The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  “Your traitorous ways have cost the lives of many, Grelthus,” Amric continued, his voice a ringing pronouncement of doom. “The time has come for you to join your people.”

  The Wyrgen sprang at him, launching his powerful form through the air with jaws frothing and curved talons outstretched. Amric lashed out with one hand, palm forward. The brutish creature was struck in midair by some invisible force and swatted aside like an insect. Spinning and twisting, Grelthus was hurled across the terrace edge and out of sight, his howl of rage dwindling away.

  The swordsman strode over to where the glass wall had been. He bowed his head and spread his arms. As if in response, the Essence Fount leapt skyward, surging and swelling until it nearly filled the amphitheater. It thrashed violently, spinning like a cyclone of flame and sending tendrils of blazing energy curling about the colossal stone columns in the vast circular chamber.

  One by one, the pillars shattered and exploded, crumbling into ruin. As the last of them fell, Stronghold itself shook in protest, quivering in the throes of its agony. With a rumbling roar, the great domed ceiling of the chamber split and fell. Ton after ton of rock poured into the chamber. The Fount was obscured as the avalanche continued and the very heart of Stronghold collapsed in on itself.

  Bellimar, still kneeling over Valkarr, gaped in awe. On impulse he brought up his Sight and tried to look upon Amric’s aura. His vision filled with intense, flaring white light, and he fell back with a startled cry as his eyes were nearly seared from his head. He dropped his Sight, flinging up one arm to shield his tightly shut eyes.

  Long seconds later, when he could see once more, the deluge of rock had ceased. The Essence Fount was lost to sight, and the vast chamber housing the experiment that was the demise of the Wyrgens was filled with stone. A rippling cloud of grit and dust carpeted the viewing chamber, causing everyone to cough, and fragments of stone skittered and danced upon the partially exposed stairway outside as the mighty fortress still trembled.

  Syth stood over the men attending to Valkarr, shifting from one foot to the other as his wide-eyed gaze bounced from Amric to the now solid core of Stronghold.

  “Remember all that talk of wanting to fight you, swordsman?” he said fervently. “Forget every last word of it.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Amric stepped into the courtyard under a star-speckled sky. He inhaled deeply, savoring his first breaths of truly clean air in over two days.

  Syth brushed past and hurled himself to the grass, rolling back and forth with a gleeful howl. Amric looked back at the brooding fortress out of reflex at the man’s careless commotion, but the darkened apertures in the sheer stone face remained as empty and lifeless as the eye sockets of a skull.

  In fact, the entirety of the flight from Stronghold had been a study in contrast to their frenzied arrival. On the way in they had been harried and hunted and at the mercy of their deranged guide. On the way out, no other living creature had stirred to obstruct their exit. Before, the hush of the fortress had been like the bated breath of a crouching predator. Now it was instead the cavernous silence of the crypt. Amric did not know whether the Wyrgens had all perished in the collapse of the Fount chamber and the innermost core of Stronghold, or if the survivors had fled to remote corners of the place in the aftermath. In the end, he did not care much which was the case, as long as the foul creatures kept their distance.

  Amric drew another deep breath and smiled. Let Syth revel in his regained freedom, anyway. After his months of captivity and his courageous actions during their escape, he had well earned it.

  Halthak emerged from the corridor at his back, hollow-eyed and leaning upon his staff. Valkarr appeared beside him, and the pair descended the stairs to the courtyard with slow, deliberate movements. Amric felt a stab of worry at the way the Sil’ath warrior swayed on his feet, but he let none of it show in his tight smile. His friend was too proud and stubborn by far to let the others see the full depths of his fatigue, and any display of concern would only discomfit him.

