The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  Syth stared, disbelief and admiration warring in his expression as his brown hair swirled about his shoulders in subdued eddies. “Swordsman, have you ever passed a hornet’s nest without wanting to wear it as a hat?”

  Amric barked a laugh. “Well, there you have it,” he said. “We leave after two nights, if the fates allow it. I will not blame you if you want no part of this mad scheme. You owe me nothing.”

  “I will be ready tomorrow,” Valkarr asserted, hammering a fist onto the thick oaken table and causing the plates to jump and rattle. “Already I feel the strength returning to my limbs.”

  “Then you will be even more ready the following morning,” Amric said with a smile. “You have come a long way from death’s door, my friend, but I need you back at your best. You saw how hard those unnatural things were to kill. In any event, the extra day gives us time to gather supplies and rest the horses as well. After all, the next leg of the journey may well prove as strenuous as the last.”

  He pushed back from the table and stood, drawing another suspicious glare from the Traug towering in the far corner of the room. Showing what he felt was remarkable restraint, he elected not to bait the surly creature again.

  “It is time to conclude our business with Morland,” he said, with a final glance around the table. Bellimar and Syth rose with him and together they headed across the raucous common room of the inn and made for the doors.

  “If you are meeting with a nobleman, perhaps you should take that bath first,” Thalya called after him.

  “Not a chance,” Amric said over his shoulder. “There is nothing noble about this man, and I fully intend to leave muddy footprints all over those priceless rugs of his. Besides, I would only need another after we met with him.”

  Syth chortled to himself as he and Bellimar followed Amric from the inn and into the night.

  Morland sat in the high-backed chair, drumming his jeweled fingers on the table. His cold eyes shifted, sliding over each of them in turn with deliberate indolence.

  Without looking away from the merchant’s cadaverous visage, Amric studied the glowering guards flanking the man. The one on the left was too bulky to possess much speed, and the one on the right was a touch soft. Even unarmed as he was, the warrior felt reasonably certain he could down them both before Morland was more than a few steps from his chair. He sensed the presence of the guards several paces behind him as well, heard the periodic creak of leather as they shifted with nervous tension. The merchant had seated his guests farther away from him this time, as well as increasing the number of guards in the room, and he seemed to think himself safe.

  Amric let a slow smile play across his lips and a brash invitation creep into his gaze. Break your word, merchant, he thought, and we will discover together if that confidence is misplaced. If Morland took any note of the goading, however, he was betrayed only by an almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of his eye.

  “Let me see if I have the right of this tale,” Morland rasped at last, tapping his index finger twice more on the table before his fingers became still. He looked at Amric. “You, who were to return with word of my business contact, instead slew him.” He turned then to Syth. “And you, who were to return with my misappropriated belongings, instead left them all behind.”

  “You left out the part where we collapsed the place, in all likelihood burying or destroying your belongings in the process,” Syth put in helpfully. “I am quite certain we mentioned that part.”

  Morland’s face twisted in sudden fury, but Bellimar interrupted before he could respond.

  “The Wyrgens tapped into primal forces they could not hope to control,” the old man said. “The consequences drove Grelthus and his people to bestial madness, even as it weakened the very structure of Stronghold itself. We were fortunate indeed to escape that place of death, so that we could return to you with this news, as was our agreement.”

  His tone was level and eminently rational, and he placed a subtle emphasis on the last words. Morland’s angry gaze flicked over to him, and it was evident that the reminder had registered.

  “Despite the embellishment of our friend Syth here,” Bellimar continued, “only a central portion of the fortress actually collapsed. While it is indeed impassable, much of the structure was unaffected. Once travel to the east becomes less hazardous, a man of your considerable resources could no doubt mount an expedition to Stronghold. It may yet be possible for you to retrieve the artifacts you seek.”

  “Perhaps,” Morland said, letting the word escape through clenched teeth.

