The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  “You as well, Captain,” Amric said, wheeling his mount about. He and Valkarr rode back to the others as the sounds followed them of Borric shouting new orders to his men. The party wended its way around to the northern gate as the sun sank behind the eastern horizon.

  The massive fortress of Stronghold leered down, as lifeless and empty as a grinning skull, upon the forest crowded around it. The setting sun was impaling itself upon the towering, primordial trees to the east, bathing one side of the mountain structure in deepest crimson even as the other side blackened into shadow. The place was silent, like dust settling in a crypt, and yet a distant, steady power still pulsed and thrummed somewhere far beneath its broken core.

  In the sprawling courtyard within the innermost defensive wall, before the titanic main doors of the fortress, the evening air began to crackle. Light gathered there, a multitude of swirling motes drawing together to form a wavering, brilliant weal against the deepening gloom. The rift parted, torn open with a hiss, and the man in black robes stepped through. He cast a swift glance about, probing the long shadows thrown by constructs of pitted stone as the air hummed with the power gathered about him. He found nothing, and the tension eased from his tall form as he released some of that power. The rift closed behind him with a sizzling sigh, its luminance fading after it like a dying candle flame, and the man began to walk.

  He had not really expected an ambush. Everything he had sensed thus far suggested a foe that was clumsy and inexperienced. Otherwise he would not have risked opening a Way directly here. It had been easy enough to orient upon the site of the event, given some time, and it was always liberating to be on a world where such travel was unknown and therefore not warded against. Tearing open a temporary Way was still a draining effort, however, and could leave one vulnerable to ready resistance on the other end. As he had surmised, there was nothing of the kind awaiting him. Still, a phenomenal amount of power had been employed here, more than enough to give him pause, and he had not survived so many years doing such dangerous work by being careless.

  There were also, of course, the savage denizens of this world to consider. They should not pose too great a risk to one of his abilities, provided he employed reasonable cautions. As the Essence Gate in the ruins of Queln continued to operate, however, the magic of this world grew more and more unstable. The magical elements here, then, would swell in number and become increasingly maddened. They would do a marvelous job of keeping the more civilized occupants busy, but at the same time they would also make it more challenging for him to travel unmolested. All the more reason to complete this unpleasant business and be gone before it all began to crumble. This ripe world would descend into madness on its path to becoming a lifeless, desiccated husk, and he did not care to be present to witness any of it first-hand.

  He considered for a moment whether he would prefer to remain here as the end approached or return empty-handed again, and the sting of a chill sweat broke out on his brow. It must not come to that.

  The black-robed man climbed broad steps and stepped onto the sweeping terrace level that girded the imposing front of the fortress. He knelt there, placing one splayed hand upon the stone beneath his feet. The pain of this place ran very deep, like black rot devouring the heart of a great tree all the way down to its roots. It went down well into the earth. Those fingers of corruption had found fire there in the very veins of the world, and even that cleansing flame had not been sufficient to scour this place of its disease. He was always mesmerized at the ways in which primal essence could twist the weakness of flesh and structure both, seizing that which was thought buried and bringing it unwilling to the fore, quickening it in impossible, exquisite agony.

  He found the signature of the one he sought, of course, a blazing brand smoking against a still quivering hide. From there, however, the signs tapered off again, albeit slowly, as if that other had been almost reluctant to resume masking himself.

  The man rose to his feet once more. If he could trace his quarry’s steps, he might well be able to discern a faint auric trail, and then it was but a matter of time. Few enough could mask this much power effectively, and fewer still could hide thus from a trained tracker such as he. Yes, it would be but a matter of time, now.

  He strode toward the immense marble arch that marked the imposing front entrance to Stronghold. The metal doors cast back dull gleams from within the shadows of the archway, as if the fortress itself bared its teeth at his presence. He began to draw in power, a predator’s grin stretching tight across his face. It was time to give a polite knock.