  The warrior’s insides twisted as he considered how close he had come to losing them both. It had been a near thing indeed, according to Bellimar; Halthak came so close to following the Sil’ath into the abyss that Amric made to abort the attempt for fear of sacrificing the man on a doomed cause. The Half-Ork was already lost in his efforts, however, and would not abandon the task. Through it all, the power flooding through Amric somehow kept the other two men infused with energy as well. It held them on the precipice while Halthak put forth a feverish, herculean effort. At last the healer’s bolstered magic won out, snatching them both back from death’s covetous grasp, and they collapsed into well-deserved oblivion.

  After hours of slumber, Halthak had awakened to confirm that Valkarr was out of immediate danger, though he was quick to caution that a week or more of rest would be needed for full recuperation. Their provisions were running low, however, as the bulk of them had been left outside with the horses. Furthermore, by unspoken agreement, each of the men wished to put Stronghold behind him as soon as possible. So it was that when everyone was recovered enough to stand, they began the tense, cautious trek through the deserted fortress, aided by their sense of direction and Syth’s fading memory of Grelthus’s maps.

  Last to appear at the mouth of the corridor was Bellimar, materializing from the shadows. He paused at the top of the stairs and turned a bold stare upon Amric, as if daring the unasked questions to fall from his lips. The swordsman met his gaze and said nothing. The time for that conversation would come soon enough.

  In a welcome stroke of fortune, their horses were still in the squat stable building, unscathed if also very skittish. As he approached and soothed them, Amric wondered how much of the carnage within the fortress had drifted far enough to reach their keen senses out here.

  The party left the courtyard and crossed the arcing metallic bridge on foot, with Amric leading the horses. After many hours traversing the tortuous corridors of Stronghold, Valkarr and Halthak were too tired to sit their saddles over such a precarious drop, and the nervous equines were on the verge of spooking as it was. Once they reached the tree-studded bluff at the other end of the bridge, they hobbled the horses and allowed them to graze. They set up camp for the night there, nestled back beneath a scruffy copse of trees. Partially screened from view by the trees, they built a fire and gathered around it to eat and rest in silence for a time. Halthak and Valkarr lapsed into sleep before even finishing their meals, leaving the other three wrapped in their own thoughts.

  Amric gazed across the valley at the fortress, a towering black silhouette cleaving the night sky. He looked forward to being much further from that place of death, but there was nothing for it tonight. The high trail along the cliffs was too treacherous to navigate in the darkness. Perhaps by morning Halthak and Valkarr would be rested enough to attempt it, and if not, they would remain here on the bluff until they were ready. At least there were only two approaches to this location, and both were narrow and difficult to traverse with any measure of stealth.

  “What next, Amric?” Bellimar asked, his voice pitched low so as not to wake the sleepers.

  The swordsman turned away from Stronghold to find the eyes of both men upon him.

  “Back to Keldrin’s Landing, for now,” he said. “Halthak and Valkarr need a place to rest that is warm, dry and safe.”

  The old man chuckled. “It is difficult to say just how safe the city will prove for us. Morland may not be satisfied with the news we bring back.”

  “Morland?” Syth asked, sitting forward. “The merchant?”

  “The same,” Amric said. “He had some contact with my missing friends, and pointed us in this direction in exchange for our efforts in locating Grelthus. Evidently the two are––were in business of some kind together.”

  The thief slouched back, a look of distaste twisting his features. “I know that full well. It was Morland who paid me to come here in the first place, to steal back some baubles of his from G
relthus. According to Morland, they had a falling out of some sort, and the Wyrgen then refused to return various items that belonged to the merchant by rights.”

  “And you took him at his word?” Amric said, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Not for a moment,” Syth admitted. “But I believed in the color and quantity of his coin. For the king’s ransom he offered me for the task, these items must have been very important to him. Unfortunately, I did believe the snake when he said that invoking his name would gain Grelthus’s trust. In truth, it had rather the opposite effect.” His expression darkened with anger, and then brightened again into a broad, wolfish grin. “Come to think of it, I am certain I saw some of those items on the Wyrgen’s table, there above the viewing chamber. Quite a pity that we were unable to retrieve them, is it not?”