  As Bellimar resumed speaking, the soothing quality of his voice deepened to embrace an almost mesmerizing quality. Amric, not even the target of it, nonetheless felt the liquid timbre slide beneath his skin with a numbing and almost hypnotic effect.

  “We regret, my lord, that we bring unfortunate tidings. We can only hope that the regrettable fate of your ally will not prove too disastrous to your business endeavors. But even as I utter the words, I know them for a foolish worry! A man of your shrewd nature will have readied a way to achieve the necessary ends despite this minor setback. You are no doubt already cultivating alternate plans.”

  “Of course I am,” Morland snapped. “Your incompetence on this matter pains me, but I have designs of greater significance in motion as well, so no matter.” He blinked as if surprised at his own words, and his lips tightened into a bloodless line as he glared at Bellimar with sudden suspicion.

  “Then, since we have fulfilled our obligation to you, the price on our heads can now be removed,” Amric said. He gauged the distance to the guards again. If treachery was afoot, now was the time. He hoped Syth was ready as well. The merchant stared at them with half-lidded eyes for long seconds. His fingers, as if of their own volition, resumed their rhythmic drumming upon the table.

  “It would seem so,” he finally grated.

  Amric nodded, studying the man for any twitch of betrayal, and then rose from the chair in a deliberate movement. Despite the care he took to move slowly, he heard a momentary shuffle of boots behind him accompanied by the telltale rasp of several inches of steel being bared.

  Morland’s gaze never wavered, but he flicked a finger in a dismissive motion, and the guards fell back.

  Syth and Bellimar stood as well, and the three of them turned toward the exit at the far end of the long room. A handful of the guards fell into step behind them, but on sudden impulse, Amric stopped and turned back to Morland.

  “Merchant, have you heard any word of peculiar man-like creatures in tattered cloth wrappings, black inside and out, roving in packs intent on capturing rather than slaying?”

  Morland sat motionless, regarding him steadily. When he spoke, his voice was cold, impatient. “I have not heard of such things. Why do you ask?”

  “We encountered these creatures deep in the forest and on the road back to Keldrin’s Landing,” the warrior replied. “These black things are very hard to kill. We were only able to stop them each time by severing their heads. If you send your men into the countryside, they should be forewarned.”

  The merchant’s hawkish countenance tilted in a sardonic nod. “Very thoughtful of you to consider my welfare.”

  “It was not for you, but for your men,” Amric said evenly. “After all, it seems the city can expect to be under siege soon, and we are all in this together, are we not?”

  “The refrain of the helpless and needful,” Morland sneered. “Do not seek to draw parallels between your fate and mine. Now take your banalities and be gone.”

  Amric gave him a wintry smile and spun away, striding from the room with the others on his heel.

  It was a short time later, as they sat in the carriage clattering its way across the bridge leaving Morland’s estate, that Bellimar leaned toward him.

  “He was lying,” the old man said.

  “I know,” Amric said.

  “What made you test his awareness of the black things?”

  “I do not know,�
�� the warrior admitted. “Nor do I know yet why he would conceal his knowledge.”

  Bellimar nodded, frowning in thought. “The man is involved in something he does not want known,” he mused. “He has found some way to profit from the suffering of others.”

  “Do the wealthy do aught else?” Syth remarked. “And what of the subtle spell you wove back there? He was drawn to reveal more of his plans than he meant to. The man parts with nothing unless he can sell it dearly.”

  The vampire turned to him, lips peeling back into a smile. His eyes were scarlet embers in the shadowed interior of the carriage. “My curse is not without its benefits, thief.”

  Late the following night, the same carriage rumbled away from the southern gate of Keldrin’s Landing. A score of soldiers on horseback surrounded the vehicle, and the torches they held aloft formed a flickering halo against the pressing blackness as the procession snaked its way along the southbound road.