  Amric pushed away the empty plate and drained the last of the mug of ale. Beside him, Valkarr tore into a third heaping plate of food with feverish abandon, shoveling each new bite between wedge-shaped jaws as if his meal would evaporate before him at any moment. Amric smiled, feeling a wash of relief. It was the most enthusiasm his old friend had shown since he had nearly perished in Stronghold, and though his hands still shook slightly with each rapid movement, it was still a good sign that his recovery was gaining momentum. And he had to admit, whatever else one might say about the Sleeping Boar inn and its gruff owner, the Duergar Olekk, it served food of surpassing quality.

  He glanced around to the others at the table, and burst out laughing. Halthak, Syth and Thalya, having finished their own meals, were staring at the ravenous Sil’ath warrior with wide eyes, and their expressions ranged from incredulous to appalled. The healer had been explicit that Valkarr’s body would require a great deal of extra rest and nourishment to replenish the enormous amount of energy taken from it by such an intense healing. Although Amric had long ceased to marvel at the ability of the Sil’ath to gorge themselves and then go without sustenance for much longer than a human could, he sometimes forgot that not everyone had grown up with it.

  His laughter elicited a gimlet-eyed glower from the Traug, but at least the hulking creature managed not to growl at him as when he had walked through the door an hour before. Evidently forgiveness would be a long time in coming for his baring steel against the Elvaren within the confines of the inn. He gave the Traug a cheery wave, and earned in return a curl of thick upper lip that bared a jagged row of teeth. Amric chuckled.

  “Winning hearts and minds wherever you go, eh, swordsman?” Syth asked with a grin.

  Amric shrugged. “Mayhap all this road dust is inhibiting my natural charm.”

  “Mayhap there is nothing beneath that road dust except more of it,” Thalya said with a snort. “Speaking on behalf of all fellow occupants of the room, when will you be taking that bath you mentioned?”

  Amric flashed her a rogue’s grin. “Soon enough,” he said. “There is one more odious task left to complete the evening, and then soft bed and hot bath can duel for my attention. Ah, here we are, then.”

  Thalya turned to follow his stare and stiffened in her seat. Bellimar had appeared at the inn’s front door, his gaze sliding around the crowded common room before he entered. As he glided toward them, Amric noted how the patrons sitting at the tables to either side of his path unconsciously leaned away from his passing presence. The warrior shook his head. He had known from that first meeting that there was something unusual about the old man, but he had attributed it to the fellow’s past association with sorcery. Little had he suspected at the time that his wildest suspicions would prove but pale wisps next to the truth of Bellimar’s nature. He recalled the reluctance with which he had decided to endure the man’s company as a necessary evil, tainted by his history of magic as he was. Since then, it seemed as if every step of the journey had been steeped in magic from all sides, and Bellimar had somehow proven to be the least of it so far despite his dark origins. Amric gave an inward sigh; he was not certain whether to be pleased or alarmed at having made such personal strides against his aversion. In a land increasingly ravaged by magic, he could not afford to be paralyzed by its proximity if he was to succeed in his mission. Still, it was discomfiting to realize he was becoming more accustomed to such f
orces than he would ever have thought possible.

  Bellimar reached their table and slid into an empty oaken chair with a perfunctory nod to everyone. If he took note of the huntress’s hateful stare, he gave no outward sign. The serving girl passed by, giving Bellimar a questioning look, but he responded only with a warm smile, ordering no food. Amric recalled the untouched meal sitting before the old man when they first met, and realized there was little need for further pretense on such matters now, with this group.

  “My contacts report that no other Sil’ath have been observed entering or leaving the city since our departure,” he told Amric. “This includes the harbor as well as the gates, though it is getting increasingly difficult to monitor the traffic at the quays. The number of people desperate to secure any available passage away from Keldrin’s Landing has increased greatly in the wake of last night’s attack. My contacts will remain vigilant, however. They will raise your name to any Sil’ath sighted, as you have requested.”