  Amric barked a laugh. “I’m for thwarting the devil myself, but it occurs to me that we are all returning to Keldrin’s Landing having failed in the eyes of a ruthless, powerful man at tasks he had a strong desire to see completed. Bellimar is correct; we are not likely to see the price on our heads lifted when we return.”

  Syth’s eyebrows rose. “A contract out on you, eh? Nothing done in half measures with you, is there?”

  “It is safest if we travel together until we near the city,” Amric said. “But we can part company before the gate, so that you do not invite a price on your head as well.”

  The thief looked away and gave a slow shrug, picking at food between his back teeth with one fingernail. “You will have to deal with Morland at some point, or be forever looking over your shoulder,” he said. “I might like to be there to have my say as well.”

  “Regrettably, we do not have an extra mount for you,” Amric said, studying the man. “However, we will already be taking a slower pace to accommodate our wounded. We can rotate doubled-up riders among the stronger steeds for some stretches, and walk through others.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but I can travel on foot faster than most men,” Syth remarked as he stifled a yawn. “Besides, horses and I have reached an understanding in the past: neither of us will attempt to ride the other, except in the most unusual of circumstances.”

  Amric smiled and stood, wincing as he did so. He stepped away from the fire, his attention once more upon the brooding shadow of Stronghold in the distance.

  “You should have allowed the Half-Ork to heal you,” Bellimar reminded him.

  The swordsman realized he was scratching at his crude cloth strip bandages again, and he let his hand drop. “Nothing more than minor cuts and bruises. They can wait, or heal on their own. In any event, you saw him. Any more strain would have done the poor fellow in.” He glanced back. “Thank you again for your aid in treating and bandaging my wounds.”

  Bellimar inclined his head. There was a pause, and then, “Have you felt it again, since?”

  There was no need to guess what the old man meant. “No. Not since it left me, just after Halthak saved Valkarr and they both fell unconscious. And my aura?”

  “Undetectable to my Sight, as before,” Bellimar replied.

  Amric exhaled in relief. He recalled the moment in the viewing chamber, when the threat of the Wyrgens had passed and he had turned his attention inward to confront the alien presence that had invaded him. Revulsion and fear swept through him at the thought of becoming corrupted like the Wyrgens, or being fused forever with this burning torrent of magic, unable to force the powerful spirit from him. Its mysterious intervention had saved their lives, he had to admit, and he had sensed nothing malicious about its intent save for a white-hot rage toward their enemies. It had guided him, and yet he had still felt in control of his actions. He supposed that was the insidious allure of such power at work, and one never truly realized loss of self until it was too late to turn back.

  A lifetime’s aversion to magic had flared then, and he searched for the thing within him, braced to battle for his very soul. There was nothing to contest against in the end, however; a fleeting instant of contact, a tentative brush against his senses, and then it had faded and vanished before his loathing like the early morning mist burned away by the new sun. He was left weary to the bone and wondering if he was truly alone in his flesh once more.

  Even though no hint of it had resurfaced in the many hours since, he found himself compulsively focusing inward every so often, dreading its return.

  “Do you still believe you were possessed by the Essence Fount?” Bellimar asked.

  “Of course,” Amric said, frowning. “What alternative is there?”

  When Bellimar did not respond, he swung around to face him. The old man’s eyes caught and held the lurid glow of the fire as he studied Amric.

  “Out with it, man,” the swordsman demanded. “Share your theories.”

  But Bellimar shook his head. “I do not have an explanation yet that would hold up to scrutiny, but there are some theories I can refute.”

  “Go on,” Amric said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Well,” Bellimar began, seeming to choose his words with care, “the Essence Fount is not a sentient thing, capable of an intrusive manifestation like you describe. It is a pure force of nature, more akin to a tidal wave or forest fire than to a living creature. Its power can harm or even consume those near it, and it might be tapped or directed somehow, but it has no will behind it.”

