toward him with a hiss as if reading his thoughts, and then snapped back around to Amric. He shifted his grip on the sword and made a curt gesture back toward the forest darkness beyond the campfire light. “I say again, stranger,” he grated, “be on your way.”

  Halthak grimaced, an icy twist returning to his gut. A brief respite, then, but not salvation.

  Amric met the bandit’s eyes for a long moment and then returned his gaze to Halthak. “May I speak with it?” he asked.

  An irrational hope flared within Halthak, but he walled it away. This stranger had no reason to intervene on the behalf of one such as him.

  Vorenius’s tongue slid across his lips. His eyes darted about, once again taking in each of his men around the camp and scanning for additional intruders. He seemed perplexed as to when he had lost control of the situation. His men murmured and glanced at each other, as uncertain as their leader what to make of the stranger. After a moment’s consideration, Vorenius jerked a shrug and slid back a pace.

  Halthak tensed as the stranger stepped forward and sank to his haunches before him, resting lightly on the balls of his booted feet. Grey eyes locked onto his own and pinned him in place. This close, he knew how different he looked from human: the coarse grey flesh, the gnarled hands ending in tapered nails, the close-set eyes beneath a too-heavy brow, the jutting lower jaw encasing the protruding nubs of his tusks. All of these features and more betrayed him for the half-breed monster he was. Had he been a full-blooded Ork, he would have been broader and heavier of build, but as it was he would never be mistaken for human.

  Halthak tried to read Amric’s expression, looking for any trace of revulsion, or hatred, or even pity. He found nothing of the sort. Even the stranger’s piercing eyes betrayed no hint of the thoughts behind them.

  Amric stared at him, motionless and silent, long enough for the bandit leader to shift in impatience where he stood. Finally he asked, in a low, soft tone, “Why do you not fight back?”

  Halthak’s mouth dropped open, and then he snapped it shut. He was not certain what conversation he had expected, but it was not this. The warrior’s voice was gentle, almost friendly. Recovering from his surprise, he said, “I will not give them the satisfaction. The more I struggle, the more it fuels their sport.”

  “You look healthy and able,” Amric said. “Your limbs are strong, perhaps stronger than a human’s. Your claws and teeth appear formidable, though you strive to conceal them.” Halthak winced as the swordsman continued. “And yet your captors bear no injuries. Did you not struggle when they took you?”

  “What bloody purpose—” Vorenius protested, taking half a step forward, but he drew up short as Amric raised a hand for silence. The swordsman’s gaze never left Halthak’s face, and he appeared unconcerned about the weapons arrayed around the camp against him.

  “I am a healer,” Halthak said, lifting his chin. “I heal injuries, I do not cause them. No matter what manner of monster you may see before you, I have dedicated my life to healing. I will not take the life of another.”

  “Even to save your own?” Amric asked.

  “Even then.”

  Amric tilted his head to one side, but his expression still betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

  “I met Vorenius and his men on the road to the port city this morning,” Halthak continued, the words now tumbling out in a rush. “Some of them were injured, and I offered them my services in exchange for protection on the journey, since we shared a common destination. They— ”

  His words slurred, and he ground to a halt in frustration. His mouth was poorly formed for the more delicate human language, and finer pronunciation suffered when he grew agitated. He drew a steadying breath and continued. “They were friendly enough at first. But as night fell and they confirmed I traveled alone, it became evident that I was, to them, just another monster to be slain. Or perhaps just a vulnerable traveler, foolish enough to believe our arrangement would be honored. My healing abilities, rather than earning their gratitude, became additional spice for their entertainment.”

  Even as he spoke, he was uncertain if he was stalling for time, merely wishing to delay the inevitable, or if he wanted this stranger––someone, anyone––to understand at least this much of him before his death. A fearful part of him recognized that he had involved the man too deeply in his plight already, and that his selfishness might cause the death of another here at the last, but it was too late and so he surged ahead. His eyes raked the circle of men around the campfire and he stabbed a clawed finger at one of the bandits.

  “That one would have lost his arm to infection at the very least, had it not been for my efforts. And he repays my kindness by cheering my torture and death.” The target of his attention started and involuntarily flexed his now healthy hand, glancing about at his comrades. The men began to mutter amongst themselves, their growing discomfort plain, their blades wavering.

