The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  Then, without breaking contact, the monster began to exhale. The man’s body shook and shuddered as his flesh darkened. Black tendrils writhed along the skin, spreading from his head down his arms and torso and to his lower limbs. Amric’s stomach turned. It was like watching a vessel being filled with dark, noxious liquid. The exhale lasted impossibly long, like a single slow pump of some massive bellows. When it ceased, the man had gone limp and his flesh was a deep, dull and uniform black from head to toe.

  The monster severed its kiss, and began to spin the body. From somewhere in its gaping maw it produced a thick, sticky cord of some pale material, which it wound about the still form with each circuit. In seconds the body was wrapped so completely that not even a hint of black flesh showed through.

  The jointed arms released the cocooned form to be caught in the waiting arms of the servant creature. The latter turned without hesitation and bore this new burden down the slope and away. It lumbered to one of the green pools and slid the stiff figure into the viscous liquid, pushing it carefully beneath the surface.

  From its encasing throne at the center of the chamber, the huge monstrosity turned to look expectantly into the shadows. Amric followed its imperious gaze to see a handful of men huddled together in that direction, beyond the pools. One of the heavyset creatures approached, and its tentacles snaked out to grasp another victim. It lifted the thrashing fellow from the ground and caged him within its iron arms, and then wheeled back toward the center at a shambling run.

  A white-hot fury rose in Amric, burning away the shreds of his paralyzing horror. He spread his hands to push himself to his feet, but his vision grew bright at the edges and a crippling dizziness washed over him. A sharp sense of vertigo struck him as he considered the fact that he was within mere inches of a plummet that would take him over a hundred feet to the unyielding floor of the cavern below. It was the same troubling spell of weakness that had plagued him within Stronghold, except there was no Essence Fount to blame here. He pushed it from his mind; it was a matter for another time. He pressed his cheek against the abrasive stone and sucked in a steadying breath through clenched teeth.

  Valkarr’s head spun toward him, fixing him with a worried stare. Amric shook his head in frustration, the sweat beading on his forehead as he fought against the encroaching brilliant white light that threatened to steal his sight. The world around him shrank to a dull echo, enclosing him. With a guttural snarl and an effort of will, he hurled it back and surged to his feet. He stood there a moment, shaking and swaying as the blood roared in his ears. He glanced at the others, intending to make a reassuring gesture, and was surprised to see that they were all swaying as well. He blinked the sweat from his eyes as his vision and hearing returned, and he realized the dome was shuddering beneath their feet with a rumbling sound of thunder. As quickly as it had come, however, the ground tremor faded and was gone, leaving them all shaken.

  Amric spun toward the crater just as the monstrosity below cast its baleful gaze upward. Alien green eyes fixed upon his silhouette standing stark against the roiling sky, and narrowed in malevolent regard.

  He tensed, bracing himself for the rush of enraged minions that would come storming up the twisting stairs. The martial strategist in him insisted they should flee; he had too few warriors to hold so many exit ramps against the number of hulking creatures he had seen below. But the wolf in him had its fangs bared now, and had no intent of leaving those captives behind to their fates.

  To his great surprise, however, the giant fiend in the chamber below did not order an assault. Instead, it turned to its minions and made curt motions with its long, jointed arms. The creatures withdrew in obedient silence, backing into the tunnels that honeycombed the perimeter of the cavern. The one which had been bearing forth a new captive simply peeled back its writhing tentacles and dumped the man unceremoniously to the ground before shambling from the room. The man lay where he fell, groaning but otherwise motionless.

  The towering monster turned its gaze skyward once more. It spoke in a voice that was alien and yet decidedly female, a lilting and buzzing harmonic that grated at his ears.

  “I had not thought to find your kind again on this world,” she said. “Not yet, at least.”

  Amric exchanged a puzzled look with Valkarr. He did not know what response to make, so he made none. The creature tilted her savage head at him and writhed in her enclosure.

  “Come ahead then, Adept,” she called with a note of impatience. “We have much to discuss.”

  Adept? Amric did not recognize the appellation. He glanced back at Bellimar, but the old man was unmoving and expressionless, standing tall and straight with his cloak wrapped about him. The vampire’s eyes burned at him from beneath iron grey brows. The warrior looked to the others. He read anger and determination in the Sil’ath warriors; Sariel in particular appeared ready to leap from the edge at a moment’s suggestion. Halthak looked pale and uncertain, but his white-knuckled hands were steady upon his ironwood staff. Thalya had an arrow nocked to her bow and her veil drawn across her face, revealing nothing but her emerald eyes. Syth’s expression flickered between resolve when he looked at the hive entrance ahead and a protective concern when he glanced to Thalya at his side.

  Amric returned his gaze to the pit below, studying the foul creature shifting in place as she glared up at him. He looked again at the prisoners, bent and huddled on the stone floor in that hellish cavern. He could not see any Sil’ath among them, but the distance and the poor light made it impossible to be certain. Regardless of race, they were mortal men, his kind. Soon to become her kind.

  He spun on his heel and strode over to the group. He relayed in brief everything that he and Valkarr had seen in the void below. He described the towering creature and the numbers it commanded, and he watched their expressions tighten as he told of the captives and the horrifying transformation one had undergone before their eyes.