  “You know that I have neither affinity for magic nor desire to work it,” Amric objected. “I could not have done what I did without something providing the power, and guiding my hand as well. And you said my aura became bright as the sun while I was under its influence.”

  “I know all this, and yet it could not have been the Fount. It could certainly have affected you over time, changed or sickened you. But it could not come to your aid and then depart as you describe. It possesses no more intelligence than an avalanche, or a tornado.”

  A sudden gust of wind raked over them, dragging at the flames of the campfire. Both men turned to see a broad grin creasing Syth’s face.

  “You make your point, thief,” Bellimar said with a rueful chuckle. “I am referring to common such phenomena, however. And elementals are not capable of possession either, to my knowledge.”

  Syth shrugged. “If not the Fount itself, then what?”

  “That I do not know,” the old man said, his expression pensive.

  “And what of the rage I felt from it?” Amric put in. “I thought perhaps it was the Fount, furious at the violation of the Wyrgens, seeking some way to retaliate.”

  Bellimar snorted. “If that was the case, it was already having its revenge in small steps, robbing the surviving offenders first of their intellects and later, I suspect, of their lives. If a force of that magnitude were backed by intent, I doubt it would have needed agents as insignificant as us. No, the phenomenon coincided with your anguish and need. Are you certain it was not merely your own anger you felt, at seeing your friend fall?”

  The warrior shook his head, staring into the fire as the memories of those chaotic moments tumbled past. “Whatever it was, it brought its own. It was separate and distinct until I accepted its help, and then it added its fury to mine. We became somehow fused, joined in purpose for a time.”

  “I can think of many creatures capable of possession,” Bellimar said, his eyes boring into the warrior. “But few would wait on your acceptance while you were so vulnerable, and none would so easily relinquish control afterward.”

  Amric blew out a breath. “I suppose I can live with the mystery, so long as it is gone now, and gone for good.” He met the old man’s unwavering gaze. “After all, that was not the only unexpected thing to happen back there in the fortress.”

  A tight smile spread across Bellimar’s face. “Is there something you wish to ask me, swordsman?”

  The fire snapped and popped as the two men stared at each other, and Syth’s eyes flicked between them as the silence stretched out and became brittle.

  “There are many questions I would ask of you, Be
llimar,” said Amric at last. “But only one of import, at least until we are clear of this foul wilderness.”

  “Ask it, then.”

  “Are you with us?” the warrior said in a tone edged with steel. He held up a hand to forestall a reply. “A moment, before you answer. No playing at words, no evasion. There is no doubt that your actions saved us in Stronghold, but in the past two days I have had all the treachery I can stomach. The truth of what you are and what you seek can wait, but if you mean any of us harm, I would know it now. I will have your commitment, or we part company tonight. Are you with us, and for us, until we reach the city?”

  Bellimar gave a solemn nod. “A fair question,” he said. “I mean no harm to anyone here. I am with you, and for you, until the city and beyond.”

  Amric regarded him over the fire. “Good enough, for tonight,” he said. “I will take the first watch.”

  With that, he turned and disappeared into the night. Bellimar watched him go with an unreadable expression, and Syth in turn watched the old man. For once the thief seemed without comment.

  The fire crackled and danced merrily, oblivious to the troubles of men.

  Syth sat cross-legged in the darkness, twisting a long blade of grass between his fingers. He savored the feel of it sliding against his bare skin. His eyes darted from time to time to the black outline of his gauntlets lying on the ground beside him, but he resisted the urge to don them.

  The scent-laden breeze skirted him, and he cast his gaze upward. The sky had not yet begun to lighten, but it could not be more than an hour or two away, or so he thought. There was a time he would have known such a simple thing with precision, with unshakable certainty, but the internal clock he had always taken for granted seemed to have deserted him during his long months trapped deep within a prison of stone. It was as if nature held him apart as a stranger now, no longer recognizing one of its own, and a twinge of sadness pierced him at the rejection.