  Within the carriage, Morland stroked his clean-shaven chin as he stared out the window into the night. Beside him sat the mercenary Vorenius, scratching his dark, unkempt beard like a boorish reflection of his urbane relative. On the opposite bench sat the twin Elvaren assassins, Nyar and Nylien, lounging with an insolent air of boredom. One of the twins––Nyar, thought Morland, though he could never be certain––appeared to be dozing sitting upright, while the other seemed engrossed in the study of his fingernails on one pale hand. Vorenius shifted in his seat, casting surreptitious looks from the merchant to the assassins. Morland ground his teeth, striving to ignore the man’s irksome presence. Vorenius leaned forward to peer out the window, chewing his lip. Morland flicked an irritated sidelong glance at him, and unfortunately the man noticed and took it for an invitation to air his vapid thoughts.

  “Since when does one have to ply the gate guards with a pouch of gold merely to exit the city?” he demanded, scratching again at his beard.

  Morland sighed, mourning the broken quiet. “Since I do not want them sharing news of my comings and goings,” he said. “You saw their reactions when I dismissed their warnings about venturing out after dark.”

  “So I did,” Vorenius muttered. “And I have to admit, I heard merit in their arguments. I do not understand what could be important enough to draw us out here. There was no attack on the city last night, but there is nothing to say it will not come tonight, nor that the next assault will be restricted to the eastern wall.”

  “Do not seek to question my decisions,” the merchant snapped. “The reward will warrant the risk, and that is all you need know for now.”

  The man sat back, raking his lower lip with his teeth. Opposite him, the assassin looked on with evident amusement, twirling locks of his white hair between his fingers.

  “It is quite agitated, is it not?” the Elvar murmured.

  The mercenary leaned forward, coarse features twisting in anger as he jabbed one thick finger at the assassin. “No one asked you, you pasty––”

  “Vorenius,” Morland said in a sharp tone. “Let your tongue be still, for once.”

  Vorenius flinched at the rebuke. “I am sorry, uncle. I––”

  “And do not call me uncle,” Morland interrupted, his lip curling. “I am a distant cousin at best, and it strains my belief at the best of times that we share blood at all.”

  “Of course, u––Morland,” the mercenary stammered. “I do not mean to be ungrateful. You are gracious to give me this chance to redeem myself in your eyes.”

  “You handpicked your best men for this trip, as I asked?”

  “Yes, all except for the handful which are from your personal guard.”

  “Good. Fear not, Vorenius, you will prove your worth yet.”

  Morland watched the man’s twitching movements in throwing another look outside the carriage. How did the fool think himself a leader of men, when he had a spine of water?

  “What is my role to be in this venture, then?” Vorenius asked. He swallowed and hastened to add, “So that I may serve you better.”

  “I reached out to powerful allies, and they have accepted my overtures,” Morland replied. “You will be an instrumental part of securing their trust. This alliance is an important step toward achieving the loftiest of my goals, Vorenius. Tonight’s meeting will be a pivotal point in my plans.”

  Vorenius eyed him and gave a rapid, earnest nod. “I will not fail you, Morland.”

  “I trust you will not,” the merchant said with a brittle smile.

  They traveled in silence for a time, the carriage rocking over the rutted road. At last it slowed and lurched to a halt, and the languid demeanor of the Elvaren changed in an instant. The eyes of the dozing assassin snapped open, and he curled forward and slipped through the door in one liquid movement. His twin vanished out the other side with equal alacrity, leaving Vorenius craning his neck back and forth in a vain effort to see what was transpiring outside. Morland sat with hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes closed and head tilted back to rest against the carriage wall behind him.

  Voices carried to them, men’s voices and something else, something deep and rough like granite boulders colliding. Minutes later the assassin Nylien reappeared at the carriage door, holding it open. The merchant climbed down and his mercenary cousin followed, with the assassin close behind.