  Amric nodded his gratitude, disappointed but not surprised. He knew by this point that his friends would not be so easily found. “And the other matter?”

  “It is arranged,” Bellimar replied. “Morland is waiting for us.”

  “You mean to return to that serpent’s lair?” Halthak blurted.

  “I mean to keep my word,” Amric said. “We would not have found Stronghold so easily without his maps, and he put us on the right trail, even if not out of altruism. I will pay his price by delivering news of Grelthus’s fate, though doubtless he will not be pleased by the outcome. We shall see if the serpent then keeps his word and lifts the price on our heads.”

  Valkarr sat back from his empty plate, drawing one forearm across his mouth. “I am ready,” he announced with a belch.

  “No, my friend,” Amric said. “Bellimar and I will go. You and Halthak still require rest. We both know that black-hearted devil’s estate is very heavily guarded, and I cannot have you infiltrating it again until you are more recovered. There is no need for Morland to know this, however. I ask that you both remain in your rooms while we are gone. If you are out of sight, then we do not have to test whether Morland ever truly bothered to suspend the price on our heads, and he still has to worry about a stealthy blade prowling somewhere about his mansion.”

  Valkarr grunted and rolled his eyes in a very human gesture, but finally nodded. Halthak gave his own reluctant agreement as well.

  “What of me?” Syth asked.

  “Morland may already know that you are with us, if he has been watching for your return,” Amric admitted. “You are welcome to accompany us to see the merchant, if you wish. He will no doubt be eager to determine if you brought anything he seeks in your return from Stronghold. Nonetheless, I am not your keeper, and you are also free to vanish.”

  The thief pondered a moment before breaking into an impish grin. “I find myself wanting to be there when that shriveled mask he calls a face cracks with disappointment.”

  “And I will come as well,” Thalya put in, with a cold sidelong look at Bellimar.

  “No, you will not,” Amric said. Her head snapped toward him, green eyes flashing with outrage. Her lips twisted with the beginnings of an angry objection, but he cut through it in a tone that brooked no further argument. “I can say nothing as to the right or wrong of your vendetta with Bellimar, as I can only speak to how he has conducted himself in my presence. I can, however, choose not to allow your conflict to land in my lap at a time and place that could get us all killed. We are heading into a viper’s den where cool heads must prevail, and no good will come of inviting upon yourself the attention of a powerful and soulless man like Morland. You are not going.”

  The two locked gazes for a long moment, but Amric did not waver, his grey eyes dispassionate under her withering glare. At last she sat back with a dark scowl directed alternately at the warrior and the old man.

  “Cool heads, eh?” Bellimar remarked with a sly grin. “The heavens forbid we do anything in his presence to fan the flames of his wrath.”

  Amric flushed, but his expression remained resolute. “Much as I despise the man and his disdain for the lives of others, one power-hungry lordling is too far down the list to concern ourselves with at the moment. He certainly has the means to interfere with our more important goals, however, so we should make every effort to avoid incurring any more of his ire than is strictly necessary. If all goes well, we will conclude our business with the man tonight and be rid of his involvement for good. Valkarr is recovering rapidly, and it is my hope that after two nights of rest here in the city we will be ready to depart again on the following morn. Any who wish to accompany us, meet us here at dawn of that day. Any who do not, I wish you well in your travels.”

  Halthak’s brow furrowed. “Depart? To where?”

  “To follow a suspicion,” Amric said. He sat back and took in their puzzled expressions. Only Bellimar straightened in his chair, eyes glittering with prognostication. The swordsman took a breath and continued. “As you know, we lost the trail of our Sil’ath friends at Stronghold. If Grelthus is to be believed, they were fighting their way from the fortress, likely wounded and weakened but still alive when last seen. I have been trying to reason where they would have gone if they did manage to win free, and what might have befallen them from there.”

  “What makes you think they did not simply die there?” Thalya demanded.