  “So,” Sariel muttered. “It may not have been a trap before, but it is almost certainly one now.”

  “Without a doubt,” Amric replied. His storm-grey eyes were cold and hard, holding an iron promise as they shifted back to the gaping maw in the crater that led into shadow below. “And I am going in anyway.”

  A wolfish smile spread across Sariel’s face.

  CHAPTER 19

  The black-robed man sat, cross-legged on a high parapet, with eyes closed and mind far away. Wan sunlight spilled across his upturned face, giving his dark beard a tinge of gold, but he did not feel its meager warmth. At his back, the colossal fortress hummed with the power that coursed beneath it like a winter river swelling against its ceiling of ice, but he took no note of this either. If not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest and the occasional furrowing of his brow, he could have been one with the stone.

  The clouds crawled above him as time passed, and the sun fell slowly in the sky as if it sought a better look at his still features.

  At last his eyes fluttered open as he returned to himself, and his face settled once more into hard lines. He drew a deep breath and spat a sulfurous string of oaths. Slamming a palm to the stone, he pushed himself to his feet. He looked out over the walled courtyards surrounding the fortress, and past there to the spreading mantle of forest. He stood rigid, fists clenched, and then his shoulders slumped.

  Almost three days he had spent in this wretched place that reeked of musk and death, and the trail was cold. The marks of his quarry’s power were in ample evidence at the core of the fortress, but the lack of guile and restraint employed there was in sharp contrast to the thoroughness of the vanishing afterward. It was a maddening mystery; the cunning and skill required to evade one with his considerable tracking skills bespoke an astonishing discipline, a long practice at the art of concealment that did not match the hasty, brutish splash of power used inside.

  Worse, no matter how far he extended his senses, he could detect no further signs of his quarry exercising that power, to any degree. What Adept could go
so long without embracing so much as a hint of his potential on this pathetic world? He could be a veritable god among the primitives here.

  He sighed and looked down, digging through a pouch at his belt. He brought forth a small, dense loaf of travel bread and a sheaf of dried meat, eyed them both for a moment, and then returned them to the pouch and tucked it beneath his robes. He had hoped to be done with this mission by now, and his supplies were running low. Much longer, and he would have to seek food among the indigenous races here. He frowned in distaste. The fortress still held considerable stores of clean water, for which he was grateful, but what food he had found was either spoiled or revolting in nature. The stench of the lifeless place had grown to such an extent that he dreaded venturing within to scavenge for stores.

  For the hundredth time that day, he considered simply striking out to the west in the hopes of following a more mundane trail. He was skilled in such methods, but he would be forced to exercise his power repeatedly to fend off the creatures being driven mad by the draw of magic. Such outbursts could mask the subtle and remote magical signs of his true prey. Worse, they would eventually alert his quarry to his own presence.

  He shook his head in frustration. For a mad, impulsive moment he considered returning to Queln and activating the Essence Gate in full. He had the knowledge, as an agent of the Council in a remote and hostile land. No amount of clever hiding would save his quarry from the consequences. Let him go to ground on a sundered world, he thought with savage satisfaction. It beckoned invitingly as the solution to his quandary, but at the same time he knew he would be a fool to do it. It would rather undermine his efforts at redemption, he decided with a regretful sigh, if in the process he committed such an unsanctioned act. In fact, tampering with the Gate without the Council’s express orders would make their fury at his previous blunder seem like nothing more than a frown of disapproval; his life would almost certainly be forfeit.

  No, as much as he was galled by the delay, patience was still the key. And until his quarry gave himself away by using his power, he was just another grain of sand lost in a desert.

  A sudden itch tickled at the fringe of his awareness. He stiffened and immediately squeezed his eyes shut as he reached out with his senses to seek its source. He found only echoes of a single tantalizing pulse of power, fading before he could ascertain more than a general direction: west, as he had surmised, and a bit south as well. Somewhere in the wasteland, then. He looked at the heavy clouds thickening the sky in that direction, and he fought down the wild urge to rip open a Way and leap closer to the one he sought. The pulse had not lasted long enough for him to get a location with any accuracy, however, and so if another signal followed it would likely force him to open yet another Way in rapid succession. If the awaited confrontation was near at last, it would be rash to tire himself without need.

  He dropped to his seat upon the high parapet and waited, his eyes closed and his mind searching far away. Patience was the key.

  Amric stalked down the crude stairs, and the gloom of the cavern closed over him like dark waters over a sinking stone. Bellimar followed a few paces behind him, a cold, soundless presence at his back. More twisting stairways ran like veins down the interior wall of the great chamber. On three of them, the other Sil’ath warriors mirrored his progress.

  He did not glance up; he had to trust that Thalya, Syth and Halthak were following his orders and staying out of sight as well as possible. Given the way the creature’s narrowed gaze remained riveted upon his every step, it seemed unlikely she was even aware yet of their presence up top. Amric smiled in grim satisfaction. If things became chaotic down in the chamber, Thalya’s skill with the bow could prove useful from her high perch. By her own admission, her normal arrows had proven ineffective when she was attacked by the black creatures, but she still had two of her ensorcelled arrows remaining. Halthak and Syth were charged with watching the surrounding dunes for an ambush, and with protecting the huntress if they came to grips with returning black creatures. Syth had uttered weak protestations at having to remain behind, but from the sidelong glances he stole at Thalya, it was evident that he was relieved to have an excuse to remain with her.