  Vorenius snarled an oath, seeming to realize that the situation would soon be beyond repair. He lunged forward at the crouching stranger, sword flashing down. Amric spun to his feet and drew one of the swords from his back in a blur of motion. There was a flicker of steel and Vorenius cried out in pain, his own blade tumbling from his hand. Staggering back, he clutched his arm to his torso as a spreading sheet of blood soaked the front of his tunic. Halthak noted with a start that the cut to Vorenius’s arm was nearly identical in placement and severity to the one the bandit leader had inflicted on Halthak mere minutes before. He returned his stare to the newcomer.

  Amric stood motionless, sword held down and away, and he met the gaze of each of the stunned bandits in turn. When none of them advanced, he gave a sharp flick to the side to clear the blood from his blade, and sheathed it over his shoulder in a practiced motion. He hooked his thumbs over his belt once more, and his voice rang with command as he addressed them all over Vorenius’s agonized groans.

  “I have seen and heard enough,” he said. “You have the opportunity now to make amends for a poor decision, and to let the healer leave this camp with me, without any further harm.”

  The men exchanged glances. Vorenius cast about, eyes wild, and saw no one leaping to his defense. Lurching away toward the darkness, he screamed, “Sentries, to me! Strike this man down!”

  Amric chuckled. “Sentries might be a generous description, given the job they were doing. Your crossbowmen are not coming.”

  Vorenius spun back, gaping, to face Amric. “You killed them?”

  “They were not slain, but disabled. And not by me.”

  “Who, then?”

  Amric smiled and raised one hand high in a beckoning motion directed beyond the campfire light. All eyes turned in that direction as a second figure detached itself from the night and stepped forward.

  “Sil’ath!” one of the men exclaimed.

  Halthak heard a collective gasp from around the camp, and realized he was part of that chorus. The figure that entered the camp was reptilian, tall and powerfully built, but it walked upright like a man. A wedge-shaped head topped its thick neck, and a sinuous tail lashed behind muscular legs that were jointed differently than a man’s and ended in broad, splayed toes. It wore two curved swords crossed on its back, as Amric did. With hardened leather pauldrons and a broad baldric over its chest, it bore less armor overall, but Halthak eyed its scaly green hide and decided that it appeared no less protected.

  The Sil’ath stopped just at the edge of the light, inclined a solem
n nod to Amric, and then ran its glittering black eyes over the bandits.

  “You travel with one of the Sil’ath?” Vorenius said at last, his tone incredulous.

  Amric nodded. “This is Valkarr, my sword-brother.”

  Sword-brother? The term meant nothing to Halthak, but several of the bandits muttered further exclamations of surprise. The Sil’ath were a reclusive race, said to be without fear, mercy or peer in battle. Halthak, like most, had never seen one of the lizardmen before, but there was no refuting the evidence before him.

  “You have a decision before you, friends,” Amric said, as the murmurs died down. “Choose now how your night will end.” Both of the newcomers appeared relaxed, almost unconcerned, but Halthak could not shake the perception of lethal readiness lurking just beneath a calm surface. He noted as well that Amric and Valkarr were spread far apart in the camp, dividing the bandits and leaving themselves plenty of room to operate.

  Speechless for once, Vorenius looked repeatedly from Amric to Valkarr and back to his own men. Blood continued to seep through his fingers where he pressed his injured arm to his torso. For their part, his men swallowed hard and held quivering weapons before them in postures that now looked more defensive than otherwise.

  The moment stretched out, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the steady hum of insects in the surrounding night. Finally, one of the bandits––the man that Halthak had singled out earlier as a recipient of his healing––sheathed his weapon with deliberate care, raised his hands before him and took a step backward. The man beside him did the same, and in short order the rest followed suit. Vorenius made no move to stop them, his face drawn in pain but otherwise carefully impassive.

  Amric nodded and turned toward Halthak, extending a hand. Staring about in wonder, Halthak accepted it and allowed the swordsman to pull him to his feet. Moving past the men, he gathered his pack and staff from the ground before returning to stand next to the warrior. Shouldering his pack, he considered Vorenius. The bandit leader met his gaze with some hesitation, and the healer could see the malice in him, still present but buried deeply under a sense of defeat.