  Morland looked back at Keldrin’s Landing. Good, the city was little more than a glow in the distance. His men’s torches might be seen faintly from the city walls, if the guards there happened to look in this direction, but it was too great a distance to distinguish more than that. He strode forward, passing the front of the carriage where the driver struggled to calm the team of horses. All the soldiers’ mounts were tethered at the rear of the carriage, and they were nervous as well, snorting and prancing in place. A handful of men remained there with them, a hard-bitten lot with torches held high and scarred faces set in grim, impassive silence. None of them sought to make eye contact with the merchant.

  Ahead, the remainder of the men formed two standing lines across the road, facing something further down the road. Morland approached with Vorenius at his heels, and the guards parted to allow their passage. As they passed through, a strangled gasp escaped the mercenary.

  A large shape waited in the center of the road, a dozen yards away. What little light reached it from the ring of torches was all but absorbed by its dark hide, but Morland was able to discern a hint of its outline. It was a huge form, squatting or perhaps kneeling, with long, thick arms that reached down to knuckle the ground. Its front was smooth and matte black, though a forest of protrusions jutted from its back and shoulders; whether they were spikes or tentacles of some kind, Morland could not tell without getting closer, and he had no intent of doing that. Just being out here was a show of faith on his part, but past a certain point promises and alliances were just empty words without actions to prove them.

  Nyar stood several paces ahead of the wide-eyed array of guards, and Morland drew abreast of him. Vorenius halted a pace behind, his face drawn and pale. Nylien stood at the man’s elbow with a smirk twisting his fine Elvaren features.

  “I am here,” Morland announced.

  An elongated head shifted toward him. He tried to pick out its eyes amid that nightmare countenance, but it was a futile effort. Every bit of the thing was black, just as the previous representatives had been. An eerie, grating sound emanated from the thing in a grotesque parody of human speech.

  “A Nar’ath queen speaks through me,” it said.

  “Very well,” Morland said. “What has your queen decided of the arrangement I proposed?”

  A murmur ran through the men, but the merchant ignored it.

  “The arrangement is agreeable,” the creature rumbled.

  “And I shall have all that I was promised?” Morland asked, eyes narrowing.

  The creature dipped its head and its bulk shifted. “The arrangement is agreeable,” it repeated. “All your conditions shall be met.”

  The merchant su
ppressed a fierce surge of exultation, keeping his tone level. “Then tell your queen that the Nar’ath have an agreement. When is it to be?”

  “Tonight,” it responded.

  A momentary chill played along Morland’s spine. “I need more time to prepare,” he said. “Can it instead be two nights hence?”

  The creature shifted again, torchlight playing along the low ridges that ran along its black skull. The seconds ticked by and Morland quailed inside, though he let not a ripple of his fear show on the surface. They needed him, he reminded himself, just as much as he needed them. Each side would achieve its goals much faster, this way. And so he waited, outwardly calm, though the hands laced before him tightened painfully to keep them from shaking.

  “Two nights hence is agreeable,” the thing finally said.

  “It shall be done,” Morland said. He heard the faint quaver of relief in his own voice, but he dared not glance around to see if anyone else had noticed. “I bear a word of warning for your queen, however. I spoke with men in the city yesterday who showed knowledge of the Nar’ath. They have seen your kind and somehow survived.”

  “It matters not,” came the rumbling reply. “We grow strong now, and the time for concealment is almost done.”

  “As you say. I wished only to share the information I had gained, in the spirit of maintaining no secrets between allies. These men are few but dangerous, and if I am not mistaken they have command of some modest magic as well.”

  The hulking thing rocked back and forth, but did not respond.

  “Very well, is our business concluded, then?” Morland asked.

  The creature gave a rolling shrug and leaned forward, the protrusions on its back flexing in some odd movement that was lost to the darkness. The light thrown by the torches caught on a lighter hue against the thing’s hide: strips of tattered cloth, caught amid those protrusions and draping across its back. Morland caught the flinch his body tried to make, and gave an inward sneer at the almost-weakness.