  The plan was a simple one. The fiend had fixated upon Amric, and evidently she thought he was something he was not. Perhaps she attributed to him the strange tremor that had shaken the hive and given away their presence. Regardless, whatever manner of creature an Adept was and whatever had caused her to label him as one, it seemed a sufficient threat to force a grudging degree of fear or respect from her. He knew an opening when he saw it. He would keep her attention focused upon him, then, long enough for the others to secure the release of the prisoners. What would transpire after that was anyone’s guess, and might well depend on how convincing he was in his assumed role.

  It was a dangerous game he was playing, he knew. He had to be convincing as something about which he had not a shred of information, and somehow manage to get both the prisoners and his warriors out of here alive. For a brief window of opportunity, however, the monstrosity was without her army of minions and had even dismissed those closest to her. At any other time it would require a much larger force to have a hope of successfully assaulting this place. He glanced at the prisoners, huddled and sprawled in the shadows. For these men, and perhaps for his own missing warriors as well, it had to be now. He tried not to think about the fact that he had not caught a glimpse of a Sil’ath among their numbers. The light was poor, and hope was not yet lost.

  His gaze drifted to the nondescript shapes submerged in the viscous pools of green fluid, and he dragged it back to the creature at the center of the chamber.

  Concentrate on the task at hand, he chided himself. Free the living before thinking to avenge the dead.

  “Name yourself, Adept,” the towering creature called up to him in a grating tone. “We would know our enemy.”

  It was confirmation that she viewed an Adept as an enemy, at least. His mind raced. Would she recognize a false name? And who else did she include in we?

  “Names hold power, foul one,” he shouted back. “You may continue to call me Adept for now.”

  She hissed and shifted in her stand, but gave no sign that she found his response suspect.

  “What of you?” he asked. “By what name would you be known?”

  “Nar’ath queens have no name,” she spat. “Only purpose.”

  Nar’ath? He frowned at the term, even as he heard a soft intake of breath from Bellimar behind him. He glanced back at the old man.

  “Nar’ath means ‘of the sands’,” Bellimar whispered. “Just as Sil’ath means ‘of the scales’, very loosely translated. Both names come from a tongue long lost to this world, and it implies these creatures have chosen a name from another time, or were given it very long ago.” He stared at the creature below. “It implies they may not be new to this world after all.”

  Despite the low pitch of his voice, the Nar’ath queen overheard him.

  “This fleshling speaks true,” she said with an odd mingling of anger and pride in her voice. “But of course the Adept knows this already, for it was his kind that named us. A dismissive, scornful name it was meant to be, given in arrogance. But still we have kept it all this time, and we have made it our own. We have grown strong, and you will not dismiss us again.”

  The queen watched him with an air of expectancy, but he did not know what reply to make and so made none rather than risk giving himself away. She hissed in dissatisfaction, grasping with long black claws at the stone formed about her. Amric heard a grating noise from within that enclosure, and he wondered at the size and shape of the concealed portion of her form. From the harsh, heavy nature of the sounds, he guessed that there was more of her hidden than showing.

  He reached the bottom step and his boot heel sank slightly into the firm sand of the cavern floor. He strode toward her, his manner confident and unhurried, hoping to emulate the being that was fearsome enough to give her pause. Without g
lancing aside, he was aware of the others stealing like shadows around the edge of the room. The queen paid them no heed, as if they were utterly beneath her notice. Instead she continued to track him and him alone, her alien features an expressionless mask, her eyes a simmering green.

  He stopped at the outer edge of one of the pools and looked down. The waters gave off a soft, pulsing glow that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. It was impossible to tell the depth of the pool, as it was packed near to overflowing with tightly wrapped bodies. Some unseen current tugged at those cocooned forms, rippling the top of the pool as the pods rolled and churned beneath the surface. The sickly green glow peeked through gaps in the moving clusters, cupping them with spectral, possessive fingers of light. It was a disorienting display, a sinister and graceful dance in slow motion.

  Amric’s stomach turned as he realized that not all the motion came from the current. Some of the shapes were writhing and straining against their bonds. He fought the urge to draw his sword and cut the folds of cloth-like material. Grim instinct warned him that he was not witnessing natural creatures struggling to survive, but rather the awakening of new fiends, subservient to the queen.

  “Cunning Adept,” the Nar’ath queen murmured, breaking the brief silence. “Have you come to make me pay for my overconfidence in sending forth nearly all of my forces?”

  Amric noted her change in reference from plural to individual; another oddity that would hopefully become clear soon.

  “Perhaps,” Amric replied with a noncommittal shrug. He began a slow circuit of the chamber, circling her from outside the pools. “For now, I am more interested in discussion. For example, I wonder at why you would leave yourself so exposed. What goal could be worth the risk to one such as you?”