  Amric turned flint-hard eyes upon her. “They are Sil’ath,” he said. “We do not die easily.” At his side, Valkarr lifted his chin and hissed a note of assent.

  The huntress raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He let out a breath, and the edge faded from his voice. “I know nothing for certain, but I have seen no evidence of their demise, and until I know their fate I must consider all avenues. These are some of the best warriors of a people born into battle, who have fought together since childhood. They may not have had the advantage of Halthak’s miraculous healing ability, but five such warriors can cross hostile terrain like so many ghosts. I will grant you that they might have fallen prey to the hideous perils of the forest, or were entombed in the fortress, but somehow it does not ring true. No, I believe they survived Stronghold, just as we did.”

  “We survived by seeing the very heart of the place, along with its rabid inhabitants, crushed in a strange surge of power unlike any I have seen,” Bellimar reminded him. “I am not so certain one can draw parallels to our own experience.”

  Amric shook his head. “I can offer no better explanation, and I have no proof one way or the other. All I have is my intuition, and I intend to follow it. I cannot ask anyone else to do the same.”

  He fell silent, glancing around the table at expressions that were by turns skeptical and pensive. He noted that Bellimar was studying each of them as well, his dark eyes making a slow circuit of the table beneath iron grey brows. A half smile brushed at the vampire’s lips, and broadened slightly when Halthak cleared his throat to speak.

  “Tell us of your suspicion, Amric,” the Half—Ork said. “Where are you going, two days hence?”

  “I believe,” Amric said, “that there is more than one force in operation here, possibly working at different purposes. We have seen creatures brought from the depths and barrows of the land, driven mad by the raging essence swelling in the region. Most are like rabid beasts, mindless in their fury, slaying indiscriminately and assaulting mortal life wherever they find it. This is what we faced in Lyden, the distant ripples of the same spreading wave that is engulfing Keldrin’s Landing. Here and in the forest, we are much closer to the source. This wave emanates from the east somewhere, from something so powerful that the Essence Fount at Stronghold was but a symptom, as Grelthus admitted. Whether it lies in the forest or beyond it, we have not found that source, that center, yet. We only know that the magical essence is being drawn that way, becoming more potent the further east we go, and that the corruption of the land and its creatures worsens as well. And while most of those creatures hun
ger for flesh or life force, there is one type that seems to have a different purpose: the man-like, cloth-wrapped black creatures.”

  “They capture rather than kill,” Valkarr murmured.

  Amric nodded. “We have faced most of these creatures back home as the attacks worsened,” he said. “These are something we have not seen, something new. And they have fled in the same direction each time, with their prey.”

  Thalya and Halthak each shifted in their seats, exchanging an uneasy glance. For both, it was all too easy to recall being borne helplessly along in the clutches of the implacable creatures, before these very warriors had saved them from an unknown fate.

  “Yes, you are correct,” Bellimar hissed, sitting forward as he grew more animated. “They are not corrupted spirits or elementals, not dwellers in the dark or enraged beasts. They bear the remnants of clothing or wrappings, as if they have been made by the hand of another, rather than formed of or mutated by magic. Yes! I should have seen it before now.”

  “Our friends were wounded,” Amric continued. “Regardless of whether they believed the Essence Fount to be the source of the corruption or understood the source to be further east, they would have been forced to retreat for a time to recuperate. On the way, they may have encountered the same strange man-like creatures and chosen to investigate, or some of them could have been captured in their weakened state and the rest set out to recover them. We have not found any of their bodies or equipment, which implies some or all of them were not taken, since the black creatures have shown no interest in anything but living captives.”

  “Your analysis of these peculiar creatures is perceptive, swordsman,” Bellimar said with a slow shake of his head. “The thread of logic concerning your friends, however, is tenuous at best.”

  Amric sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “A suspicion, as I said. And it is all I have, so I will pursue it. I intend to trace these black creatures back to their source.”